The Ninth Buddha by Daniel Easterman

your eyes?”
    His mouth felt foul.   Someone had gone for a walk in it, wearing large, muddy boots.
    “Taste .. . horrible,” he managed to croak.
    “Here, rinse your mouth with this.   It’s safe I boiled it myself.”
    The stranger held a cup to his lips.   It contained water.   He sipped some, rolled it in his mouth, and spat it out into the basin by his side.   With an effort, he opened his eyes again.
    (, He was in his room at the rest-house.   He recognized the table and broken chair by the window.   Someone had brought up a charcoal stove that was giving off a reddish-yellow glow in the middle of the room.   A stinking oil-lamp was burning on the table.
    The man who had helped him was sitting on a second chair by the side of the bed.
    “You’re all right,” said the man, catching Christopher’s eyes on ‘ him.
    “A wee bit bruised, but you’ll be none the worse for wear in a day or two.   There’s nothing broken.   You’ll have a headache for a while, and a very tender lump on your head for a few weeks, but I don’t think you’ll die.”
    “Thanks,” said Christopher, wincing as he realized that his head did ache.
    “You’re probably wondering who I am,” the stranger suggested.
    Christopher closed his eyes briefly, then opened them again.
    “The thought had crossed my mind,” he said.   His voice sounded like a cross between a camel and a hyena.   It made peculiar echoes in his eardrums.   His stomach had settled a little, but it gave occasional twinges as if to remind him it had not forgotten him; he guessed that some of the meat if it had been meat was still lying there, thinking what to do next.
    “My name’s Cormac, Martin Cormac.   You left a wee note for me up in the Black Hole of Kalimpong.   The hospital, or so they say.”
    Christopher squinted to see the man properly.   He didn’t look like a doctor, he thought.   At a guess, he would be in his mid-forties and ageing fast grey-haired, grey-eyed, and grey-skinned.   On his face was that look certain men of his age wear, of someone who has shut his eyes for a moment twenty years ago and opened them again to find himself in his present predicament.   Somewhere along the way, he had lost a pound and found sixpence.   At the moment, he looked dusty, as though he had been travelling.   On reflection, Christopher realized he must just have arrived back from Peshok.
    “You’re probably wondering what the hell I’m doing here,” the doctor continued.
    “That had crossed my mind as well,” answered Christopher.
    “I’m sure.   Well, to answer your first question I’m not the one who hit you over the head.   Not guilty.   I don’t know who that was, to tell you the truth.   He ran off as soon as I came on the scene I’d been waiting outside for you to come back from Cold Comfort Hall.   I saw you go in here and I came behind, maybe a minute later.   He was rifling your pockets, but I don’t think he took anything.   Your room had been given a good going over before you arrived.   You can take a look later, see if any thing’s missing.”
    Cormac paused and looked solicitously at Christopher.
    “How’s the head?”
    Christopher stoically tried to smile, but the effort was more than his skull could bear.   The smile turned into a grimace.
    “Bad, eh?   Well, I’ll give you a wee something for it.   I never come out without some of these.”
    From his pocket, Cormac drew out a small brown bottle of pills.
    He knocked two out on to his palm, gave them to Christopher and handed him a glass of water.   Christopher swallowed the pills one at a time: it felt like swallowing splinters of glass.
    “A pity you’ve had those,” said Cormac as soon as they had been downed.
    “From the way Sister Campbell talked about you, I guessed you might be in need of some refreshment after your visit to the wee darlings up the hill.   So I brought along a bottle of the real stuff for us to drown our sorrows in.