Black Flame (5 page)

Kelsang had already assessed the dog's strength, and rather than dodge it this time, he faced it head on. The fight was over so quickly, the spectators only heard the sound of teeth clashing and chains clanging before Kelsang had bitten through the dog's neck and tossed it aside. Even though the dog was dead, Kelsang still bit its main artery and blood drained onto the concrete.

The fat chef cursed loudly. It would take him at least a year to breed two more dogs, and even then he'd be lucky to have two as fine as these.

A couple of American backpackers seemed to recover from their shock and began chatting with the others. Two pieces of chocolate flew through the air and landed by Kelsang. He knew nothing of this strange food, but with the excitement of the massacre still coursing through his veins, he leapt toward it. Unfortunately, the chains held him back.

Kelsang watched as a man fetched a long iron rod and walked over to one of the dogs, who was still twitching on the ground. A loud shot. Kelsang jumped back fearfully, and the dog let out a last breath. It didn't take him long to understand what had happened.

Guns. In the days and months that followed, Kelsang would have more opportunities to become acquainted with these weapons that emitted such tremendous sounds and intense smells. He would always remember the unique scent of gunpowder and iron.

Now that he had vented the anger that had been building inside him all day, Kelsang felt unusually calm. He turned to lick the tiny cut on his left shoulder. The crowd dispersed, and the diesel generator roared into action, the guesthouse lights flickering on and off with the unreliable supply of electricity. The hubbub of voices rose and fell with the lights, everyone still caught up in the excitement of the fight.

Kelsang lay outside pondering the new life ahead of him. Once the bonfires were put out, the guesthouse became quiet. The full moon illuminated the vast expanse of grassland. Kelsang looked out at the road they had come along and could only imagine that this was the way back to his campsite, his old life. If he were there, he would be lying in a corner right now, looking out over the livestock and the snowy peaks clad in the steely light of the moon.

The middle of the night. Sounds of cattle chewing their cud and yaks clumsily knocking their hooves together. Everything that had once been so familiar was now edging farther away. Lying on the freezing concrete, Kelsang was doing what his ancestors had been doing for thousands of years — bearing the plateau's icy air with only his strong physique and long fur for protection. But now he was surrounded by the strange scent of tires. In the past few days, he had encountered countless new smells, and they made him nervous and irritable.

As he slept, he found himself curled up against the warm felt of the yurt's walls. He squirmed, tucking himself in closer. Later, still dreaming, he growled quietly. It was nighttime, and the snow was falling like a thick white curtain. He heard a strange sound. Mother Mastiff was leaving, and he howled into the night.

But Kelsang wasn't woken the next morning by the sound of a yak rising to its feet or the bleating of a sheep being milked. It was a bang that did it, as one of the guests let the metal gate swing back on its hinges as he left the guesthouse. This was no early morning out on the pastures.

Three days later a group of climbers gathered at Rongbuk Monastery, admiring the majesty of Mount Everest towering ahead and talking about a devilish black Tibetan mastiff, as they waited for the weather to improve.

4

LHASA'S STRAYS

FROM THE WINDOW
of the jeep, Kelsang was mesmerized by the endless flow of people and cars on the street. Before long he spotted Master and sprang toward the door, ready to jump up on him. But to his great disappointment, it was another herdsman wearing a robe much like the one Tenzin usually wore. He began to notice other men wearing Tibetan robes, and even though not one of them was Master, seeing them made him feel that the grasslands were not too far away. A spark of hope reignited in his chest, even though most of the people on the street were dressed in thin, short jackets, like the men in the jeep.

If Kelsang hadn't been colorblind, he would have marveled at the variety of colors on display. This was Lhasa, and people traveled for thousands of miles to see its mysterious snow-clad landscape, as yet untouched by polluting hands, and its many manmade wonders — the Potala Palace, Jokhang Temple, Norbulingka. Some had made it their permanent home, but even more passed through temporarily on their way to the world's tallest mountain — Everest — where they sought fame by climbing to the top. People often perished at base camp from the effects of the altitude, yet still they went willingly, with smiles on their faces.

The streets of Lhasa were crawling with dogs. They were mostly mongrels who lounged in the afternoon sun at the doors of temples or under small stalls selling odds and ends. They were fed by pilgrims giving alms.

To Kelsang, this leisurely life of just waiting to be fed was unimaginable. He had woken up one morning with the impulse to herd a scattered flock of sheep on the grasslands, and ever since that day, he had somehow known that he was a shepherd dog. By day he helped Master herd the sheep out at pasture, and by night he kept guard back at the yurt, chasing away or killing any wolves who came near. It was as simple as that.

Kelsang was kept in a small courtyard for three days, and each day the two men brought him large chunks of mutton to eat. In those three days alone, he must have eaten the equivalent of an entire sheep. Most of the time, he lay in a corner and slept, and after a few days of rest and such hearty helpings of food, the discomfort and confusion that had accompanied him on the trip disappeared. The meat provided plenty of nourishment, giving him even stronger shoulder and chest muscles, much to the delight of his two feeders.

At dawn on the fourth day, Kelsang was led to the jeep, a stick wedged beneath his collar. The jeep then carried him out of the dimly lit narrow alley and off to market.

He caused an instant disturbance as he was led into the wide open trading space built on the side of a mountain. He was led to his place among the other dogs, and very soon a crowd had gathered around him. There was no need for the tall skinny man or his companion to try to grab the customers' attention.

Kelsang noticed that the other dogs tied up here were much more like him than the weedy dogs on the street. There was a hodgepodge of all different kinds of mastiffs — golden yellow, white, bluey black, gray, even some rust red and an extremely rare coffee-colored one. And yet Kelsang was the only one over three feet tall and weighing more than 150 pounds — he was special even in a market full of mastiffs.

He tried to greet a bluey black mastiff sitting next to him, but it didn't even look up. Its coat had been carefully washed and brushed, giving it a finish as glossy as a bolt of raw silk. The mastiff traders were tired of dogs groomed until there wasn't a speck of dust on them. Indeed, these city mastiffs were nothing like the true mastiffs from the wilds — nothing like Kelsang. The bluey black mastiff's master pulled out a piece of meat in an attempt to animate his dog, but it ignored the treat and began to lick the fur on its leg like a cat lazing in the sun.

Everyone could see that Kelsang was different from these city-bred dogs. They pushed forward excitedly until they met his fearless gaze and then retreated. They could smell the wilds on this dog, whose fur stood on end, making him look even larger than he was. All the rest and rich food he had been getting meant that he was in excellent shape.

As the people gathered around, Kelsang had the feeling that something bad was about to happen. He crouched low on his thick post-like legs, shook his mane and growled.

The crowd edged farther back, beyond the reach of his shackles. The other dogs seemed tiny in comparison.

Suddenly a stick as thick as a wrist flew through the air toward Kelsang. Someone was testing him. Crraaaack! Two shards of wood flew back into the crowd. Kelsang had met the stick in midair and crunched through it in one bite. Gasps rose from the crowd as they dodged the remnants.

A beam of unnatural light, a snapping sound. Alarmed, Kelsang wanted to run away, but the tall skinny man and his friend pulled as hard as they could to detain him. A photographer had come to Lhasa to take pictures of local life. He shrank back, his face white with fright.

“That's no dog,” he called out. “That's a lion!”

As a man with a long ponytail approached the tall skinny man to chat, Kelsang felt the chains around his neck suddenly go slack. They had been weighing on him ever since he left the grasslands. His master, Tenzin, had originally also fastened a chain around his middle for extra security, but it had worked loose in the jolting jeep, and the tall skinny man had obviously been too scared to refasten it.

His leather collar had fallen away. He had been wearing the collar for a year now, and all of his pulling and tugging over the past few days had taken their toll. The weakest part of it had snapped. Kelsang had grown used to having something weighing around his neck. In fact, he had come to see it as a natural part of his body. He felt uncomfortable without it, and in his confusion could only lean down to sniff the decaying collar now lying on the ground.

Someone called out in surprise, which shook Kelsang into action. He may have been from the depths of the northern grasslands, but he was used to having humans instruct him what to do. A shepherd dog doesn't need to think too much for himself. He just follows his master, tends the sheep out in the pasture, and as night falls, guards them in the camp. But now all decisions were up to him, and this one was important.

He stepped forward cautiously. Nothing happened. The chains didn't follow, nor did the clanking sound that had been his constant musical accompaniment. He took another step. No one said anything. No one knew what to do.

Kelsang made a decision — he had to get out of there — and he started jogging steadily toward the exit. Flustered, the tall skinny man called after him, but when Kelsang looked back, he fell silent. Everyone, including the other mastiffs, watched as he swaggered out of the market. Who would dare stop a mastiff straight from the grasslands?

Without thinking he set off for home.

But he was still in the middle of bustling Lhasa. Driven by instinct, he wound his way through the intricate pattern of alleyways until he could no longer see the large market and its imposing gate.

All over the city, small speckled mongrels were hanging around temples waiting for handouts. They never went hungry, and if they were bored, they simply scuttled into corners to make more little dogs. Their lives were so different from Kelsang's. He had purpose and only one goal, and that was to return to the grasslands.

He continued to make his way through the dark narrow alleys. Every now and then, frightened shouts greeted him, making him jump. People had reason to be scared. Kelsang didn't look like a dog. In fact, in no way did he seem like man's best friend. He was too big, too ferocious. Even though he slowed down whenever he encountered a pedestrian and ran past with his body close to the alley wall, his wild, aggressive look still terrified them. They would squeeze themselves up against the opposite wall, or else run away screaming as if they had seen a ghost.

This was terrifying for Kelsang, too. He approached a crowded street where people were selling dried meat and
tsampa
barley flour. The smells he had grown up with were everywhere, especially that of roasting flour. He unconsciously stopped in his tracks as he looked at a stall stacked high with dried meat, but he was greeted with looks of shock and terror. The people here had probably never seen a Tibetan mastiff wandering the streets. They had no idea where he was from and pointed at him.

Kelsang turned into a small alley paved in stone. It seemed to wind on forever, but he just kept running.

Someone started running behind him.

The man must have realized Kelsang's value — such a fine Tibetan mastiff without a master! Even though he himself might admit that trying to catch a mastiff was a dangerous undertaking, when faced with the opportunity to make easy money — and a lot of it — there is always someone stupid enough to try. The market for other dogs had fallen in recent years, but not for Tibetan mastiffs. These dogs were brave enough to take on wild animals, and a purebred was worth thousands.

Being chased down a narrow alley would be enough to scare any animal. Kelsang didn't know what was waiting for him up ahead, but he knew that whoever was chasing him was trying to make a grab for his tail. He ran as fast as he could. He hadn't even put this much energy into chasing that last wolf on the grasslands a few days before.

As he approached the end of the alley, Kelsang slipped through an open door. It was the only way he could get rid of his pursuer. He entered a small courtyard and quickly found a dark recess to crawl into. He looked around at the high walls, the many different flowers, the lack of people.

His pursuer stopped dead at the courtyard door, then turned and stomped away. As far as he knew, the mastiff had found his way home.

Badly shaken, Kelsang did a lap of the courtyard and found a nice corner to lie down in. It was clean and quiet here. The cobbles had been worn to a shine by the passage of time, revealing beautiful veins like a rainbow in the stone. There was also a granite planter with flowers Kelsang had never seen before, and pots full of plants skirted the walls.

The quiet of the courtyard gave Kelsang a temporary feeling of safety, and he relaxed and dozed off. He got up only once during his long sleep to move out of the heat of the blazing sun and take refuge under a small tree, where he lay down and slept again. This was the first time he had felt safe enough to sleep properly since leaving the camp. The courtyard made him feel warm. He didn't want to leave, to go out again into streets full of strangers. Of course, he still longed for his camp on the grasslands, but he had no idea how he could get there without encountering all those curious people.

Kelsang awoke in the afternoon. But even while sleeping, he had been aware of everything going on around him. The door to the red building kept creaking, but that was only the tiniest of sounds that his sensitive ears had to strain to make out. It came at regular intervals, and because it had been there ever since Kelsang first entered the courtyard, he thought the door made this sound by itself. But when he awoke, he realized that this sound must belong to the courtyard's master. Kelsang lay on the last bit of warm ground and waited for this new master to appear, trying to guess what he might look like based on his experiences of Lhasa so far.

He waited restlessly for what felt like ages. Eventually, he was distracted by the golden red of the Potala Palace and its brilliant gold roof. Out on the grasslands, he was always looking at nature's wonders, but this was the first time he had laid eyes on one made by man. He gazed at it in awe. The sun had left a smudge of red on the palace's golden roof, making it look as if it were flushed from drinking. The cold, pale light of dusk made Kelsang think of the grasslands and the campsite crowded with sheep returning from pasture.

Just then he heard the heavy, deliberate steps he had been waiting for, and his muscles tightened. Don't move, he told himself, stay right where you are. After waiting for so long, Kelsang felt the urge to bite something. He clenched his jaws shut in an attempt to control the anxiety that was threatening to overwhelm him.

An old man with a reddish-brown Tibetan robe draped over his shoulders opened the door and shuffled into the courtyard. He was carrying a watering can covered with flowers. He lifted his hand to shield his eyes from the sun's last rays, even though the light had started to fade. Imagine how dark it must have been inside.

Kelsang had to fight his natural caution toward strangers, and breathing lightly, fixed on what he could only assume to be a weapon in the man's hands.

The man was very old, so old he had probably forgotten his own age. His face was crisscrossed with ravines, resembling layers of rock cracked and beaten by years of sun and wind. Only his eyes revealed any sign of life. He pulled a Tibetan blanket behind him as he watered the plants that had wilted in the fierce plateau sun. After he finished, he put the can down on the ground and sat on the reclining chair in the center of the courtyard, bringing him face to face with Kelsang.

Kelsang growled in that low, indignant way he had perfected. But he certainly wasn't interested in attacking this old man and would leave the moment he shooed him away. Kelsang's anger was born purely from despair. In a moment, he would have to face those strangers out on the street again.

But the old man looked at Kelsang as though he were merely a leaf that had blown into the courtyard. His gaze didn't linger longer than a moment. Then he lay back on his recliner.

The old man was silent and still. After glancing briefly at the dog, his shriveled eyes settled on the view of the Potala Palace over the top of the courtyard. He rested like this every day after painting his
tanka
scrolls, waiting for night to fall. Sometimes he would stay until the sky was full of stars.

Kelsang didn't know what to do. This man was different from the other people he had met that day. He didn't seem to care that there was a strange dog in his courtyard. In fact, he acted as if Kelsang had always been there, just like the flowers and plants. Perhaps Kelsang's nerves were playing tricks on him. Perhaps he had been living there for a long time. Dogs are easily affected by human emotions. Kelsang's muscles began to relax, but he didn't take his eyes off the painter. The old man didn't move. Indeed, he was as still as a stone wrapped in a blanket.