The Forbidden Temple by Patrick Woodhead Read Free Book Online Page B

what did Bailey mean that they had been ‘made invisible by a great sorcerer’?
    One thing Luca knew about Tibetans was that they loved anything supernatural. To them, gods literally roamed the heights and demons lived in the valleys. Almost every occurrence, even simple things such as bad weather or failing crops, was explained as an act of magic and sorcery.
    Luca looked up through one of the long windows at the moody English sky. White clouds shrouded the tops of the city’s spires. Cloud . . . that was it! Within this context, the chief’s assertions about a great sorcerer having cast a spell over the mountains made perfect sense.The clouds themselves had rendered the centre of the mountain ring invisible, just as they had on the satellite map.
    Standing up, Luca shuffled the books into a neat stack and then made his way over to the photocopying machine.
    There was more to this than he had first thought. He could feel it.

Chapter 8
    TWO MONKS STOOD on the roof of Tashilhunpo Monastery, their heads bowed in sorrow.
    Usually the rarified mountain light reflected off the golden rooftops, making it unbearably hot and bright. But today was different. Dark cloud had rolled in from the east, blanketing the sky and threatening rain.
    Below them, the city of Shigatse stretched across the plains. Squat, white houses sprawled out from the central hub of the monastery in chaotic tentacles, blurred together by the grey light. The people on the streets moved with a heavy listlessness brought on by the humidity. Rain was uncommon this high on the plateau and it was as if the whole city was holding its breath, waiting for the skies to finally break.
    ‘Jigme, we must always remember our duty and never give up hope,’ said the taller of the monks, resting a consoling hand on his shoulder. ‘The Gelugpas from Lhasa will have some idea of how to proceed.’
    ‘How to proceed?’ echoed the other monk bitterly. ‘The eleventh Panchen Lama has been murdered before he even reached Shigatse. And he was just a boy. Just a boy! Now nothing will stop the Chinese . . .’
    He brought his hands to his mouth, as if the words themselves could somehow inflict further damage. Above them, the first specksof rain hit the ramparts of the monastery roof, congealing in the layers of dust.
    ‘It is inevitable,’ admitted the taller monk. ‘The Chinese will install their own candidate and crown him on the first day of June in the solar calendar, at the Linka Festival. But still, we must trust in the will of Buddha and never give up hope.’
    As the rain began to quicken, both monks remained where they stood. Drops splashed on to their heavy robes and shaved heads, beading down the sides of their faces like tears. Both felt too exhausted to move, as if the rain somehow reflected the way the whole world was feeling.
    It had all happened so suddenly. They had both presumed since the death of their former leader that it would take years for his reincarnation to be found. Yet, without their even knowing that the search had officially begun, news had come through that the young boy had been murdered, shot before he had even stepped out of his village.
    With the Dalai Lama in permanent exile in Dharamsala, the Panchen Lama, the Bodhisattva of Wisdom, was the practical ruler of the country. It was under his decree that the Tibetan people were governed and the rule of law maintained. Now the same question ran through both men’s minds as it had done all morning: how could Tibet protect itself from the Chinese if their next leader was to be one of them?
    A soft rumbling announced a motorcade of vehicles pulling into the monastery’s main entrance. Three stretch saloon Mercedes with blacked-out windows slowly eased their way across the drive’s ancient flagstones. They crunched to a halt before the main entrance. As soon as they caught sight of the cars, the two monks turned soundlessly and hurried down the spiral staircase that led from the roof