CHAPTER TEN

 

Cautiously manoeuvring his immobilized leg, Will climbed out of the car and looked about him.  Between the red soaring crags to the south and the headlong descents in every other direction the crest of the ridge had been levelled, and at the mid-point of this long narrow terrace stood the temple - a great red tower of the same substance as the mountains, massive, four-sided, vertically ribbed.  A thing of symmetry in contrast with the rocks, but regular not as Euclidean abstractions are regular; regular with the pragmatic geometry of a living thing.  Yes, of a living thing; for all the temple's richly textured surfaces, all its bounding contours against the sky curved organically inwards, narrowing as they mounted towards a ring of marble, above which the red stone swelled out again, like the seed capsule of a flowering plant, into a flattened, many-ribbed dome that crowned the whole.

      "Built about fifty years before the Norman Conquest," said Dr Robert.

      "And looks," Will commented, "as though it hadn't been built by anybody - as though it had grown out of the rock.  Grown like the bud of an agave, on the point of rocketing up into a twelve-foot stalk and an explosion of flowers."

      Vijaya touched his arm.  "Look he said.  "A party of Elementaries coming down."

      Will turned towards the mountain and saw a young man in nailed boots and climbing clothes working his way down a chimney in the face of the precipice.  At a place where the chimney offered a convenient resting place he halted and, throwing back his head, gave utterance to a loud Alpine yodel.  Fifty feet above him a boy came out from behind a buttress of rock, lowered himself from the ledge on which he was standing, and started down the chimney.

      "Does it tempt you?" Vijaya asked, turning to Murugan.

      Heavily overacting the part of the bored, sophisticated adult who has something better to do than watch the children at play, Murugan shrugged his shoulders.  "Not in the slightest."  He moved away and, sitting down on the weather-worn carving of a lion, pulled a gaudily bound American magazine out of his pocket and started to read.

      "What's the literature?" Vijaya asked.

      "Science Fiction."  There was a ring of defiance in Murugan's voice.

      Dr Robert laughed.  "Anything to escape from Fact."

      Pretending not to have heard him, Murugan turned a page and went on reading.

      "He's pretty good," said Vijaya, who had been watching the young climber's progress.  "They have an experienced man at each end of the rope," he added.  "You can't see the number one man.  He's behind that buttress in a parallel chimney thirty or forty feet higher up.  There's a permanent iron spike up there, where you can belay the rope.  The whole party could fall, and they'd be perfectly safe."

      Spread-eagled between footholds in either wall of the narrow chimney, the leader kept shouting up instructions and encouragement.  Then, as the boy approached, he yielded his place, climbed down another twenty feet and, halting, yodelled again.  Booted and trousered, a tall girl with her hair in pigtails appeared from behind the buttress and lowered herself into the chimney.

      "Excellent!" said Vijaya approvingly as he watched her.

      Meanwhile, from a low building at the foot of the cliff - the tropical version, evidently, of an Alpine hut - a group of young people had come out to see what was happening.  They belonged, Will was told, to three other parties of climbers who had taken their Post-Elementary Test earlier in the day.

      "Does the best team win a prize?" Will asked.

      "Nobody wins anything," Vijaya answered.  "This isn't a competition.  It's more like an ordeal."

      "An ordeal," Dr Robert explained, "which is the first stage of their initiation out of childhood into adolescence.  An ordeal that helps them to understand the world they'll have to live in, helps them to realize the omnipresence of death, the essential precariousness of all existence.  But after the ordeal comes the revelation.  In a few minutes these boys and girls will be given their first experience of the moksha-medicine.  They'll all take it together, and they'll be a religious ceremony in the temple."

      "Something like the Confirmation Service?"

      "Except that this is more than just a piece of theological rigmarole.  Thanks to the moksha-medicine, it includes an actual experience of the real thing."

      "The real thing?"  Will shook his head.  "Is there such a thing?  I wish I could believe it."

      "You're not being asked to believe it," said Dr Robert.  "The real thing isn't a proposition; it's a state of being.  We don't teach our children creeds or get them worked up over emotionally charged symbols.  When it's time for them to learn the deepest truths of religion, we set them to climb a precipice and then give them four hundred milligrammes of revelation.  Two first-hand experiences of reality, from which any reasonably intelligent boy or girl can derive a very good idea of what's what."

      "And don't forget the dear old power problem," said Vijaya.  "Rock climbing's a branch of applied ethics; it's another preventive substitute for bullying."

      "So my father ought to have been an Alpinist as well as a wood-chopper."

      "One may laugh," said Vijaya, duly laughing.  "But the fact remains that it works.  It works.  First and last I've climbed my way out of literally scores of the ugliest temptations to throw my weight around - and my weight being considerable," he added, "incitements were correspondingly strong."

      "There seems to be only one catch," said Will.  "In the process of climbing your way out of temptation, you might fall and ..." Suddenly remembering what had happened to Dugald MacPhail, he broke off.

      It was Dr Robert who finished the sentence.  "Might fall," he said slowly, "and kill yourself.  Dugald was climbing alone," he went on after a little pause.  "Nobody knows what happened.  The body wasn't found till the next day."  There was a long silence.

      "Do you still think this is a good idea?" Will asked, pointing with his bamboo staff at the tiny figures crawling so laboriously on the face of that headlong wilderness of naked rock.

      "I still think it's a good idea," said Dr Robert.

      "But poor Susila ..."

      "Yes, poor Susila," Dr Robert repeated.  "And poor children, poor Lakshmi, poor me.  But if Dugald hadn't made a habit of risking his life, it might have been poor everybody for other reasons.  Better court the danger of killing yourself than court the danger of killing other people, or at the very least making them miserable.  Hurting them because you're naturally aggressive and too prudent, or too ignorant, to work off your aggression on a precipice.  And now," he continued in another tone, "I want to show you the view."

      "And I'll go and talk to those boys and girls."  Vijaya walked away towards the group at the foot of the red crags.

      Leaving Murugan to his Science Fiction, Will followed Dr Robert through a pillared gateway and across the wide stone platform that surrounded the temple.  At one corner of this platform stood a small domed pavilion.  They entered and, crossing to the wide unglazed window, looked out.  Rising to the line of the horizon, like a solid wall of jade and lapis, was the sea.  Below them, after a sheer fall of a thousand feet, lay the green of the jungle.  Beyond the jungle, folded vertically into combe and buttress, terraced horizontally into a huge man-made staircase of innumerable fields, the lower slopes went steeply down into a wide plain, at whose furthest verge, between the market gardens and the palm-fringed beach, stretched a considerable city.  Seen from this high vantage point in its shining completeness, it looked like the tiny, meticulous painting of a city in a medieval book of hours.

      "There's Shivapuram," said Dr Robert.  "And that complex of buildings on the hill beyond the river - that's the great Buddhist temple.  A little earlier than Borabudur and the sculpture is as fine as anything in Further India."  There was a silence.  "This little summer-house," he resumed, "is where we used to eat our picnics when it was raining.  I shall never forget the time when Dugald (he must have been about ten) amused himself by climbing up here on the window ledge and standing on one leg in the attitude of the dancing Shiva.  Poor Lakshmi, she was scared out of her wits.  But Dugald was a born steeplejack.  Which only makes the accident even more incomprehensible."  He shook his head; then, after another silence, The last time we all came up here," he said, "was eight or nine months ago.  Dugald was still alive and Lakshmi wasn't yet too weak for a day's outing with her grandchildren.  He did that Shiva stunt again for the benefit of Tom Krishna and May Sarojini.  On one leg; and he kept his arms moving so fast that one could have sworn there were four of them."  Dr Robert broke off.  Picking up a flake of mortar from the floor, he tossed it out of the window.  "Down, down, down ... Empty space.  Pascal avait son gouffre.  How strange that this should be at once the most powerful symbol of death and the most powerful symbol of the fullest, intensest life."  Suddenly his face lighted up.  "Do you see that hawk?"

      "A hawk?"

      Dr Robert pointed to where, half-way between their eyrie and the dark roof of the forest, a small brown incarnation of speed and rapine lazily wheeled on unmoving wings.  "It reminds me of a poem that the Old Raja once wrote about this place."  Dr Robert was silent for a moment, then started to recite.

 

                                                     "Up here, you ask me,

                                                      Up here aloft where Shiva

                                                      Dances above the world,

                                                      What the devil do I think I'm doing?

 

                                                      No answer, friend - except

                                                      That hawk below us turning,

                                                      Those black and arrowy swifts

                                                      Trailing long silver wires across the air -

                                                      The shrillness of their crying.

 

                                                      How far, you say, from the hot plains,

                                                      How far, reproachfully, from all my people!

                                                      And yet how close!  For here between the cloudy

                                                      Sky and the sea below, suddenly visible,

                                                      I read their luminous secret and my own."

 

      "And the secret, I take it, is this empty space."

      "Or, rather, what this empty space is the symbol of - the Buddha Nature in all our perpetual perishing.  Which reminds me ...” He looked at his watch.

      "What's next on the programme?" Will asked as they stepped out into the glare.

      "The service in the temple," Dr Robert answered.  "The young climbers will offer their accomplishment to Shiva - in other words, to their own Suchness visualized as God.  After which they'll go on to the second part of their initiation - the experience of being liberated from themselves."

      "By means of the moksha-medicine?"

      Dr Robert nodded.  "Their leaders give it them before they leave the Climbing Association's hut.  Then they come over to the temple.  The stuff starts working during the service.  Incidentally," he added, "the service is in Sanskrit, so you won't understand a word of it.  Vijaya's address will be in English - he speaks in his capacity as President of the Climbing Association.  So will mine.  And of course the young people will mostly talk in English."

      Inside the temple there was a cool, cavernous darkness, tempered only by the faint daylight filtering through a pair of small latticed windows and by the seven lamps that hung, like a halo of yellow, quivering stars, above the head of the image on the altar.  It was a copper statue, no taller than a child, of Shiva.  Surrounded by a flame-fringed glory, his four arms gesturing, his braided hair wildly flying, his right foot treading down a dwarfish figure of the most hideous malignity, his left foot gracefully lifted, the god stood there, frozen in mid-ecstasy.  No longer in their climbing dress, but sandalled, bare-breasted and in shorts or brightly coloured skirts, a score of boys and girls, together with the six young men who had acted as their leaders and instructors, were sitting cross-legged on the floor.  Above them, on the highest of the altar steps, an old priest, shaven and yellow-robbed, was intoning something sonorous and incomprehensible.  Leaving Will installed on a convenient ledge, Dr Robert tiptoed over to where Vijaya and Murugan were sitting and squatted down beside them.

      The splendid rumble of Sanskrit gave place to a high nasal chant and the chanting in due course was succeeded by a litany, priestly utterance alternating with congregational response.

      And now incense was burned in a brass thurible.  The old priest held up his two hands for silence, and through a long pregnant time of the most perfect stillness the thread of grey incense smoke rose straight and unwavering before the god, then as it met the draught from the windows broke and was lost to view in an invisible cloud that the filled the whole dim space with the mysterious fragrance of another world.  Will opened his eyes and saw that, alone of all the congregation, Murugan was restlessly fidgeting.  And not merely fidgeting - making faces of impatient disapproval.  He himself had never climbed; therefore climbing was merely silly.  He himself had always refused to try the moksha-medicine; therefore those who used it were beyond the pale.  His mother believed in the Ascended Masters and chatted regularly with Koot Hoomi; therefore the image of Shiva was a vulgar idol.  What an eloquent pantomime, Will thought as he watched the boy.  But alas for poor little Murugan, nobody was paying the slightest attention to his antics.

      "Shivanayama," said the old priest, breaking the long silence, and again, "Shivanayama."  He made a beckoning gesture.

      Rising from her place, the tall girl whom Will had seen working her way down the precipice, mounted the altar steps.  Standing on tiptoe, her oiled body gleaming like a second copper statue in the light of the lamps, she hung a garland of pale yellow flowers on the uppermost of Shiva's two left arms.  Then, laying palm to palm, she looked up into the god's serenely smiling face and, in a voice that faltered at first, but gradually grew steadier, began to speak.

 

                              "O you the creator, you the destroyer, you who sustain and make an end,

                               Who in sunlight dance among the birds and the children at their play,

                               Who at midnight dance among corpses in the burning grounds,

                               You Shiva, you dark and terrible Bhairava,

                               You Suchness and Illusion, the Void of All Things,

                               You are the lord of death, and therefore I have brought you my heart -

                               This heart that is now your burning-ground.

                               Ignorance there and self shall be consumed with fire.

                               That you may dance, Bhairava, among the ashes.

                               That you may dance, Lord Shiva, in a place of flowers,

                               And I dance with you."

 

      Raising her arms, the girl made a gesture that hinted at the ecstatic devotion of a hundred generations of dancing worshippers, then turned away and walked back into the twilight.  "Shivanayama," somebody cried out.  Murugan snorted contemptuously as the refrain was taken up by other young voices.  "Shivanayama, Shivanayama ...” The old priest started to intone another passage from the scriptures.  Half-way through his recitation a small grey bird with a crimson head flew in through one of the latticed windows, fluttered wildly around the altar lamps, then, chattering in loud indignant terror, darted out again.  The chanting continued, swelled to a climax, and ended in the whispered prayer for peace: Shanti shanti shanti.  The old priest now turned towards the altar, picked up a long taper and, borrowing flame from one of the lamps above Shiva's head, proceeded to light seven other lamps that hung within a deep niche beneath the slab on which the dancer stood.  Glinting on polished convexities of metal, their light revealed another statue - this time of Shiva and Parvati, of the Arch-Yogin seated; and, while two of his four hands held aloft the symbolic drum and fire, he caressed with the second pair the amorous Goddess, with her twining legs and arms, by whom, in this eternal embrace of bronze, he was bestridden.  The old priest waved his hand.  This time it was a boy, dark-skinned and powerfully muscled, who stepped into the light.  Bending down, he hung the garland he was carrying about Parvati's neck; then, twisting the long flower chain, dropped a second loop of white orchids over Shiva's head.

      "Each is both," he said.

      "Each is both," the chorus of young voices repeated.

      Murugan violently shook his head.

      "O you who are gone," said the dark-skinned boy, "who are gone, who are gone to the other shore, who have landed on the other shore, O you enlightenment and you other enlightenment, you liberation made one with liberation, you compassion in the arms of infinite compassion."

      "Shivanayama."

      He went back to his place.  There was a long silence.  Then Vijaya rose to his feet and began to speak.

      "Danger," he said, and again, "danger.  Danger deliberately and yet lightly accepted.  Danger shared with a friend, a group of friends.  Shared consciously, shared to the limits of awareness so that the sharing and the danger become a yoga.  Two friends roped together on a rock face.  Sometimes three friends or four.  Each totally aware of his own straining muscles, his own skill, his own fear, and his own spirit transcending the fear.  And each, of course, aware at the same time of all the others, concerned for them, doing the right things to make sure that they'll be safe.  Life at its highest pitch of bodily and mental tension, life more abundant, more inestimably precious, because of the ever-present threat of death.  But after the yoga of danger there's the yoga of the summit, the yoga of rest and letting go, the yoga of complete and total receptiveness, the yoga that consists in consciously accepting what is given as it is given, without censorship by your busy moralistic mind, without any additions from your stock of second-hand ideas, your even larger stock of wishful phantasies.  You just sit there with muscles relaxed and a mind open to the sunlight and the clouds, open to distance and the horizon, open in the end to that formless, wordless Not-Thought which the stillness of the summit permits you to divine, profound and enduring, within the twittering flux of your everyday thinking.

      "And now it's time for the descent, time for a second bout of the yoga of danger, time for a renewal of tension and the awareness of life in its glowing plenitude as you hang precariously on the brink of destruction.  Then at the foot of the precipice you unrope, you go striding down the rocky path towards the first trees.  And suddenly you're in the forest, and another kind of yoga is called for - the yoga of the jungle, the yoga that consists of being totally aware of life at the near-point, jungle life in all its exuberance and its rotting, crawling squalor, all its melodramatic ambivalence of orchids and centipedes, of leeches and sunbirds, of the drinkers of nectar and the drinkers of blood.  Life bringing order out of chaos and ugliness, life performing its miracles of birth and growth, but performing them, it seems, for no other purpose than to destroy itself.  Beauty and horror, beauty," he repeated, "and horror.  And then suddenly, as you come down from one of your expeditions in the mountains, suddenly you know that there's a reconciliation.  And not merely a reconciliation.  A fusion, and identity.  Beauty made one with horror in the yoga of the jungle.  Life reconciled with the perpetual imminence of death in the yoga of danger.  Emptiness identified with selfhood in the Sabbath yoga of the summit."

      There was silence.  Murugan yawned ostentatiously.  The old priest lighted another stick of incense and, muttering, waved it before the dancer, waved it again around the cosmic love-making of Shiva and the Goddess.

      "Breathe deeply," said Vijaya, "and as you breathe, pay attention to this smell of incense.  Pay your whole attention to it; now it for what it is - an ineffable fact beyond words, beyond reason and explanation.  Know it in the raw.  Know it as a mystery.  Perfume, women, and prayer - those were the three things that Mohammed loved above all others.  The inexplicable data of breathed incense, touched skin, felt love, and beyond them, the mystery of mysteries, the One in plurality, the Emptiness that is all, the Suchness totally present in every appearance, at every point and instant.  So breathe," he repeated, "breathe," and in a final whisper, as he sat down, "breathe."

      "Shivanayama," murmured the old priest ecstatically.

      Dr Robert rose and started towards the altar, then halted, turned back and beckoned to Will Farnaby.

      "Come and sit with me," he whispered, when Will had caught up with him.  "I'd like you to see their faces."

      "Shan't I be in the way?"

      Dr Robert shook his head, and together they moved forward, climbed and, three-quarters of the way up the altar stair, sat down side by side in the penumbra between darkness and the light of the lamps.  Very quietly Dr Robert began to talk about Shiva-Nataraja, the Lord of the Dance.

      "Look at his image," he said.  "Look at it with these new eyes that the moksha-medicine has given you.  See how it breathes and pulses, how it grows out of brightness into brightnesses every more intense.  Dancing through time and out of time, dancing everlastingly and in the eternal now.  Dancing and dancing in all the worlds at once.  Look at him."

      Scanning those upturned faces, Will noted, now in one, now in another, the dawning illuminations of delight, recognition, understanding, the signs of worshipping wonder that quivered on the brinks of ecstasy or terror.

      "Look closely," Dr Robert insisted.  "Look still more closely."  Then, after a long minute of silence, "Dancing in all the worlds at once," he repeated.  "In all the worlds.  And first of all in the world of matter.  Look at the great round halo, fringed with the symbols of fire, within which the god is dancing.  It stands for Nature, for the world of mass and energy.  Within it Shiva-Nataraja dances the dance of endless becoming and passing away.  It's his lila, his cosmic play.  Playing for the sake of playing, like a child.  But this child is the Order of Things.  His toys are galaxies, his playground is infinite space, and between finger and finger every interval is a thousand million light years.  Look at him there on the altar.  The image is man-made, a little contraption of copper only four feet high.  But Shiva-Nataraja fills the universe, is the universe.  Shut your eyes and see him towering into the night, follow the bondless stretch of those arms and the wild hair infinitely flying.  Nataraja at play among the stars and in the atoms.  But also," he added, "also at play within every living thing.  Play for play's sake.  But now the playground is conscious, the dance-floor is capable of suffering.  To us, this play without purpose seems an kind of insult.  What we would really like is a God who never destroys what he has created.   Or if there must be pain and death, let them be meted out by a God of righteousness, who will punish the wicked and reward the good with everlasting happiness.  But in fact the good get hurt, the innocent suffer.  Then let there be a God who sympathizes and brings comfort.  But Nataraja only dances.  His play is a play impartially of death and of life, of all evils as well as of all goods.  In the uppermost of his right hands he holds the drum that summons being out of not-being.  Rub-a-dub-dub - the creation tattoo, the cosmic reveille.  But now look at the uppermost of his left hands.  It brandishes the fire by which all that has been created is forthwith destroyed.  He dances this way - what happiness!  Dances that way - and oh, the pain, the hideous fear, the desolation!  Then hop, skip and jump.  Hop into perfect health.  Skip into cancer and senility.  Jump out of the fullness of life into nothingness, out of nothingness again into life.  For Nataraja it's all play, and the play is an end in itself, everlastingly purposeless.  He dances because he dances, and the dancing is his maha-sukha, his infinite and eternal bliss.  Eternal Bliss," Dr Robert repeated and again, but questioningly, "Eternal Bliss?"  He shook his head.  "For us there's no bliss, only the oscillation between happiness and terror and a sense of outrage at the thought that our pains are as integral a part of Nataraja's dance as our pleasures, our dying as our living.  Let's quietly thank him about that for a little while."

      The seconds passed, the silence deepened.  Suddenly, startlingly one of the girls began to sob.  Vijaya left his place and, kneeling down beside her, laid a hand on her shoulder.  The sobbing died down.

      "Suffering and sickness," Dr Robert resumed at last, "old age, decrepitude, death.  I show you sorrow.  But that wasn't the only thing the Buddha showed us.  He also showed us the ending of sorrow."

      "Shivanayama," the old priest cried triumphantly.

      "Open your eyes again and look at Nataraja up there on the altar.  Look closely.  In his upper right hand, as you've already seen, he holds the drum that calls the world into existence, and in his upper left hand he carried the destroying fire.  Life and death, order and disintegration, impartially.  But now look at Shiva's other pair of hands.  The lower right hand is raised and the palm is turned outwards.  What does that gesture signify?  It signifies, 'Don't be afraid; it's All Right.'  But how can anyone in his senses fail to be afraid?  How can anyone pretend that evil and suffering are all right, when it's so obvious that they're all wrong?  Nataraja has the answer.  Look now at the lower left hand.  He's using it to point down at his feet.  And what are his feet doing?  Look closely and you'll see that his right foot is planted squarely on a horrible little subhuman creature - the demon, Muyalaka.  A dwarf, but immensely powerful in his malignity, Muyalaka is the embodiment of ignorance, the manifestation of greedy, possessive selfhood.  Stamp on him, break his back!  And that's precisely what Nataraja is doing.  Trampling the little monster down under his right foot.  But notice that it isn't at this trampling foot that he points his finger; it's at the left foot, the foot that, as he dances, he's in the act of raising from the ground.  And why does he point at it?  Why?  That lifted foot, that dancing defiance of the force of gravity - it's the symbol of release, of moksha, of liberation.  Nataraja dances in all the worlds at once - in the world of physics and chemistry, in the world of ordinary, all-too-human experience, in the world finally of Suchness, of Mind, of the Clear Light.  And now," Dr Robert went on after a moment of silence, "I want you to look at the other statue, the image of Shiva and the Goddess.  Look at them there in their little cave of light.  And now shut your eyes and see them again - shining, alive, glorified!  How beautiful!  And in their tenderness what depths of meaning!  What wisdom beyond all spoken wisdoms in that sensual experience of spiritual fusion and atonement!  Eternity in love with time.  The One joined in marriage to the many, the relative made absolute by its union with the One.  Nirvana identified with samsara, the manifestation in time and flesh and feeling of the Buddha Nature."

      "Shivanayama."  The old priest lighted another stick of incense and softly, in a succession of long-drawn melismata, began to chant something in Sanskrit.  On the young faces before him Will could read the marks of a listening serenity, the hardly perceptible, ecstatic smile that welcomes a sudden insight, a revelation of truth or of beauty.  In the background, meanwhile, Murugan sat wearily slumped against a pillar, picking his exquisitely Grecian nose.

      "Liberation," Dr Robert began again, "the ending of sorrow, ceasing to be what you ignorantly think you are and becoming what you are in fact.  For a little while, thanks to the moksha-medicine, you will know what it's like to be what in fact you are, what in fact you always have been.  What a timeless bliss!  But, like everything else, this timelessness is transient.  Like everything else, it will pass.  And when it has passed, what will you do with this experience?  What will you do with all the other similar experiences that the moksha-medicine will bring you in the years to come?  Will you merely enjoy them as you would enjoy an evening at the puppet show, and then go back to business as usual, back to behaving like the silly delinquents you imagine yourselves to be?  Or, having glimpsed, will you devote your lives to the business, not at all as usual, of being what you are in fact?  All that we older people can do with our teachings, all that Pala can do for you with its social arrangements, is to provide you with techniques and opportunities.  And all that the moksha-medicine can do is to give you a succession of beatific glimpses, an hour or two, every now and then, of enlightening and liberating grace.  It remains for you to decide whether you'll co-operate with the grace and take these opportunities.  But that's for the future.  Here and now, all you have to do is follow the mynah bird's advice: Attention!  Pay attention and you'll find yourselves, gradually or suddenly, becoming aware of the great primordial facts behind these symbols on the altar."

      "Shivanayama!"  The old priest waved his stick of incense.  At the foot of the altar steps the boys and girls sat motionless as statues.  A door creaked, there was a sound of footsteps.  Will turned his head and saw a short, thickset man picking his way between t he young contemplatives.  He mounted the steps and, bending down, murmured something in Dr Robert's ear, then turned and walked back towards the door.

      Dr Robert laid a hand on Will's knee.  "It's a royal command," he whispered, with a smile and a shrug of the shoulders.  "That was the man in charge of the Alpine hut.  The Rani has just telephoned to say that she has to see Murugan as soon as possible. It's urgent."  Laughing noiselessly, he rose and helped Will to his feet.