LIVE TO DO PENANCE

Greymouth Evening Star, 10 March 1933, Page 9

LIVE TO DO PENANCE

FOR MAN’S SINS. Col. P. T. Etherton, the famous traveller, describes in the “People” (London), one of the strangest of his many strange adventures —his visit to the monastery where, he heard the chant of the strangest six . hundred men in the world.

“Allah alone knows what may happen if you make this journey. Don’t go!” . . . The warning came to me from the head of the Kirghiz clan, a tribe of nomads with whom I was camped in a wild and lonely part of Turkistan, that vast territory that is still very much of a sealed book to the rest of the world.

I had told him of my intention to visit the monastery in the vicinity, where live a strange Buddhist, sect, numbering not more than 600. They are doing penance for the rest of the world, for the sins of you and I and all mankind. In their monastery, hewn out of the solid rock, they are completely isolated from the rest of the world, oblivious of wars and upheavals and of the rise and fall of empires. They are following what they believe to be the original precepts of their ancient religion as expounded by the Buddha 600 years before the birth of Christ. “Don’t you understand,” he said, “that the Buddhist monks resent, being disturbed by strangers. They are quite unlike other men."

But 1 was not to be put off in spite of his warnings of peril, and at last after hours of travel, there came a bend in the path, a sudden turning, from where- J saw before me- the monastery in search of which I had come so far and braved so much. Nothing could have been more impressive than this great stone building which was built into the side of the cliff, almost overhanging a ravine. 1 realised at once how true was the description 1 had been given of its inaccessibility. Easy enough now to understand were all the weird stories associated with this forbiddingplace. Remembering its reputation and all that was connected with it, 1 half wished 1 had not persisted in the journey, and now began to wonder what would happen once I was inside the monastery. The doubts that had been implanted by the headman returned in that instant. I began to speculate whether, after all, it was really worth while taking the final risk. Then, impetuously, 1 rose and hurried forward with my handful of men. I halted the ethers while I climbed some massive stone steps to the main gateway, where 1 knocked on the wooden doorway. Eventually, after some minutes, 1 heard a low whistle and the great door slowly opened.

The Abbot stood before me. dressed in a. dirty yellow robe ami with a shaven pale. Hi.- eyes were expressionless and. bis demeanour grave and hard. Behind him ffiood several monks. . . Alter a tew words I 'was invited into.. and the Abbot insisted on my ac-

cepting the hospitality within their grim-looking walls, Having shown me my apartment, the Abbot served tea flavoured with rancid butter, which, with some coarse brown cakes, was the evening meal.

All this time scarcely a word had been spoken, and only when the tea came did the Abbot, converse, and then the etiquette of the monastery inquired that it should be in so low a tone as to be practically whispered, Done of my many odd adventures in va ’dus parts of the world was quite sg uncanny as that which followed, when, partly undressed, I lay down on the cell couch to sleep. “Emerge not from your room,” said the Abbot, “for the spirits of the lost wander hither and thither during the right and it is not good to hear them.” WAILING SOUND. r J ired though I was, 1 dozed fitfully, and it was about three o’clock in the morning that I awoke with a start.

There was a strange wailing sound in the distance, as though from souls in torment. Determined to solve the mystery, I donned coat and boots and set off down the stairway and corridors in the direction of the noise. Threading many passages, twisting this way and that, I came to an open doorway with a veranda, beyond it, • hen a courtyard with a building opposite. I crossed it to the building and peeped in through the open door. 1 gazed in astonishment at the sigl t. In a vast chamber, that must have been 200 ft long and at; least 80ft wide, were hundreds of monks. They were kneeling in long rows, droning the song of remorse. Overhead oil lamps were sending out volumes of black smoke that gathered in a cloud above. I watched completely fascinated. Here, far from civilisation, men, oblivious of all else, were in those dark hours before the dawn, on a bleak mountainside high up on the roof of the world, singing their song of remorse. Terrifying it seemed in ts intensity, their song of woe for the sins of the world. But as I listened, keyed up and peering through the doorw'ay, the chant ever so gradually died down and, in its pianissimo, became something that was inexpressibly soft and beautiful. , I stole back to my cell, which three hours later I left for the outer world with its wars and worries, feeling more like a ghost than a. man.