The Fourth Guardian Read online

  Oompal bit her lip and decided not to tell him she'd begun making arrangements to cannibalize some of their obsolete equipment so they could make room for the new things she'd ordered. The Yetis, she found with secretive delight, had a curious penchant for electronics, and they ran through the manuals like water flowing downhill.

  Just the other day several reprogrammed the library's terminals, and now they functioned at a thirty-two percent greater capacity, which made their complaints about working with antedated equipment more trying. The Yetis were already working with the latest.

  A spasm of guilt crossed her mind as she recalled her Yeti friend, Icky, with her gigantic puppy-dog eyes pouring with longing over a brochure hooting the latest in electronic hardware. It was difficult to forget how she had grabbed her, forced a cup of Darjeeling tea and one of their incredible sweet cakes into her hands ... while talking shop.

  It was amazing how her signature appeared on an order form, and if the High Lama ever heard about it ... what the cost was going to come to ... She seriously considered “cooking the books.” She might have to control the accounts entirely. It would make the situation easier if she didn't have to explain what she found herself doing. She didn't know why she did them.

  * * * *

  The Sherpa glanced up irritably from his haggling, the handmade boots in his hands forgotten as everyone turned to shout at the one letting in the stiff cold wind. Then their voices went still as the stranger closed the door and made his way to the counter, where he dropped his shoulder bag to the floor.

  As he pulled his hood back, the others stared in disbelief. How did a westerner make it through the passes without their knowing about it?

  The countertop sagged when he leaned on it and spoke the mountain dialect.

  "I am seeking the one named Bardu."

  The sullen-eyed man behind the counter glanced aside, giving nothing away, but taking counsel with himself. He did not like this stranger. He didn't like his presence. He didn't like the odor of the man, and so he committed himself to be uncivil.

  "Don't know him."

  "I will pay well for his service."

  In response, the counterman worked a rag at a certain spot, a spot that for years defied his efforts.

  The tall stranger looked around at the enquiring faces, and one by one the others pulled back. Something in the man's eyes probed so deeply it made them feel exposed.

  Finally, his gaze stopped searching, resting on one in the corner by himself. The man then realized the stranger was approaching, and looked to the door.

  "I wish to get through the Waris Pass before winter. Can it be done?"

  He shrugged irritably. “Yes, but not by me,” he retorted. “I have other matters to attend."

  What the occidental said then, leaning over and staring, was the stuff of legends to come.

  "You have a crippled daughter. For guiding me through the Waris Pass before winter, not only will I pay you well, but I shall cure the child of her deformity. I will make her dance as she was never able to before."

  Every murmured voice died. Every breath went still.

  Outside a large clump of ice slid off the roof and smacked into a puddle of slush. Bardu went pale, then angry, but as tall as he was amongst his own people he came nowhere near the towering height of the stranger, and so great was his personal grief at being reminded of the shame, he almost howled as his hand reached under his coat for his knife.

  As the two faced one another, the Sherpa gritting his teeth, eyes filling with rage, but then the rage vanished as the mountain man came to a terrible conclusion. What had he to lose? With barely a gesture, he broke the tension and strode out, knowing the other was behind.

  The tavern emptied. The cavalcade was so unexpected that when other villagers asked what happened and were told, they too, followed. Soon, an entire village came chattering along forebodingly, excitedly.

  For three days and nights, the stranger labored over the child. Once the seven-year-old came into his care, she did nothing but smile. Her mother was far from certain. When her husband and the stranger appeared, and Bardu whispered what the other's intentions were—she went into a panic. She argued and pleaded, but in the end he was adamant. They had nothing to lose; everything to gain.

  He had taken his precious daughter to more than one such charlatan in the past and showed nothing for it. So what harm now? He was not asking for money, and another disappointment among so many was not as important as it once might have been.

  Furious at such a cavalier attitude, she swept by him, whipped into their room, barred it and clasped her daughter in her arms. Then she watched horrified, as the bar lifted up from its hooks and clattered to the floor.

  She moaned, hugging her daughter to her. “May Buddha help me. It is the power of the gods!” They entered the room, and the woman covered the child with her body. Her husband pulled his wife to her feet and half carried her from the room. When they were alone, Regis Tregarath smiled at the frightened little girl and sat by her side as she lay in her father's great bed.

  "Tell me, child, if you are afraid,” he said softly.

  She had seen the giant bar pulled up by the invisible force, and there was something about the soft-spoken stranger that was reassuring ... so finally she smiled shyly and shook her head.

  He winked at her. “If I tell you that you will walk, that this parasite born in your body that eats at you will never cause you pain, and that you'll sing and dance, and play that flute of yours ... will you play that tune again, when last year your father brought you to Kinji Temple for prayers?"

  She blinked and then her smile beamed with a radiance that made something catch in his throat.

  "Oh, yes! I love the flute! I'll play for you now if you like."

  He kissed her on the brow and whispered. “Perhaps later. Now listen closely, child. I want you to do something else."

  Her eyes were drawn to his, and there, in the center of the pupils, a fire grew, but it didn't frighten her, rather it was ... calming ... and her eyelids felt so heavy.

  Leaving the sleeping child where she lay, he found her parents in front of the fireplace sitting at the rock-hewn table, staring into the flames.

  "Listen."

  Bardu looked up. “I listen."

  "I want a vat. A large one. One that will cover the child to her shoulders. I will need copper piping.” He gestured. “So long, so thick. I will need buckets with pure mountain water coming from a stream free of impurities found in wells or ponds."

  "This I can do,” said Bardu diligently. “What else?"

  "For now she is asleep, and she will stay asleep until this procedure begins, and she becomes whole again. Listen close. There will be times, even in her sleep, when she will scream."

  The child's mother jerked as if stung by fire.

  "Woman!” Reg-I-Nald ordered. “Be brave!” Bardu tightened his grip on her, whispering urgently, tears appearing in his own eyes.

  "There are certain herbs. I do not know their names, but you will find them, for I'm told their properties are the same everywhere. There is a plant when brewed that brings up a bitter taste. Its buds shine pale in the moonlight. There is another with sharp spikes to the stems with leafy tips that seem to drip in blood. There is..."

  He gave them the list. When they conferred with the waiting elders, these plants were discovered to be a cornucopia of the most deadly poisons in the mountains .

  An old friend of Bardu, listening from the fringes of the group, decided that enough was enough. He'd had some learning down in the lower valleys and was not very tolerant of those proud of their ignorance and superstition, and he thought that putting such a child in the hands of a maniac was insanity.

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  Chapter Three

  A window swung open and the major's call rang out until there was no mistaking from where the summons came, or for whom it was intended.

  "RamSinge! Lieutenant RamSinge, where in the blazes a
re you!?"

  The lieutenant in question flinched as he hurried his stride and neared the commandant's office. Now he knew the commandant was not a cruel man, but he did possess this penchant for poking sensitive spots.

  Lieutenant Ramus Singe was as white as any western school could make him, not withstanding the slight shading of the skin, to which shame he heartily condemned those who bore him, constantly having to bear the stain of one of his unknown parents as an obstacle upon the steps of ambition. Sometimes he even cursed them both.

  However, telling his better half (the white half), that it was wiser to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, than to engage in wishful fantasies, he did just that. He suffered in silence and endured.

  When news of his father's indiscretions reached England, thanks to a monk who felt it necessary to right the wrongs of an untidy world, his grandmother, dressed in English tweeds, descended upon the orphanage where he was growing up, took one look, nodded with a scowl and said, “Yes, you can bloody well see it in his face!"

  She whisked him off to a military boarding school.

  He was never invited to visit England, but his needs were always met. He became a man of taste, a man of culture and breeding, if not by pure blood then by training and aspiration, making it all the more true. He was a better man for being the brunt of the callousness of others. RamSinge, indeed.

  His mother would have been proud if she hadn't died a whore. Still, half noblesse oblige, and all that rot; he straightened his jacket, flicked an invisible speck of dust from his shoulder, and entered his superior's office.

  "Sir!"

  The commandant turned from a map he'd been studying on the wall, and the lieutenant's gaze riveted on a particular stretch he felt had been under scrutiny. The mountain ranges along the Katmandu's were well-marked showing familiar patrol areas.

  "Ah, lieutenant,” said the commandant, smiling. “We have a report of a strange white fakir working some fraud in the province of Shanshing, and it seems this fella's got it in his head to fool around with the practice of medicine and some such. I want you to go up there and find out what it's all about."

  Lieutenant Singe would have liked to say no. This really wasn't his cup of tea. But he didn't dare.

  "Yes, sir! Will there be anything else, sir?"

  "Hmm...” The commandant looked at the map pursing his lips, rubbing a forefinger over a delicately cared for moustache. “Yes, there is, now you mention it. That region hasn't had a proper visit for quite a while. Stop at the local temple, speak to whoever they have over there, and get a rundown on the local color...” He grinned at his choice of words.

  "Yes, sir!"

  "I think it's in Kinji. Just make sure not to step on any toes, eh? We've been having a little trouble with the Chinese lately, and I don't need to stir up a hornet's nest."

  Ramus Singe wanted to say something, but the man's back had already turned, and he told himself it was all for the better. Maybe a trip is what he'd been needing anyway.

  "Yes, sir. I'll start right away, sir."

  There was a flutter of hands saluting. Shoulders stiffened, and while one officer continued studying the map, as if for the first time, the other turned for the door. The commandant though, wondered what in the devil he was looking at, and what did it all mean? He never heard the door close.

  Ramus Singe marched off the deck, and once back at his quarters, when no one was looking, he shook his head and sighed. Given that region's politically sensitive autonomy, aircraft was strictly forbidden, so the only other way to get there was by land. He packed his kit and promised himself a nice stiff drink when this business was over.

  It took six days of travel over rough terrain with twelve packhorses and thirty men, before they were at the base of Mount Kinji. There they set up camp.

  One of the men looked up and spat. He never liked this part of the country. Too many mountains, too many restrictions, and too many places where one could suddenly die. Except for the lieutenant, the men shared these feelings.

  A thundercloud swept up around the pinnacle of the temple, and it seemed that the inner home of the mountain gods, didn't like the men being there either.

  Once his tent was up and the others organized duties and sentry watch, the lieutenant brushed himself off as best he could, sucked in a deep breath, and started for the climb. He'd done this once before, and it was his worst nightmare.

  Halfway to the top he had to rest, sucking in air, lungs wheezing as if about to burst. Nine hundred steps, he groaned, shaking his hanging head. Nine hundred steps more, and—by God—he'd be there! Three quarters of the way further, he had to stop again, guts feeling as if they were about to heave themselves out of his throat and beat him to death for attempted murder.

  At the very top ... he felt for the step that had to be there, because this was the stairway from hell, but nothing was there except flatness. A sobbing laugh bubbled up, and slowly, painfully, an officer of her majesty's finest pulled himself over the top and flopped, staring at a clear, blue sky.

  It took fifteen minutes to get his bearings, his head falling to the side, and he caught a dizzying glimpse of what he'd just managed. A shudder rippled through him. Whoever had built those steps had been mad.

  The sound of a leather-shod sandal drew his attention the other way, and he found himself looking at the surprised eyes of a monk he knew.

  "Lieutenant Singe, what is it that you do? No one has tried those stairs in over three years. As I recall, that person was you. Why did you not signal to have the lift lowered?"

  He grimaced as the other leant over to help him, and then had to be steadied with a strong arm.

  "Forget it,” he managed, having caught his breath at last. “I remember having taken that thing before, and what it almost did to me. Besides, I didn't think climbing the steps would be that much a bother...” He looked over his shoulder. “But if you don't mind, Mishu, I think I'll trouble the fellows at the cliff to lower me down, eh? I mean, I wouldn't want them to think I didn't appreciate their efforts."

  The old man nodded and smiled. “Of course, lieutenant. It will be a pleasure. Our ancient lift was replaced with a modern freight car. You should have signaled, you know. All that way ... it really wasn't necessary."

  "You have a modern freight car?"

  "Installed a year after your last visit. Yes."

  Lieutenant Singe chuckled softly. “Of all the stupid—!"

  "But come,” said Mishu, his robe dipping, an arm around the exhausted soldier. “I'll take you for refreshments, and when you've rested, you must meet our new High Lama. He will be eager to make your acquaintance."

  Ramus Singe's head lifted. “What did you say, Mishu? New High Lama? Has the old boy died?"

  "Alas, such things are meant to be."

  "I'm sorry. I hadn't heard."

  "It happened while he was at prayers."

  Ramus now felt his presence an imposition. “Maybe I shouldn't have come. Maybe I should just—"

  "Nonsense!” the monk objected. “You are our friend. You're welcome whenever you feel like it!"

  "Thank you."

  "But come,” Mishu urged. “We have done some reconstruction as well."

  When they entered the temple grounds, Ramus Singe looked round. Everything had changed. A fountain pumped water from some hidden source and sprayed it in an intricate pattern. It misted about the edge and not only cooled the area, but made it easier to breathe the dry air. It was amazing.

  Then there were the glassine structures surrounding it, and they slowly turned on their base without the slightest sign of a power source. Was it art? What did it mean? They were huge crystals standing on end, pointing up, and from within he could see colors shift and change like a rainbow. It was hypnotic.

  "Mishu, that fountain ... and those curious glass sculptures ... what—"

  "All will be explained, my friend, in good time. But for now you must rest. Come!"

  Singe was “helped” across
the inner courtyard, and the wonders were left behind.

  His quarters, as he remembered them, were the same though, except for the three-paned windows, the desk, writing utensils, lamp, and in an adjoining room ... shower, tub, sink, mirror and medicine cabinet.

  He looked for outlets and didn't find them. No outlets. Yet a lamp. He lifted the lamp. No wires. He switched it on. It lit. He switched it off. Had to be battery powered, but there didn't seem to be any compartment for batteries. As suddenly as that, he felt uneasy.

  In the distance, he thought he heard ... a concert. And when he walked through one of the corridors ... did he also hear a shortwave radio as well?

  There was a knock at the door and a monk poked his head in, gestured, and he followed. In the darkened areas, he remembered, there were now sunlit glowing light strips in the corners of the ceiling. And the floor seemed soft to the step, instead of hard stone. Then he came to the first of a number of skylight and he stopped cold, staring up.

  His guide turned solicitously. “Is there a problem?"

  He shook his head. “No problem. No problem. These skylights..."

  "Yes, they help balance temperature settings."

  "Ah, of course."

  When he got to the High Lama's chamber, he blinked, astonished at the change here, and was about to ask more questions of his guide, when the other murmured that he should make himself comfortable. The High Lama would be with him in a little while.

  He nodded, sat down, looked up and his jaw dropped open. Then he glanced around wildly, realizing just how much a change there had been. At that point, he noticed something really out of place. It was a door, a door that looked as if it ... He opened it and looked in. A bathroom with all the amenities.

  Turing back to the chamber, he resumed his seat. After an hour, though, he began to pace again, and then impulsively he pulled aside a great drape—that he remembered once as a gigantic pieced wool-covered skin—and was nonplussed to find a set of triple-paned glass doors as well.

  The great ledge that opened out upon the lip of an abyss had been remodeled into a startling veranda. Railed, tiled, with an open, steel-framed overhang that could serve as cover for rain or snow.