Military Orders Page 7

  She walked to the kitchen and looked out the window. Once more she could not help but smile. Eddie was outside, at work on another of his paintings. That was the Aboriginal style. They placed a giant canvas on the ground and crouched next to it - sometimes they crawled all over it - painting their pictures in the colors of the desert, reds and browns and yellows and greens. It seldom rained in this part of Australia, so inclement weather was not an issue.

  Next to Eddie sat little Sammie, absolutely engrossed in his father’s work. When she watched the two of them together like this, the father sometimes encouraging his son to fill in the colors on parts of the painting, she had to wonder if the nurse had not been correct. That she simply had given birth to a very bright, very creative young boy. That deep down she should be grateful for such a healthy child, who no doubt was destined to become a top painter too.

  But then the strange noises would start again. Unfamiliar words. Followed by haunting silences. Something wasn’t right.

  A mother knows these things.

  Chapter 13

  Kangra Valley, Northern India

  The taxi driver spoke some English. “Do you have problems with your life?”

  Actually, the problem for Harel at that moment was the breakneck speed at which they were descending the mountain. “No, I don’t,” he replied.

  “Americans your age who come to Dharamsala have problems.”

  Americans my age? “No, not me.”

  “So why are you going to Manjushri Meditation Temple. Tourists don’t go there.”

  Bullseye, thought Harel. Because I have a problem. But he wasn’t going to get into a discussion about the mystery of his brother’s murder with a taxi driver. “I heard it’s an interesting temple. A little different from the places in Dharamsala. They worship Dorje Shugden.

  The driver was Indian and presumably not a Buddhist. Now out of his depth, he lapsed into silence, while continuing his mad descent down the twisting road.

  Harel wished that Peter could be with him. But following the dramatic events of that morning, during the creation of the sand mandala, his former student had entered an intense period of meditation, lasting days, apparently. Harel wondered if anyone at the temple spoke much English. He guessed that some of the priests spoke a little. After all, his own brother had been giving English lessons.

  Well, he would soon find out. The driver had turned off the main road and was racing along a narrow lane shrouded by trees. For several minutes they drove without any sign of life, not even a mendicant cow, and then ahead was a building, clearly a temple.

  It was a white structure, square in shape with what appeared to be a series of bright red double-doors all around. The gold-leafed roof was curved, like the temples he used to see in Japan. The building was set back from the road amidst tall trees, but with no surrounding wall, and no gate. The entrance was indicated by a large sign bearing writing in several languages. In English it confirmed that he had indeed arrived at the Manjushri Meditation Temple.

  At the front of the building was a wide lawn, ringed by beds of pink flowers that Harel didn’t recognize. A young guy in maroon robing seemed to be making a half-hearted attempt at clearing the garden of weeds.

  Harel approached. “Hi, do you speak English?”

  He was a lean young guy, probably a teenager. He looked up, apparently quite unconcerned about the arrival of an English-speaking Westerner. Then without a word he walked around to the side of the temple building and entered.

  Harel wondered if he should go and knock on one of the doors. But then another young guy emerged, equally skinny. He approached Harel. “Hello,” he said in accented English.

  “Did you know an American named Matt Harel? He was living in Dharamsala. I believe he used to come down here to teach English every week or so.”

  The young man wrinkled his nose, as if he were about to sneeze. Harel feared that his English was insufficient to understand the question. But then he spoke in a slow monotone. “Mr Matt? Yes, I am in his English conversation class. I hear that he die. It is so sad.”

  “I’m his brother. Rafa Harel. I’ve flown over from America to try to learn more about how he died. Could we talk a little?”

  The priest wrinkled his nose again, apparently some sort of bad habit. “Yes,” he said with deliberation. “Please….”

  He led Harel in through one of the side doors and beckoned for him to remove his shoes. Then he took him into a small, carpeted room with cushions around a low table. “Please…” he indicated. Harel sat.

  * * *

  Tenzin watched with apprehension from his hideaway in the next room. Why had this man come here? He had only arrived in town the day before. What was going on? He listened hard as Harel addressed the young priest.

  “Did you know my brother Matt?”

  “Yes, I am in his English conversation class. He is very friendly man. Everyone here are liking him. We are his friends.”

  “Did he talk to you about his religion? You know that he was a Christian?”

  “Yes, he say to us he is Christian…Christian…how you say…?”

  “Missionary.”

  “Yes. Some of older priests are not happy Mr Matt coming here. But we are liking him. He is good guy.”

  “And did he ask questions about the new Dalai Lama?”

  “Sometimes we talk about Dalai Lama.” He paused. “Yes, Mr Matt is asking many questions about Dalai Lama.”

  “Did you think that strange?”

  Another twitch of the nose. “It is difficult.”

  He paused again, and Harel felt he didn’t want to continue. “Difficult?” he urged.

  “Dalai Lama is gelug…gelug party. Party? Group? You know?”

  “Probably sect, or denomination, or branch. Something like that. Anyway, I understand. Tibetan Buddhism has four main branches. The gelug branch is one of these, with the Dalai Lama the head. But down here you kind of see yourself as a pure version of the gelug teaching. So you are a little separate from them. And your attitude to the Dalai Lama is ambivalent.”

  He saw the man staring at him.

  “Ambivalent,” he repeated. “You know…you like some things about him. But there are some things that you don’t like.”

  The man smiled. “Yes,” he said. “So we are talking about next Dalai Lama.”

  “And Matt asked lots of questions about that?”

  “Yes. Many questions.”

  “What kind of questions?”

  “He is hearing many stories at other temples. So he is asking questions. He is hearing that one priest is having a dream about next Dalai Lama. Like that. So he is telling us. And he is asking if we know more.”

  “And did people down here know things?”

  “We are knowing some things. But Mr Matt is very clever man. He is knowing more things than us. We are not belonging Dalai Lama’s group. And we are living down in Kangra Valley. So we are not living near other temples.”

  Harel changed the subject. “I am told that he was selling artworks from this temple.”

  The guy shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  “Have artworks gone missing from here?”

  “No. I do not think they are missing.”

  “I was told that one priest who was probably stealing the artworks recently left this temple. Has anyone left recently?”

  The guy thought. “People are coming. People are going. Maybe some priests are leaving. I don’t know.”

  “Is it possible that a priest from here killed my brother?”

  The young man looked at him. “No. We are a Buddhist temple.”

  Tenzin went to his room and changed into jeans and a t-shirt. Robes were not the right attire for what he now needed to do.

  Chapter 14

  Kangra Valley, Northern India

  Harel was intrigued that the priest seemed not to know that artworks had apparently been stolen from the temple. He had never really believed that his brother was guilty of theft. But he at lea
st assumed that artworks had been stolen, and that someone else was responsible. Could it be that the police had been lying to him about this? But why? He needed to talk to the police again.

  He also needed to find a taxi to take him back up the twisting road to his hotel, but there was no traffic at all on this lane near the temple. He reflected that he might have to go back and ask one of the priests to call him a cab.

  He strode towards a side street that he was sure would take him back to the main road, leading up to Dharamsala. Suddenly he heard urgent footsteps, right behind him.

  He turned, to see a small, young man rushing straight at him, a large stick held high in his hands. He could not believe it. His initial thoughts were that the man was going to keep running right past him, stick aloft, as if he were engaged in some kind of ritual or training exercise.

  But there was no doubt about what was happening. The man was coming straight at him. Harel bent his knees in an aikido stance and raised his arms, elbows bent, hands wide open. As the man attacked, the stick aimed squarely at Harel’s head, he stepped aside. He grabbed the man’s wrists and flung him to the ground.

  His adversary was a very short man. These were the hardest to beat. They were often able to maintain their balance, and it was hard to get in low, as aikido required.

  He tried to pick up the stick, which had slipped from the man’s grasp. But the man was too quick. He grabbed it, and in one swift motion jumped to his feet and made another strike at Harel. This time Harel was a little slow in jumping aside, and he took a glancing blow on the shoulder. But he was also able to grab the man’s upper arm and twist it. The young man screamed in pain and dropped the stick.

  Harel threw him to the ground and grabbed the stick. He took a swipe at the man’s legs, deliberately missing them. But the man was clearly startled.

  Harel held the stick above his head, and aimed at the man’s body. “What do you want?” he demanded.

  The man twisted his body, trying to avoid what he certainly saw as an imminent blow.

  “What do you want?” shouted Harel again. “Who are you?” He bounced the stick up and down above his shoulders in threatening fashion.

  “No…” cried the man. He pushed his body back across the ground.

  “Who are you?” shouted Harel, bringing the stick down again, once more deliberately missing.

  The young man pushed himself out of range of the stick, his eyes widening in terror. Then he stood and fled.

  Harel watched him run, apparently to the temple. So what was that about? Why was someone from the temple - whether a priest or not, he could not guess - trying to attack him?

  He looked around. Not a person or vehicle had come by during this short encounter.

  He tossed the stick into the trees, then walked to the main road. He had to wait only a few minutes before a taxi arrived. He hailed it and told the driver to take him back to Chonor House.

  Inside the speeding vehicle he asked himself if he should summon the police to report the incident. However, he knew that he wanted first to take a shower. And jet lag was again starting to hit. He was feeling very tired.

  In any case, the question became academic once the taxi had dropped him at the hotel. A young policeman in the standard khaki uniform was waiting in the lobby.

  “Dr Harel, would you please come with me to the police station.” It was an order, not a question.

  “What is this?” Harel looked around. Everything seemed absolutely normal. A few guests were sitting in the lobby. Others were at the reception counter talking with unformed staff members. “What’s this about?”

  “You are required to come to the police station. A car is outside. Please come with me.”

  Feeling slightly dazed, Harel walked outside and then into a police car, which swiftly deposited him at the local police station, where he was ushered into the same small interrogation room as before. The bull-faced officer arrived, his face severe. With a sweeping hand gesture he threw a bundle of documents onto the table, then he stared hard at him for what seemed a long time.

  “Professor Harel,” he pronounced at last. “You are under arrest for receiving stolen artworks. Please hand me your passport.”

  Chapter 15

  Burumarri Creek/Uluru, Central Australia

  Until now Vanya’s life had been good.

  She had followed her dreams, her spirit, as it were. She was a top international photographer, published in all the leading magazines. Then on assignment in central Australia she had met the famous artist Eddie Poulis. Her many friends around the world were astonished when she emailed that she was marrying a local Aboriginal. Their image of an Aboriginal person - if they had an image at all - was of some scrawny black man, something akin to an Ethiopian refugee, with crinkly black hair and a boomerang in one hand. They were amazed when they saw the wedding snaps - she had just married a man with the stunning face and physique of a Mediterranean movie star. And he was an internationally recognized artist.

  Eddie had a strong personality - as did she - but he was kind and generous, and she had been generally happy to defer to him. But everything changed with the birth of Sammie. She had never expected that she could be so devoted to a child. That was why something needed to be done.

  She walked outside. It was mid-winter and the bright sun was pleasantly hot, but not overpowering like in summer.

  “Hey guys,” she called out. “Anyone need a cool drink.”

  Eddie shook his head. Sammie simply glanced at his mother, then looked back at his father’s work.

  “Sweetheart,” said Vanya to her husband. “Remember what we’ve been talking about? Why don’t we drive out now to see Uncle Barra?”

  This was a tactic. Uncle Barra was an old man, probably in his eighties, and regarded as one of Australia’s top Aboriginal artists. He had become a mentor to Eddie after the death of his grandfather and teacher, Old Albert Wallaby Walker, another leading painter.

  Uncle Barra wasn’t really Eddie’s uncle, at least as far as she knew. She struggled to understand the complex network of relationships that seemed to link every single member of an Aboriginal community to everyone else. But he was a hugely respected Aboriginal elder, and also a renowned spiritual healer. Vanya wasn’t going to let him try any of his spiritual healing on two-year-old Sammie - Eddie had told her dramatic tales of exorcisms and of healers who could physically drag spirits out from a person’s body - but, after she had agreed to see him, she knew that Eddie would agree to drive with her the two hundred and seventy miles to Alice Springs to consult a real doctor.

  Eddie looked at his wife. Then he smiled, a resigned look on his bronzed face. He didn’t have an exhibition coming up anytime soon, no visiting dealers were due, no big customers to satisfy. This painting could wait. “Give me twenty minutes,” he said.

  And so twenty minutes later they set off in his five-seater white Holden pick-up, a rugged, speedy vehicle ideal for the outback, to look for Uncle Barra.

  Burumarri Creek, in the red desert of central Australia, was populated by about five hundred people, virtually all Aboriginals, and most of them with tribal connections to the region. It lay right by the great hulk of Uluru, the giant sandstone formation that used to be known as Ayers Rock. This was one of Australia’s most iconic tourist attractions, and most of the Burumarri Creek adults worked in the local tourist industry.

  Uncle Barra lived alone in the desert, over on the other side of the rock. That is, when he wasn’t on walkabout somewhere in the outback. Prospective visitors could never know if he would be there or not. Vanya guessed that one day they would arrive at his home, and he would be gone, never to be sighted again. Or worse, they would find him in a coma on the floor.

  They had been driving for about twenty minutes and were now rounding the rock, which stretched for a couple of miles across the desert. From a distance it was usually red - although it could change color with the weather - but up close it was a rich ochre brown.

  Being so nea
r this sacred site - the largest monolith in the world, so they said - had been one of the bonuses of marrying Eddie. She now possessed an enormous portfolio of photos of the rock and its colors, its plant life, the springs of water that seemed to appear magically from within, the caves, the ancient rock art. She felt that one lifetime would not be sufficient to see and explore all that this place offered.

  As they sped past the visitors’ center she turned to look at little Sammie, now fast asleep in his child safety seat. Then she looked back at the rock. Several young people were making the steep ascent to the top. The local Aboriginal people had posted a notice asking tourists to respect the sacred nature of the site, and not climb it, but that did not deter everyone.

  It was another ten minutes to Uncle Barra’s home, a three-room shack surrounded by red sand and some hardy foliage. They pulled up right by the front door, which was wide open, and for a brief period, when no one emerged, Vanya began to fear the worst.

  But then through the open front door she sighted an elderly man hobbling towards them.

  Eddie leapt from the pick-up. “Uncle Barra,” he said. “How are you?”

  Uncle Barra walked through the doorway into the bright sunlight. It had been only a few months since they last met, but Vanya could see clearly that he had aged further. His cheeks seemed hollow, his wiry body was twisted - almost deformed - and his balding head was speckled with large red blotches.

  “I want see beautiful wife.” Uncle Barra was not fluent in English. But he knew how to flatter. Vanya emerged from the car and approached the old man. He put two hands on her cheeks. She flashed him a smile, then opened the door of their vehicle to bring out Sammie, who was now awake.

  Vanya had become accustomed to the rhythm of life in the outback, and she knew that a visit like this could last hours, with food, drink and lots and lots of conversation. But she was determined to keep it short.

  “We’re worried about Sammie,” she said, and immediately caught the disapproving look of her husband. She knew that the reason for their visit should spill out naturally in conversation. Possibly after an hour or so of discussion. That was the custom. But her son’s health was at stake, and she wasn’t prepared to let custom - no matter how time-honored - stand in the way.