Kingdom Read online

  Tom Martin lives in Oxford.

  Also by Tom Martin

  PYRAMID

  TOM MARTIN

  PAN BOOKS

  First published 2009 by Pan Books

  This electronic edition published 2009 by Pan Books

  an imprint of Pan Macmillan Ltd

  Pan Macmillan, 20 New Wharf Rd, London N1 9RR

  Basingstoke and Oxford

  Associated companies throughout the world

  www.panmacmillan.com

  ISBN 978-0-330-47991-2 in Adobe Reader format

  ISBN 978-0-330-47990-5 in Adobe Digital Editions format

  ISBN 978-0-330-47992-9 in Mobipocket format

  Copyright © Tom Martin 2009

  The right of Tom Martin to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  You may not copy, store, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Visit www.panmacmillan.com to read more about all our books and to buy them. You will also find features, author interviews and news of any author events, and you can sign up for e-newsletters so that you're always first to hear about our new releases.

  To Kuhn Sucharitakul

  And to JK, il miglior fabbro

  When everyone thinks something is good

  it becomes evil.

  Lao Tzu, Chinese sage, fourth century BC

  1

  Litang monastery, Pemako jungle, Tibet

  No one knew the man’s name. He had arrived at the monastery gate slung over the back of a mule, his hands and feet tied under the animal’s belly. He was alone.

  For three days now the rains had swept through the jungle, transforming it into a shining, living ocean that was forever attempting to wash over the sides of the monastery walls. A giant caterpillar rippled on the branch of a tree, its inch-long spines rising and falling as it flowed forward. Something stirred in the depths of the forest. But the slight noises, the sounds of something creeping, of shuffling through the undergrowth, were drowned out by the persistent drumming of the rain. Even the hoots of the spider monkeys sounded ghostly and remote, smothered by the force of the water.

  In the monastery’s central courtyard Dorgen Trungpa, a novice monk, was splashing through the water. The Abbot had asked him to go to the village. His sodden robes clung to his limbs as he ran but he did not mind the rain, even as his bare feet sank deep into the mud.

  Though he was young and strong, that day Dorgen Trungpa ran no further than the monastery gate. There he saw the man on the mule and terror fixed him to the spot. He had never seen a white man before. The pallor of his skin was strange enough to the young monk, but this alabaster skin was also covered in enormous leeches. For a moment Dorgen Trungpa simply stood in mute incomprehension, not knowing what to do. Then, his heart thumping and with a sense of foreboding, he slowly moved towards the stranger.

  At first he thought he must be dead, so waxen and ghastly was the skin, and then there was the blood – the blood-coated hands and the blood across his ragged clothes. The rope had gouged deep into the man’s wrists and ankles. His face was turned towards the belly of the mule, but Dorgen Trungpa did not dare to lift the man’s head. He imagined his eyes, staring blankly, and the leeches sucking on his dead skin.

  Dorgen Trungpa backed away slowly from the man, as if a sudden movement might disturb him, and then when he had retreated some distance he turned. He ran, gasping with fear, and didn’t look round until he arrived back in the flooded courtyard.

  A man, he told his fellow monks. A man with skin like alabaster. A terrible man, leeches sucking his skin, tied to a mule. Come quickly, he said, and two other monks followed him, shaking their heads and saying this would bring only evil.

  In frightened silence, rain lashing at their thin robes, the monks struggled with the body, cutting it from the mule’s back. A small sodden canvas bag was slung over the man’s right shoulder, hooked tightly under his left armpit – it seemed to be the only possession he had.

  Even now Dorgen Trungpa assumed they were bearing a corpse, that no man could be so waxen and terrible and yet living. With their heavy burden they wrestled their way up the cart track, sliding in the mud, their sweat mingling with rainwater.

  In the courtyard they laid him on the stones. Somewhere in the ancient monastic complex a bell began to ring out over the rooftops with a slurred atonal sound, as if it was ringing underwater. And now a distant bellow of thunder rumbled across the mountains.

  Tentatively, the three monks set to work tearing the leeches from the man’s cheeks, leaving welts on his ashen skin. Dorgen Trungpa felt inside the man’s mouth, and withdrew his hand holding a bloated monster. His gorge rising, he threw it into a puddle, where it squirmed violently.

  Now the Abbot appeared in the doorway to the prayer hall. A man esteemed among his monks, the senior lama of Pemako. At seventy years of age, he was thin to the point of malnourishment and yet he glowed with energy. When they heard his footsteps approaching across the courtyard, the young monks ceased their activity and let the limp body slide to rest on the courtyard floor.

  The Abbot held worry beads in his left hand. Click click, clack clack, the noise of the beads was steady though muffled by the rain. Behind him was a short, anxious man, with short black hair – the Abbot’s deputy. At the ruined body the two lamas paused, and then crouched down. With the tips of his fingers, the deputy felt the white man’s throat for any signs of a pulse. A second later, he looked up at the monks and muttered a single word.

  ‘Doctor.’

  One monk began running immediately he heard him, and vanished quickly through a low doorway in the far wall. Click click, clack clack, went the Abbot’s worry beads, as he leaned towards the man, searching his face for signs. With his callused fingers the deputy delved under the flap of the bag and pulled out the contents: a pipe, some opium and a weatherbeaten, black-covered book, written in an unknown language. The two lamas inspected the items, mystified, and then returned them to their pouch and smoothed the sodden flap back into place. For a moment the Abbot held his hand suspended above the man’s heart, as if seeking thereby to draw out his secret.

  The deputy was the first to speak. He moved his mouth close to the ear of the Abbot so that neither of the younger monks would hear. His voice trembled as he whispered:

  ‘His sherpas must have abandoned him at the gate when he caught a fever . . . He is on the verge of death . . .’

  He glanced back down at the white man and then muttered almost to himself:

  ‘. . . but how did a Westerner travel into Pemako in the first place? And why?’

  When the Abbot spoke his voice was thin and resigned.

  ‘This man brings a dark augury. His arrival signals the end of our monastery. By nightfall I will be dead and our gates will lie shattered.’

  The rain pounded on the courtyard floor and gushed down the tiled roofs of the ancient stone buildings. Now the young monk reappeared with the doctor, who knelt before the stranger and began to examine his limp body. Water streamed down the Abbot’s face but his unblinking eyes betrayed no hint of fear or panic.

  ‘A terrible evil is coming from the forest . . .’

  ‘But what can we do?’ said the deputy, in a hoarse and frightened whisper. He was staring in horror at the stranger. The Abbot reached out and touched his arm.<
br />
  ‘Do not be fearful. The devils that are coming are merely shadows sent to perplex you. Go immediately to the Cave of the Magicians. If you are pursued, then enter the tunnel network and go into Agarthi. Do not come back for seven days. Take everyone with you, this stranger included. We must care for this man who has found his way to our door, and protect him from danger.’

  A look of grave concern crossed the face of the Abbot’s deputy:

  ‘But if he is a harbinger of evil, then surely we should have nothing to do with him?’

  ‘No. That is against the vows of our order. He must be cared for. He must go with you. I will remain here. The forces of darkness must be met with compassion. Whilst the stranger lives, he is our responsibility – have the doctor do the best he can. Leave at once through the back gate into the jungle. You must go now.’

  The Abbot took one last look at the stranger. Clad in rags and slick with rain, he seemed like a shipwrecked sailor cast onto a lonely shore. The Abbot felt a profound sense of compassion for this man, who had been broken by the forest and the darkness he had found there. He nodded slowly to his deputy, who was still ashen-faced and hesitant. Then the Abbot turned and walked slowly away, bent under the force of the storm.

  In the gloom of the prayer hall the Abbot’s beads went clack clack clack. Slowly he walked into the ancient chamber. In front of the stone statue of the Saint Milarepa, the founder of his order, he settled into the lotus position and began the chant of compassion for the souls of those who, as surely as night follows day, were coming to destroy him.

  Om Mane Padme Hum

  The Jewel is in the Flower of the Lotus

  How many minutes or hours passed the Abbot did not know. He chanted his prayer of forgiveness and compassion, and felt his soul grow light. He was deep in reverie when he felt a hand on his shoulder. Dorgen Trungpa was whispering in his ear.

  ‘Abbot, please forgive me for disturbing your meditation . . .’

  The old lama’s eyes opened to the semi-darkness and his deep-throated chanting stopped. Dorgen Trungpa was shaking with fear. He could barely speak, and he struggled to explain:

  ‘There are Chinese soldiers on the road outside. They will break down the gate.’

  The Abbot stood up and shifted his damp robes over his shoulder. With a look of deep pity, he placed his hand on the young man’s trembling shoulder.

  ‘Why did you stay here? I told everyone they must leave.’

  The novice said hoarsely, ‘It was my doing. It was my karma. I found the stranger, I brought him in.’

  The Abbot shook his head and sighed.

  ‘You should feel no shame or guilt, my boy. But perhaps this is the path you must follow. Remember today, then, that whatever they do to you, it is all merely an illusion. The thought forms that we mistake for reality are nothing more than dreams. All the devils of the world are in our imaginations and so is all the pain and suffering. Remember this today.’

  And suddenly there was a sound, a terrible crash which echoed through the building, and made the walls shudder. Dorgen Trungpa, for all the teachings of the lama, could not repress a cry of surprise, and a surge of terror gripped his body.

  ‘Remember my words and all will be well,’ the Abbot was saying as Dorgen Trungpa struggled to gather himself. ‘We must go outside now, my boy.’

  Outside, they saw the ancient wooden gate hanging from its broken hinges. For hundreds of years it had kept the monastery safe, but now Chinese soldiers were filing into the courtyard. In the centre was an army jeep and in it stood a short, fat Chinese army officer. His filthy, ill-fitting, olive-green uniform was soaked through and rain was streaming over the peak of his cap and down his face.

  Soldiers were filing into the prayer rooms and monks’ quarters and the kitchen and dining hall. They swarmed through the silent abandoned rooms, as if they were searching for something. The Abbot stood in the doorway surveying the chaos before him, the troops that were ransacking his monastery. Yet his face was serene; he was almost smiling.

  When the army officer saw the Abbot he raised a clipped cry, and a group of soldiers came forward, weapons raised. At their approach, Dorgen Trungpa flinched and wanted to turn, back into the shelter of the prayer hall. The Abbot made no effort to resist, and so Dorgen Trungpa stayed by his side, transfixed with fear. One soldier smashed the butt of his rifle into the Abbot’s face, and the old man collapsed to the ground. They punched and kicked him and dragged him through the puddles over to the jeep. He collapsed again and again under the hail of blows, only to be lifted up again so that he could be beaten to the ground once more.

  And Dorgen Trungpa found that now he had forgotten the teachings of the lama, and was retreating urgently through the hall, striving to escape even as the troops moved towards him. As he turned a corner he was met by soldiers coming the other way. They set upon him like a pack of dogs, pummelling and mauling him until he was inert with pain and bewilderment and offered no more resistance. Then they dragged him to the centre of the courtyard, and flung him down next to the Abbot.

  My karma, thought Dorgen Trungpa. I brought this here. My actions have killed us both and destroyed the monastery. And he tried to contemplate his own death with equanimity, as the Chinese officer spat out orders to his soldiers. Then the officer stepped out of his jeep, his face ugly with rage, and addressed the Abbot.

  ‘You understand Chinese, parasite?’

  The Abbot, now on his hands and knees, raised his bruised and weary head and answered in Mandarin: ‘Yes.’

  The officer undid the button on the breast packet of his uniform and pulled out a piece of paper. The rain doused it as he held it up to read.

  ‘On behalf of the peasants of Pemako and the government of the Tibet Autonomous Region of the People’s Republic of China, we hereby charge you with feudalist practices.’

  The officer looked up from the paper and spat on the ground in front of the old lama.

  ‘You are guilty of systematic exploitation of the peasants, of enslaving them on your land, of taxing them in the form of tithes of butter and yak meat, of using them as unpaid labour in your monastery kitchens whilst you yourselves sit idle and do no work. You have continued these feudalist practices for generations and have sustained and justified this wicked system by scaring the people with stories of eternal hells that do not exist and threats that when they die they will be reborn as vermin if they do not obey you. In short, you have taken advantage of the common people’s ignorance and used superstition and religion as tools of oppression. Furthermore, you are guilty of owning images of the Grand Parasite, the wicked dictator and leader of your feudal empire, the Dalai Lama, who has attempted to split the Motherland and sabotage China’s relations with foreign nations – and of failing to recognize the supreme authority of the Communist Party of China. Furthermore, you are charged with harbouring a foreign spy. We demand that you hand over this man immediately.’

  Now the officer snarled at the Abbot:

  ‘What have you to say, parasite?’

  The Abbot remained silent.

  In a rage the officer threw the paper to the floor. He stepped towards the Abbot, and swinging his right foot back, he landed his army boot with all the force he could muster under the old man’s chin. There was a sickening crack and the Abbot flipped over onto his back.

  Dorgen Trungpa cried out in horror and tried to break free from the restraining grip of two Chinese soldiers but was beaten into submission.

  The officer loomed over the broken body of the lama.

  ‘Get up, parasite. Why are you lying in the wet? Why don’t you levitate? That’s what you tell the peasants you can do.’

  The Abbot’s eyes opened slowly. The officer placed his foot on the old man’s neck and shouted down at him:

  ‘Where is the fugitive spy?’

  The Abbot seemed now to be trying to speak, choking for breath. Perhaps expecting to hear an answer to his question, the officer lifted his foot. Gradually the Abbot’s
words became audible:

  ‘Om Mane Padme Hum . . . Om Mane Padme . . .’

  At the sound of the chant, the officer spun round and barked an order to the assembled soldiers. Two men stepped forward. The Abbot recognized them; they were fellow Tibetans, outcasts from the village. They had committed serious crimes in the past and so were forced to beg and live outside the community on the edge of the jungle. It was their job to clean the monastery toilets and bury the dead of the village. Their ill-fitting uniforms looked new. They must have been recruited only hours before.

  The army officer smiled and said to the two Tibetans, ‘I think the parasite has a headache. Cure him.’

  One of the soldiers was carrying a hammer and a four-inch bronze nail in his hands. He had a gloating smirk on his face. The second of the new recruits sat down heavily on the Abbot’s chest and grabbed the old man’s head. The Abbot, as if oblivious to his circumstances, continued his mournful, low chant.

  The soldier with the hammer knelt down beside the Abbot and carefully placed the bronze nail in the centre of his forehead. Pausing, he looked up at the officer. The officer briskly nodded his head and with a sickening crack the hammer fell. The nail sank into the Abbot’s skull. Two more blows followed until not a single particle of the nail protruded. The Abbot’s arms waved feebly in the air for a moment then fell limply by his side. Dorgen Trungpa cried out in agony and collapsed to the floor. Silence hung over the courtyard.

  Then the officer spoke, and Dorgen Trungpa realized with a dull sense of dread that he was addressing him.

  ‘So, boy, now that you have seen that justice is done, even in places such as Pemako that are far from Beijing, perhaps you can still be saved from the grip of these evil and insane old men. You are still young. Let us see . . .’

  He turned towards the broken gates and shouted an order. Dorgen Trungpa gritted his teeth and cried out in rage and desolation. Two soldiers were dragging a young peasant girl along. She was the daughter of the village’s biggest landowner. She was in her late teens, a beautiful girl, now emitting low moans of terror and struggling weakly against her captors. They marched her up to the young monk. The officer barked another order. The two soldiers holding her ripped off her clothes. Dorgen Trungpa averted his gaze from her naked form, as the soldiers held her upright before him.