Bone Mountain (77 page)

“The virtuous Chinese,” someone in the crowd said admiringly. The words caused Shan to pause a moment, reflecting on all that had happened in Yapchi Valley. Perhaps, in the end, the virtuous Chinese who had saved the valley had been Colonel Lin. Or perhaps the virtuous Chinese had been found in pieces of Lin and Gang, Ma and Shan.

As Shan bent to pick up a paddle the crowd fell silent. Confused, he studied the expectant faces, then realized that they did not expect him to go alone. He handed the first paddle to Tenzin, and lifted the second, surveying the faces, then stepped to the side of the small crowd and extended the paddle to a small gaunt man who hovered in the shadows with his wife and children. Shan had found them the night before, huddled with the drum and the stone, and convinced them the time had come to end their hiding.

Gang accepted the paddle without speaking and the three of them stepped into the coracle, the assembly solemn and silent.

“It’s like a precious jewel,” Tenzin said of the beautiful water.

Gang repeated the words.

They paddled to the center of the lake to a spot between the derrick and the burial mound, now under many feet of water, then Shan motioned to Gang. The sullen man’s face seemed to change, and he took the eye from Shan with a joyful expression. He extended it toward the people on the shore, then lowered the chenyi stone into the water and released it. Shan watched the stone, tumbling downward in the sparkling crystal water, turning blue in the filtered light, then it was gone.
Deep is the eye,
the oracle had said,
brilliant blue eye, the nagas will hold it true.

When they returned to shore Lepka and Lhandro waited with bowls of tea. They stepped past a small circle of men and women chanting a mantra to sit on a blanket in one of the barley fields as Tenzin asked Gang about his construction work at Rapjung. Shan lay back in the warm morning sun and gradually slipped into sleep.

It was more than two hours later when he became aware of movement along the lake, the laughter of children. He sat up and looked, rubbing his eyes, at a scene so surprising it took a moment for him to understand. Strands of prayer flags had materialized near the lake, suspended between poles and rock cairns. Logs were moving along the valley floor from the venture stockpile, each carried by three or four Tibetans, men and women alike. There were new faces, many new Tibetans. As he watched, a small group appeared on the saddle of land and began running down the slope toward the lake. A chain of people carrying logs moved along the shore of the lake. At the water’s edge each team stopped as a woman, an unfamiliar nun, dipped a bowl in the lake and spilled water on the log, like a baptism.

He tentatively approached the nun, but halted thirty feet away. It was Nyma. She had found a robe, and cut her long braids, cropping her hair close to the scalp in the fashion of a convent. Her eyes sparkled as she saw Shan. She had decided she could be a real nun after all. He offered a small wave, and with a smile she pointed to the south end of the valley.

The logs were not going to the ruins of Yapchi village, as he had assumed, but beyond, to the trail up the mountain. A child laughed and Shan turned to see Gang’s daughter, riding one of the logs like a horse, as three sturdy Tibetan men joyfully carried it. The trees taken by the venture were all going to Rapjung. They were being carried over the mountain to build the new gompa.

“We held the last circle,” Nyma said excitedly when he reached her. “The prayer circle we started in the canyon. They never stopped, they said. They went to a cave high above the valley and continued, night and day. With the eye back they knew they could finally stop. I joined them at the edge of the water, and when they had finished I asked them to help me cut my hair,” she declared serenely.

Below the lake, near the village, Shan found Lokesh sitting on a rock, speaking with Lhandro. Lokesh was pointing to the fields as Lhandro listened attentively.

“No more barley,” Lhandro announced as he saw Shan. “Now it is going to be like the old days, just medicine herbs for Rapjung. And Lokesh gave us drawings,” Lhandro exclaimed, “so they can rebuild the herb gardens at Rapjung the way they used to be. People will bring in new soil, in baskets, from the valleys. We will send some from here.”

“Drawings will help,” Shan said hesitantly, “but it would be even better for them to have someone there who knew the old gompa.”

Lokesh fixed him with a level stare. “That is where you will find me, in a year’s time. Maybe less.”

“We have little money but we offered to give it all to him,” Lhandro said, “for buses to Beijing, to bring him back quickly. But he refused. He said he must journey as a pilgrim to Beijing. When he gets hungry he says he will beg. He says monks used to beg and it is an honorable thing to do.”

Shan turned toward the lake, trying to calm himself. In all the years he had known the gentle old man this was the only thing that had ever come between them. But there was no room for argument, for Lokesh had been spoken to by his inner god. “It’s going to be difficult,” Shan said quietly, “with that bad foot.”

“I have Jokar’s staff.” Lokesh pointed to the length of weathered wood at his side.

“The road to Golmud is treacherous,” Shan said in a tentative voice. “Let me at least go with you that far, old friend.” He sensed an odd taste of fear on his tongue, fear that Lokesh would say no. “Then I will leave, I will go find Gendun. I need to get him some new boots.”

The old Tibetan smiled. “Of course. You can help me improve my Chinese on the way. I will need to speak better Chinese when I reach the capital. I will be ready to leave in the morning.”

“So soon? Surely there are many diagrams to make for Gang and Lhandro.”

“Which is why I did not leave this morning,” Lokesh said stubbornly.

Shan saw the challenge in the old man’s eyes. “Tomorrow morning,” he agreed.

More and more Tibetans arrived, herders and farmers who had come to see the miracle for themselves. Tents were erected, and Lokesh sat in front of one with Lhandro, making drawings from his memory, drawings of gardens, of buildings and the special joinings of wood used in the roof eaves, even the details he remembered from the carving on the door to the printing room. Nyma appeared, cradling a long bundle, which she unwrapped on a blanket. It was the peche from the secret room at Norbu.

Lokesh paused and touched the top page with a trembling hand as he scanned the words printed there. “A history of Rapjung,” he said in a quivering voice, and squeezed Nyma’s hand as she showed him pages with maps and plans of buildings.

In the frenzy of activity Shan lost sight of Tenzin. He finally found him in the small canyon behind the ruined village, sitting in a large circle of Tibetans with Dzopa, his leg bandaged, on one side, and Gang on the other. Dremu sat on a rock above them, like a sentry. Below him was Somo, staring at two objects in her hands, a pocketknife with a spoon, and a lapis and silver bracelet. Dremu had returned the payment she had made at the hermitage.

The Tibetans in the canyon were speaking of work parties and supplies. Shan sat on a rock behind Tenzin and studied the group. All of the others were older, most sixty years or more. One man said he had been a stone mason, another a painter of thangkas, another a maker of incense. Three were carpenters, two metalworkers who once had worked full time making prayer wheels.

“You can work full time once more,” Tenzin observed in a tentative voice. “But we have no money to pay wages.”

“Money?” an old man quipped. “We heard about that howler’s report. They said we were wealthy already.” The laughter that erupted around the circle suddenly died as a stranger appeared at the edge of the circle, a tall lean Han with long white hair. Several of the Tibetans shot accusing glances at Shan.

“I am no good at woodworking,” the Han said in a strained voice, using Tibetan. “The only time I built a stone wall it came out crooked. But I can make books. That gompa once made books, important books.” It was Professor Ma, looking greatly fatigued. “I left the valley,” he said, looking at Tenzin and Shan, “but after five miles I climbed out of the truck. Jokar, he said I must do something about my heart wind.” The words brought a sudden stillness to the canyon.

“I will come if you will have me,” Ma said after a moment. “I have no home in China anymore.” An older Tibetan woman made a place for him in the circle. “It’s just that when I make books,” he said as he sat, “I would like to make them in both Tibetan and Chinese. And sometimes,” he added, pulling a familiar bamboo canister from his pocket, “I would like to talk about the Tao.”

*   *   *

Lokesh and Shan left before dawn, while the others still slept. As they left the valley the last stars of the night were twinkling on the surface of the lake, and the reflected blush of dawn made it seem as if the water were glowing. In the dim light he made out two figures at the far side of the lake, watching them. Even from the distance Shan knew it was Tenzin and Lhandro. The former abbot of Sangchi, who had died and been reborn, and the farmer who had lost his valley and found it again. The two men raised their hands in farewell, and lifted a long pole with a prayer flag attached to its end, as if in salute.

Tenzin had knelt by him when Shan had settled into his blanket the night before, and stared at him in silence so long Shan had asked if he needed to grow a new tongue again.

“I do not know if ever again I will have a journey such as that we have been on,” Tenzin had said at last, closing both his hands around one of Shan’s, pressing hard. “But if I do, I pray you will be with me.”

When they stopped to eat cold tsampa on a flat ledge lit by the early rays of the sun, Lokesh was buoyant, speaking first of how Rapjung would look when he returned in a year’s time, and then of how Somo had told him of a noodle shop in Beijing where he could get tsampa.

“There is a place I used to go,” Shan said in a tentative voice. “A Taoist temple. The monks there will give you food and a pallet if you have no money. They may remember my name.”

Lokesh looked at Shan warily.

Shan sighed. “I will draw you a map.”

Lokesh uttered a sound like a laugh that echoed off the rocks, and Shan sensed the wall that had risen between them was melting away. They spoke in eager voices about Shan’s old neighborhood and the dangers of walking in a city with so many automobiles.

Finally they packed away the food, and Lokesh lifted himself on the staff. “I am going to Beijing!” he shouted out, for no apparent reason. But when he took his first step the staff would not move. He pulled it, hard, but it did not budge. It was stuck in a fissure in the rock.

Lokesh stared at Shan, his eyes wide as he rubbed his white whiskers. “Was that crack in the rock there before?” he asked in a whisper. “I did not see it before.”

“I don’t know. I suppose so,” Shan said in confusion.

Lokesh pulled again, to no avail, then let Shan try. The staff was lodged firmly in the stone. Lokesh twisted it, and pushed it, and pulled it again. Still nothing.

A strange cloud settled over the old Tibetan’s face, and he sat on a nearby rock, staring at the staff—Jokar’s staff—that held fast, protruding almost vertically from the ledge.

“I could bring some water to put on the stone,” Shan suggested.

“It’s not that,” Lokesh said in a grim tone, and he began a mantra. After five minutes he tried the staff again, without effect. He wrapped both hands around the end of the staff, and stared at the top of Yapchi Mountain. “There are people to be healed in Beijing,” he said in his loud voice again. “They have heart wind there, an epidemic of heart wind.” He tried the staff again, without luck.

“I will find something else for a staff,” Shan suggested. “You can lean on my back until then.”

Lokesh did not look at him, just shook his head grimly. He spoke another mantra, looking at the mountaintop all the time as if conversing with it. Nearly a quarter hour passed, then he tried the staff again, without moving it. Finally he hung his head on his arms, still raised around the staff, and sighed. He looked back at Shan with a weary expression. “I never expected this,” he said, and turned back to sit on the rock again. He stared into his hands tor nearly five minutes, then rose to the staff again and fixed the mountain with a deliberate stare. “I will not go to Beijing to see that Chairman,” he offered in his loud voice. He twisted the staff and it came free.

“All right,” the old Tibetan said to Shan after examining the staff for a long time. “We will do it your way.”

Shan cocked his head in inquiry.

“You know,” Lokesh sighed. “We’ll have to keep patching deities one at a time.”

Shan said nothing, but picked up their bags and followed Lokesh as he hobbled down the trail. His old friend studied Yapchi Mountain while he walked, then picked a purple flower which he examined in silence.

After half a mile Lokesh paused again. “If we go to Rapjung,” he called back, “we have to go on the low trail, the easy trail, because of my foot. I am sorry.”

They walked along the stream until they reached a small rise in the land, where Lokesh raised his hand for Shan to stop, lowered himself onto a wide boulder, and reached into his pocket. His letter to the Chairman appeared in his hand and Shan watched, perplexed, as Lokesh unfolded the letter and seemed to read it. Then Lokesh straightened the paper over a rock and carefully began making new folds in it. He labored over the paper for several minutes, then hobbled to the top of the rise, his back to the wind. Shan followed, and as his old friend raised the paper in his extended arms Shan recognized it. Lokesh had crafted it into one of his spirit horses. He waited for Shan to reach his side, extended the horse over his head and released it. The paper floated lazily in the breeze, then suddenly a gust seized it and the paper soared away, scudding high toward the northeast horizon, toward Beijing.

“That Chairman in Beijing,” Lokesh said in a cracking voice, “he could be driving in the mountains someday. His limousine could break down and he could be stranded. When he finds my paper it will work its magic. So he can travel to a new place on a good Tibetan horse.”