The Foo Sheng Key (2013), page 2
Walsh glanced across at his co-pilot, who just gave a shrug.
"Okay sir, but you'd better get back there and strap yourself in, because this is going to be a very bumpy ride."
The major struggled back to his seat, while both pilot’s eyes were fixed on the instruments arrayed in a ghostly green glow around them.
The helicopter dropped suddenly, swinging wildly to the right. There was a loud crash before the aircraft swung back again, and the whole airframe started to judder.
“Holy shit,” the co-pilot swore, “that was close.”
The chief pilot struggled with the controls. The helicopter had pitched forward and was beginning to rotate. He jammed the left foot pedal all the way forward trying desperately to eliminate the torque, but the bird was still spinning to the right and the rate of spin was increasing. In training they were taught desperate measures, and one was the most desperate of all. The pilot reached for the main engine controls on the roof of the cockpit. He flicked each one in turn and the roar of the engine suddenly died, leaving nothing but the whine of the rotors and the scream of the wind.
The theory was to remove the drive causing the spin, and let the natural auto-rotating capability of the helicopter get you to the ground. That was the theory. Auto-rotating down a mountain canyon was not on the training agenda.
Gradually the pilot eased the Pave Hawk on to a course which was taking them down in the right direction. The wind tugged and pushed at them as they skidded through the air, but he hung on, gently compensating each time.
The wind suddenly died, and he kicked down hard on the right pedal. The Pave Hawk seemed to correct, but the elements five thousand feet above them pulled the cork out of the bottle. The helicopter dipped violently and started to spin. The pilot fought desperately but the aircraft had a mind of its own, like riding a seaside roller coaster and with just about as much control. He glanced up from the instruments. For a moment the snow cleared, and the whole of the view from the windscreen was filled with a sheer face of iced black rock. The wind finally struck its death blow and hurled them forward. The helicopter smacked hard into the rock face and the titanium rotor blades disintegrated into a thousand razor shards. A shower of sparks flashed through the cabin and suddenly the whole aircraft erupted in a ball of flame. Now, with the aerodynamic properties of the mountain itself, it plunged into the valley below.
CHAPTER TWO
Xigaze Province, Tibet Autonomous Region
The boy saw them coming up the valley, little more than a dust cloud at first. He was shepherding home the monastery’s motley herd of hairy yaks from the upper pastures, trying to beat the storm that hung low, in a thick grey blanket behind the peak of Mount Zhamu. He gave Mitzi a whack across the buttocks with a slender bamboo cane, and urged her on, knowing the others would follow
The visitors emerged from the dust cloud and a bad feeling stirred inside the boy. He could tell by the trucks that they were military, which in itself was not unusual, but the numbers were. This was a much larger group than the small patrols that occasionally made their way up from the garrison at the foot of the mountain. They were moving at a rapid pace, at least rapid for the narrow road that meandered its way up from the base of the valley to the tiny village, tucked away a thousand feet below the peak. At any rate they were going to beat him back, he still had to cross the lower slopes, and Mitzi was not too interested in his haste.
His name was Jai. He was tall for his age. He wore the maroon and saffron robes of a novice Tibetan monk, though his features were not Tibetan. Beneath the robes he wore a black quilted vest over a knitted sweater and thick trousers with fur lined boots on his feet. His dark hair was cropped short in an even crew cut. But his eyes were his special feature, set in an oriental face darkened by the mountain sun, they shone clear and bright, and blue as sapphires.
He was still in the bottom meadow when the convoy passed through the village. He saw them emerge at the far side, and continue up the winding track towards Yangji Gompa, the monastery that was his home. He could see it clearly, higher up the mountain, perched on the edge of a small plateau, looking out across the valley with the peak rising up behind it.
Yangji Gompa was one of the oldest monasteries in Tibet, which was why it resembled an old fort. Its high walls were built directly on to the sheer cliff face, reflecting the days when monks had to protect themselves against marauding pirates. It was built from stone, skilfully hewn from the surrounding mountains, by patient monks who had a totally different perspective on time.
Jai loved the old place, its smell, that slightly dank, musty odour behind the acrid, almost sweet scent of the constantly flickering butter lamps. When he had first arrived he had found it forbidding and scary. But once he had settled in, he began to perceive and appreciate its almost magical atmosphere. As if it existed totally outside the real world that carried on in the valley below. In his eyes it was the most beautiful place in the world.
He herded the yaks into the barn and closed the large wooden doors, just as the storm hurled itself out of the mountains, tearing and ripping at anything that was not battened down. The first snow flurries whipped at his face as he emerged and started the climb up the narrow pathway that would take him to the rear entrance of the monastery.
Jai froze as he reached for the back gate latch. A loud rattle echoed against the roar of the wind. A cold dread spread up from his stomach. He had heard the sound before, only recently, at the riots in Lhasa – it was gunfire.
He forced himself forward. He went in through the rear entrance, past the monks’ laundry, and up the winding back stairs. He reached the top, his heart hammering in his chest, not so much from the exertion, but from the fear of what lay ahead. He crossed the passageway and entered his master’s chambers via the back door. The place was empty. A burst of gunfire drew him to the window. The sight below sucked the breath from his body. At least a dozen of his brothers were lying scattered across the courtyard, their maroon and saffron robes slashed with obscene splashes of red. Armed men in uniform moved across the yard, the boy ducked back out of sight as one of them looked up towards his window.
He turned to go, but stopped in his tracks. His eyes riveted on the rough stone tiles beneath his feet, and the small crimson pools that had dripped across them.
A low groan came from the direction of his master's private temple. Jai moved quickly to the door and peered inside. Two solitary candles flickered on the carved wooden altar. The groan came again, and this time a whisper. “Jai, is that you?”
“Master?” he called out.
His master was lying on the floor in front of the altar. The boy knelt down beside him. The old man was dressed in the robes of the senior abbot of the monastery. Blood stained the front of his gown. Jai rushed back into the main room and grabbed a pillow from the narrow bed in the corner. He returned to the old man's side and squatted on the floor beside him. He took the priest in his arms, and tucked the pillow behind his head.
"Jai, I knew you would come. But you must leave." A cough interrupted the old man’s words, and red foam, bubbled at his lips.
"Please Master, you must not speak. You must rest here, I will bring help."
"No," the old man shook his head and another coughing fit racked at his body. He closed his eyes and let the coughing subside. He took a deep breath and looked up at the young boy. "You must leave. These men, these soldiers, they mean to do you harm. You must go quickly."
"Me, why me?" Jai shook his head. "Where will I go, Master?"
"It is time to return to your family."
"But you and the brothers are my family."
The old priest gripped Jai's arm with his bony fingers. "Jai, you have to return to your real family. We always said that one day you would."
"How will I do that?" the boy said. "I know only the paths and pastures of these mountains. I know nothing beyond."
The old man smiled despite the obvious pain. "The world is just more paths and pastures." He pointed across the room with a wavering arm. "Bring my box to me."
Jai eased the old man's head back down to the floor, keeping the pillow beneath it, and crossed the room to his master's desk. On it was a simple, hand-carved, wooden casket. He picked it up and took it back across to the priest.
"Here, help me to sit up."
Jai helped his master into a sitting position and placed the casket on the floor beside him. The old man leaned back against the altar, with the pillow behind his head.
"Open it."
Jai did as he was told. The box was filled with papers and parchments. The old priest reached in, and took out a small leather pouch. He handed it to Jai. "In there is money, it is not a lot but it should be enough to get you what you need."
Jai looked down at the pouch. It was a long time since he had had money. In Yangji Gompa he never had any use for it.
The old priest reached into the box once more and extracted a Tibetan Mala, a wristband of Buddhist prayer beads. Each bead had been delicately carved in sandalwood and strung on a silky, orange cord. "My teacher gave me this many years ago. I want you to have it now."
"No, Master, I cannot."
"Take it," the priest thrust the beads into the boy's hand. "It will help you on your journey. When things seem very bad, it will help you focus. It has always helped and comforted me."
Jai reluctantly took the beads and slipped them over his wrist.
"Now listen to me very carefully," the old priest spoke again. “You must find Jongba.”
"But Jongba is at Dorje Gompa." The boy shook his head. "How will I get there? Dorje Gompa is far away."
His master grasped his arm. "Go to the village and find Gamu. He will take you there, he knows the way."
Gamu was a Tibetan who did odd repair jobs around the monastery. The old priest coughed again and more blood trickled onto his chin. Jai squeezed his hand. The old man tugged at the boy's robe. "You must take this off and put on something warm."
"But my robe shows who I am, that I am a monk, or I will be soon."
"Who you are is inside you. If you do what you feel inside is right, people will always know who you are." Another spate of coughing racked through the old man’s body. As it subsided he took a deep breath and bit down on the pain. "It is time for you to start your journey, and so must I." He coughed once more then stopped abruptly. His head fell back against the pillow, his eyes staring sightlessly up at Jai.
“Master, please, no.” Jai held on to the old man, rocking gently back and forth, tears coursing down his face. How could they do this? This man, who had never hurt anyone in his whole life. A man who had nothing in his heart but love and compassion. Jai lifted his head and looked around the small chapel. He knew he had to leave, but he was unable to move. Would he ever see this place again? This had been the one place in all his life where he had been truly happy, where he felt people really cared about him, the only place he could remember, where he had not felt alone.
Jai slipped out of his master’s chamber and crossed to the back stairs. He could hear people moving about down below, but the gunfire had stopped. He moved quickly down the stairs. He crossed a narrow passage and slipped inside the novice’s dormitory. He tugged off his monk’s robe and grabbed a quilted jacket and a second sweater. He pulled on both over his existing woollen top. His gloves were still stuffed in his trouser pocket. He took the back stairs down to the ground floor. At the bottom he peeked out on to a deserted passageway. He crossed it quickly and entered the monk’s laundry.
The room was empty. It was a small area with a stone floor and two large, round, wooden tubs, each with a large metal scrubbing board propped inside. He pulled open the back door, outside was a small yard where the monks hung the washing to dry. Jai darted across the yard and slipped over the back wall. As he slid over the top, the storm hit him, the ice laden wind nipping at his face. He squatted by the wall and yanked a woollen hat from his pocket. He shoved it onto his head and tugged it down over his ears. He pulled out his gloves from his pockets and slipped them on.
The monastery was built on a large mound, the front side looking directly over the valley and at the rear the land dipped and flattened for about thirty yards then rose quickly to the mountain beyond. Jai could just see the track he wanted, running across the hillside at about the height of the gompa wall, then gently climbing up and cutting around the side of the peak.
The storm was full on, the low clouds hanging like a mist across the hillside, barely a hundred feet above his head. The snow swept in, dragging with it the dark of the evening. Jai knew that soon he would not be able to see the track at all.
He took a deep breath and scrambled down the gompa mound, sprinting across the flat expanse of ground, his feet pounding through the snow. At the far side he scrambled upwards between the rock outcrops, stumbling over the great clumps of mountain weed and grass that grew thickly across the hillside, the snow crunching beneath his boots.
A shout rose above the storm, and then another. A beam of light shot out from the dusk, sweeping directly across him. Something cracked loud beside his head, then another, whining off the face of the rock just above him. Jai dived into a fold in the hillside. Gunfire rattled out of the darkness, tearing at the snow where he had stood only moments before. Jai clung there, his heart racing, terror pushing the blood through his body at such a rate, he was sure at any moment his head would explode. He knew he had to move or he was going to die. He scrambled forward on all fours, keeping as close to the hillside as he could. Suddenly the ground flattened and he realised he had found the track.
He staggered to his feet and took a breath. Something made him turn to look back, and a hand squeezed the life from his heart. The gompa was more visible than it had been before, because now it was bathed in a bright glow against the dark of the storm. Beyond the walls he could clearly see bright licks of flame reaching up into the night sky, oblivious to the fast falling snow. Yangji Gompa was burning.
He felt weak, as if he could just lie down in the snow and let it take him. But inside he knew could not do that. His master had told him the path he must follow, and he knew that was what he must do. He turned his back on the gompa and peered into the murk. The vague outline of the track rose in front of him, disappearing into the mist as it rose towards the peak.
He continued on, his eyes on the track below him, trusting that he remembered its path. The mist seemed to lift slightly and he realised he had reached the point on the track where it swung sharply to the right and made its way along the backside of the hill. Beyond him, in the fog and the darkness he knew the track gradually worked its way down to meet the road from the gompa, out beyond the woods. If he could just make it down there he could slip into the village on the back paths and find Gamu.
Suddenly a boot scraped across a rock. The sound was close, from the direction he was about to go. He peered into the mist and darkness, trying to discern any movement, but the snow, falling now with even greater intensity, made it impossible to see further than a few feet.
He looked around, the snow was lying thickly. Perhaps he could bury himself in the snow and hope that his pursuers would pass him by. A vision of his master, sprang into his mind, smiling as he did whenever Jai would come up with one of his wild solutions to a problem. ‘Beware the act of the Ostrich and what is sticking up in the wind for all to see.’ As usual his master was right.
To his left, the hill dropped rapidly away into the darkness. Somewhere down there was a road, if road could describe the pothole ridden track that snaked its way up from Xigaze Province. But nevertheless, a steady trickle of trucks made the climb, passing below where he stood, before working their way back down into the far valley, out behind Mount Zhamu, somewhere out beyond the storm.
He was not sure that his master would like what he was thinking but he only had seconds to make up his mind. He peered back into the snowstorm, in the direction he had just come. Out there was the gompa and his life, and beyond that the village. How would he reach it now, how would he find his way to Jongba?
A voice called out in the darkness, it was close. Another answered even closer. Jai quickly took off his jacket, then pulled it back on with the back at the front. Last winter, he and two of the other novices had tried this crazy antic down this same track. It had seemed fun back then, but that had been in broad daylight. He pulled his woollen hat even further down over his ears, and turned his back on the world he knew. He peered down into the darkness below his feet and took a deep breath.
“Forgive me, Master,” he whispered and launched himself, head first down the hillside.
He hit the snow with a blow that knocked the wind from him, but he was away, his knees bent, feet in the air, skidding along the snow on his improvised, out of control toboggan. He prayed he would be lucky enough not to hit anything. He knew the road was somewhere ahead, he just hoped he could stop when he got there.
He bounced over some small bumps and his speed increased. A large mound rose in front of him and suddenly he was airborne, flying freely through the air. Out to his left, lights appeared out of the darkness, lights that were close. He hit the ground with a smack, his last thought, before the pain drove all other sensations from his body - he had found the road.
Then the lights were upon him, the shriek of braking tires much too close. Jai was vaguely aware of a large truck bearing down on him. He tried to move but all his strength was gone. The truck screeched to a halt almost above him. A door was wrenched open and boots slapped to the ground. A torch light lit up his face.
“Now then little one,” a voice said in very bad Tibetan. “A little late to be out playing in the snow.”
CHAPTER THREE
Xigaze Province, Tibet Autonomous Region
The truck driver was Indian. He spoke very badly mangled Tibetan and virtually no Chinese. But with the Tibetan he had, punctuated with words from his native tongue, he tried to hold a conversation. One of the monks had been teaching Jai Hindi, and he remembered enough for the two of them to just about understand each other.
