Restoration by Guy Adams

you may stab him the minute you enter his quarters."
    Â Â Walsingham was becoming tired of the insinuation that his party were a bloodthirsty liability to the rest of the monastery's safety. "He need fear nothing from us."
    Â Â Kusang offered a smirk that turned into a gently alcoholic belch. "Give me five minutes," he said and shuffled off into the main building.
    Â Â "I'm guessing he's not a Buddhist," said Ashe after he'd gone.
    Â Â "What makes you think that?" asked Walsingham.
    Â Â "Buddhists don't drink," Ashe replied.
    Â Â "Oh… Kusang does little else. I'd fall off a mountain as soon as look at it with the amount he consumes but he always seems steady as a rock."
    Â Â "Some people can take more than others," Ashe commented, shivering against the cold wind that had started to build.
    Â Â The courtyard was dark but for the flaming torches, all remnants of daylight having vanished in the time that they had been in the stables. Whereas the weather had been gentle during their climb down the mountain it was taking a turn for the worse now. Thick flakes of snow were beginning to fall, spinning in the meagre orange light as they tumbled towards the cobbled ground. Ashe hoped that it wouldn't keep him from his train.
    Â Â "The weather's getting bad," he said to Walsingham.
    Â Â "It often does at night," the botanist agreed. "We'll be safely under cover though, no need to worry."
    Â Â No need to worry? Ashe thought there were several reasons but saw nothing constructive in outlining them.
    Â Â Kusang reappeared at the main door to the monastery, gave a little bow and beckoned them over. "His holiness will see you now," he announced pompously.
    Â Â "Time for you to meet the abbot," said Walsingham.
    Â Â "Should I be worried?"
    Â Â Walsingham smiled. "He's charm itself. At least I'm assuming so, it's difficult to tell as Kusang always translates. He certainly smiles a lot."
    Â Â They entered the monastery, the warmth of the fires enveloping them as surely as the clouds of incense. There was the smell of cooking, something beaten up by heavy spices and set to boil. Even though the chanting had ceased there was a heaviness to the air that made Ashe feel self-conscious as he followed Kusang and Walsingham along the corridor. There was an atmosphere to places of worship, he had always found, a weighty expectancy as if the very air was waiting to ignite. He wasn't a religious man but walking through places like this made him feel like he might be missing out on something.
    Â Â They entered the main meeting hall, where recent prayers still dripped from the stone walls. The abbot was sat in his throne at the end of the room, old bones folded within purple robes that looked heavy enough to crush them. He bowed his wrinkled forehead toward them, his smile so wide it looked likely to split his face. Kusang bowed, with Walsingham and Ashe following suit. The old abbot called a greeting, his voice so thin and high pitched Ashe was hard-pressed to define a single consonant. Kusang clearly had a better trained ear as he replied, gesturing over his shoulder to the two westerners. The abbot crowed once more prompting Kusang to turn to Ashe. "His holiness bids you welcome to Dhuru," he explained.
    Â Â "Tell him I am grateful of his hospitality," Ashe replied. The interpreter nodded and gabbled a few words to the abbot who bowed toward Ashe.
    Â Â "Have you told the abbot what has happened?" Walsingham asked.
    Â Â Kusang nodded. "Naturally."
    Â Â Walsingham was frustrated at the manner in which he was forced to communicate with the abbot. Kusang controlled the flow of conversation completely and was only too happy to illustrate the fact.
    Â Â "Well then," Walsingham continued, trying not to let his irritation show to the abbot, "would you like to ask him his thoughts on the matter?"
    Â Â Kusang smiled, turned to the abbot and rattled off a few Tibetan