Chapter Thirty Eight

The man appeared to come from the dark mouth of the cave. He boasted a shaved head, a single-strand braided pigtail and worn leather sandals, with the orange robes of Buddha protecting his rounded shoulders from the harsh Laotian sun. Standing fully upright, his head would barely reach Mike’s shoulder. What he lacked in height was far surpassed by a confident aura currently rising to levels rarely seen outside religious orders or wind-filled parliamentary assemblies.

“We wondered who might come and when,” said the monk, speaking in clear and concise English, the product of a public education in some previous life.

“Forgive me for not coming forward earlier. We were required to wait for the fighting to stop. Ours is not to take sides, merely to protect. Naturally, we were hopeful you would become the eventual victors.”

Pin was standing close enough to the monk to whisper in his ear, being the closest in their party to the cave, but chose instead to shout for the benefit of those now closely gathering around. He was adopting the oratory approach Mike witnessed him use so effectively back at the camp, that of the local chief addressing his faithful. In the fumbling confusion he was seeking to re-establish any remaining authority over the rapidly changing situation.

“Who are you and what is it that you protect?”

“I think you will already know the answer to the second part of your question. The reason you will be here at all, in such a lonely and wild part of the great plain, will be because you have unearthed some long hidden documents. You come here hoping to seek the Pha Bang. We knew you would come, or others like you. It was all a matter of time.”

Pin took time to muster his reply. The directness and insight of the monk’s response once again took him off guard. In this clandestine game of veiled motives he was no longer used to honesty.

“You still have not answered - who you are?”

The monk took time to reflect on this before answering.

“You might call us either the guardians or keepers; we have no name as such. There are just a few of us monks, aided by the Tongluong, a forest people who live simply and wish for Laos to be as it was, clean of corruption and human greed. It has been our task all of these years to protect the secret.”

“The secret resting place for the sacred Pha Bang?” Pin probed.

“No, the secret that the Pha Bang is not to be found here.”

This simple statement brought stunned silence to the closely gathered group. As the confusion cleared, the gravity of what the monk was trying to say became apparent. If not in the dark recess of the forgotten cave, where would it be and why? What about the Russian documents, hidden and unread for all of these years? Before any attempt could be made to challenge him, the monk continued, as if pre-empting a volley of hostile or incredulous questions.

“Forget what you have learnt and read. It never was here. This is what we wanted you to believe.”

The monk allowed the gravity of this to sink in and settle amongst the small gathering before continuing. He was aware that they needed everything he could give them. The group had dedicated time, money and blood in the belief that they would find the Pha Bang. Any sorrow he felt needed to be buried for the greater good.

“The Russian documents you must have translated are authentic. They were written at the time by archivists and officials who genuinely supposed that the Pha Bang was secretly moved to the Plain of Jars away from the eye of the world. We allowed and encouraged them to pass on rumours that high-level decisions were being made, dark alliances struck. This was in the midst of a revolution. Reprisals, distrust, chaos - these were all everyday dilemmas. In a sense we needed the disorganisation of the revolution to protect the sacred Pha Bang. Regretfully we heard of deaths, of supposed insiders, officials close to the inner core, those in touch with the pulse of the revolution. Men were pulling each other apart to learn the secrets. We expected this but could do nothing to stop the killing.

“We allowed the rumours to spread, the whispers that the Pha Bang was replaced. Some said it was in a vault under Moscow, others that it was already smelted and propping up the gold reserves up in Hanoi. Some thought they knew. There were reports of a clandestine operation, one that was highly classified. Frightened witnesses spoke of Russian lorries stealing out towards the plains in the dead of night. Conversations in the corridors hinted at distant caves. We needed this. The lie was so good it was to be believed, the legend became a myth, a great conspiracy that would live and worm its way into folklore.

“All along the Pha Bang remained where it belonged, gracing the Royal Temple in Luang Prabang. It survived numerous raids by Chinese marauders over the centuries, it survived the revolution and it survives there today.

“Contrary to what you believe, the golden Buddha gracing the Haw Pha Bang Palace Chapel is not a copy or fake, it is the Pha Bang. It needed to be that way. If people thought it was genuine then it would by now be gone, spirited away on the back of some warlord’s dented truck. By believing it to be a copy, though never officially admitting this, those in authority over the years were bound by protocol to protect it. A copy could not be priceless; a switch would always be needed. In plundering a replica what would you do to replace it? All believed that the horse had long bolted.”

“In which case, what have we got hidden away here? People would eventually come looking, so they must have something to find,” said Pin, putting the last few pieces together of his understanding.

“A fake, quite a good one, forged in Thailand at the time of the revolution. The craftsmen did their admirable best, remoulding it from a looted medieval piece keeping with the authentic antiquity. Instead of using 90% gold it is more like 10% purity, so not in itself valueless. The craftsmen even lightly scoured the surface, maintaining the feel of age and countless years of worship. I am sure they intended it to be swapped for the original. The customer never showed up to collect it, hence we ended up acquiring the piece.”

The monk knew from the hunger in their eyes that a trip to the cave would have to happen. Their journey to reach this isolated spot had been a long and bloody one. They at least deserved a glimpse of ancient gold.

“Come, you should take a look before returning on your journey. Take heart that the pure Pha Bang remains safe and well where it should be, on public display at the spiritual heart of our country.”

Closely following the monk, the group filtered into the cave. Jean stayed close to Louise, still too traumatised to comprehend what all this talk of Buddhas could be about. On reaching the smooth granite stone they found earlier they stopped, unable to push further into the tunnelling chasm. The monk bent low and quickly traced his hand to find an edge before drawing back some wax with a probing finger. Once a large enough gap appeared he was able to place both hands through the hole and pull. At first the stone remained impossibly solid. With renewed vigour the monk continued his efforts, focusing slightly lower this time. Beneath all of his hefty gulps for air the granite slab slowly slid towards them. Only a corner section of the stone swung out, revealing a dark cavity several feet high.

Patiently the group carefully stooped at the cavity, taking their turns to marvel at the texture and crafting of the exiled Pha Bang. There to greet them sat the precious Buddha, solid in ancient gold encrusted with reams of rare gems, his arms stretched the attitude of Abhayamudra, dispelling fear and offering protection to those who would give it honour. In creating a copy the virtuoso craftsmen caught everything. Everyone in the cave would speak later of the awe-inspiring calm and splendour, enough to send an inner chill down nerve endings through their spines. They looked on a symbol awash with the noble traditions of royalty and spiritual enlightenment.

Later the small group gathered in the failing light of evening as darkness came to the plains. It was time to move on and leave the gully far behind, sworn in secrecy to never reveal the monk’s own sacred hidden copy and his genius plans of deception. His web of deceit and decoy on an international level was a true inspiration, one that had fooled the governments of Laos and the USA, plus a hardy tribe of Hmong from the western jungles. With legend and luck it would go on to keep other powerful interests from coming too close in the generations to come.

They made their way back from the plain as they had earlier come, quietly and cautiously. The silence cocooned them, each drawn into their own well of thoughts. The pace at which the sudden change of events happened threw them off course. The Hmong especially were faced with hard decisions to make. Much of their recent focus was on finding the Pha Bang. Now it was back once again on survival. New ideas, new directions needed to be taken. The walk home was so often longer than the trip out.