Prayer of the Dragon (24 page)

Shan, who had been looking down, felt Gao’s gaze.

“I see Inspector Shan disagrees,” Gao observed.

“What you say could be true,” Shan responded. “I don’t know. What I do know is that one thing connecting the acts of violence on this mountain has been the kora. It is like a common thread in a long bloody fabric.”

“That’s nonsense,” Gao said. “You’ve spent too many years locked up with old Tibetans.”

Shan gazed at Abigail as he continued. “Every killing has been at a station of the pilgrim path. You have been studying the path, trying to find its upper terminus, as has the hermit Rapaki for forty years. It’s like a three-way contest.”

“Three-way?” Hostene asked.

“Abigail, Rapaki, and the killer have been converging.”

Abigail stared at Shan, searching his face as if for an answer. Then she began making small talk like a good hostess, asking Thomas about his life in Beijing, about Chinese rock and roll.

Her uncle tossed the fragment of burned sweatshirt onto the table as Shan asked Abigail, “Did you meet a man named Bing?”

The American professor looked at her burned sweatshirt in confusion, then nodded. “Twice. The first time I found him sitting on a rock, watching me as I worked. Tashi came running up as if to protect me, but Bing seemed very polite, almost charming. They spoke for a few minutes and then Bing left.” She fingered the charred fabric. “This was left in our camp that night. The last night.”

“What did Tashi and Bing talk about?”

“I don’t know, I didn’t hear it all. The weather, the wolves. . . . Tashi told him I was Tibetan, from Lhasa. I don’t know if Bing believed him.”

“And about gold?”

“Of course not.”

“Did Tashi seem to know Bing already?”

Abigail hesitated. “Tashi was from the village. I expected him to know people here. He was paid to be our guide. That included guiding us around the people. We couldn’t afford to let anyone know what we were doing.”

Bing was not native to the mountain. He had only arrived the year before. And Tashi had been away for several years.

“You said twice,” Shan pointed out.

“I saw Bing again just a couple days ago. He was throwing things off a cliff when I came up the trail. He didn’t notice me at first.”

“What things?”

“They weren’t new. They may have been washed down one of the streams after a storm. It happens.” Abigail shrugged. “What do you do with them? It’s awkward. Most people simply want to be rid of them.”

Hostene leaned forward in his chair. “I don’t understand, Abigail.”

“Bones. I saw a tibia, a fibula, at least one femur.” She spoke the words with such ease it almost seemed she was speaking about the weather. It took a moment before she noticed that everyone else had stopped eating.

“Bones, Miss Natay?” Gao asked.

“Bones. Old bones. It’s to be expected. In my business I encounter them all the time. People have lived on this mountain for hundreds of years. He threw something else after the bones. I couldn’t see it clearly because I’d hidden behind a rock. He scared me a little. It was something he could toss with one hand. When he had finished he came down the trail so quickly he was in front of me before I realized it.”

“What did he do?”

“He hesitated, then came to shake my hand in a friendly way.

He seemed to be in a hurry. I spoke in Tibetan, only Tibetan, like the first time. He smiled and bowed. He looked at my pack, at my cameras, then he waved goodbye and trotted down the trail. A few minutes later I saw him on the slope below, riding one of those red mountain bikes.”

Shan asked Gao for the map Kohler had used, and Abigail pointed to each of the spots where she had seen Bing. One was near the old gold mine, the other near the ridge that the miners believed to be haunted.

“It will take a day to make arrangements,” Gao informed them as he poured tea for his guests at the end of the meal.

“Arrangements?” Shan asked.

“By tomorrow night we will have transport lined up. Professor Natay and her uncle will be taken by helicopter to a quiet border post whose commander is a friend of mine. They will leave the country without undergoing a lot of uncomfortable questions from Public Security. On its return the helicopter will pick up you and Thomas.”

Shan felt his stomach tighten.

“Thomas,” Gao continued, “will be taken to the airport in Lhasa for a flight to Beijing, with a soldier for his escort. The helicopter will stop at Drango village and soldiers will remove your friends from that man Chodron’s custody.” Gao folded the map and tucked it under his arm, then fixed Shan with a cool gaze. “Their orders will be to drop you and your Tibetan companions anywhere you say in Lhadrung County, where you came from. A high ledge miles from any town will not be objectionable.”

“A generous offer,” Shan admitted. “But there is still a murderer out there.” He fought the temptation to embrace Gao’s proposal. He and both his old friends could soon be far removed from the agonies of Sleeping Dragon Mountain if he accepted it.

“Wolves have a way of settling disputes within their own packs.”

“I have my work still—” Thomas’s protest was cut off by a glare from his uncle.

“Thomas! Feng Xi,” Gao said, his voice growing heated. “You are like a son to me. That is why I am doing this. You must leave your childhood games behind. You will act like a responsible adult and return to your studies. Or you can return to Beijing and sell noodles on the street. Either way, you are going back tomorrow.” Gao glanced at Shan. “There will be a doctor in the helicopter. And there will be soldiers stationed across the passage to the other side of the mountain until we can find a more permanent way to seal it.” He stood, blew out the candles, and left the room.

The housekeeper showed Abigail and Hostene to their quarters in the tower. Shan studied Abigail’s videotapes again. When he reentered the sitting room Thomas was there, frowning.

Gao’s nephew said in a desolate tone, “I read somewhere that when you are sent to the gulag you gradually forget everything about your life before, that none of it seems real anymore, that your memories become like a movie of someone else’s life.”

“Where you are going is a long way from the gulag.”

“Living in a cage, living someone else’s idea of your life, I think they’re not much different.”

“A gilded cage. There are scores of millions who would gladly trade places with you.”

“So you agree with my uncle. I should just put my dreams on a shelf and let them gather dust.” Thomas looked at the floor. “If you ever return to Beijing, you’ll know where to find me. Just ask for the most highly educated noodle seller in the city.”

“There are professors at the forensics academy who might still accept a letter from me. Give me your address in Beijing and I will write them. Perhaps they will give you special projects even if you are not officially enrolled.”

Thomas quickly wrote out his address.

“How often did you see Professor Natay?” Shan asked as he tucked the paper in his pocket.

“You mean after the murders? Twice, before yesterday. The first time she was working and didn’t mention the murders. She didn’t think I knew about them, so she wasn’t going to tell me. But she was so upset that she almost couldn’t talk. She asked me if I could get her a gun. Then she asked me how tall a Tibetan would have been five hundred years ago. She said she had realized something important—that on a pilgrim trail a sinner could walk beside a saint, that maybe when people died on this mountain it was intended, as part of the kora, as if its true purpose was not to reach the end, but to attain something along the way, to help people reach their next incarnation.” The words cast an odd chill over Shan. People reached their next incarnation by dying.

“I think she may have spoken that way because she was starving. I gave her all the food I had with me. The next time I saw her she was not so upset. She asked what kind of music I liked. We spoke about rock and roll. It was strange in a way that she never spoke about the thing on her hand.”

“What thing?”

“The eye. She had painted a white eye on her hand. It was still there yesterday morning when I saw her. She rubbed it off later.”

Shan gestured toward the bedrooms in the tower. “After a night’s sleep,” Shan said as they climbed the stone stairs, “we can both speak with her. I want to find out exactly what she saw when she returned to the campsite that morning.”

But Shan could not sleep. He left his bedchamber, climbed to the top of the tower, and lay on the cold stone floor, facing the night sky. In another twenty-four hours he and his friends would be free. They could forget Chodron, forget the gruesome murders, go back to the restoration of old manuscripts and day-long meditation among the other secret monks of their hermitage. He began rehearsing the words he would use with Gendun and Lokesh: the violence on the mountain was not of their making, it only affected the miners, who were outlaws themselves. Hostene and his niece were going to be safe. Gendun and Lokesh had a duty to remain safe as well.

But an internal voice grew in volume, intruding on his frail hopes. Gendun would never leave willingly, not with the people of Drango so spiritually distraught. Shan would have to ask Gao’s soldiers to forcibly remove him, and that act would forever stand between them. The way to save Gendun was one that guaranteed Shan could no longer sit at his side.

Many of the monks who had once inhabited Tibet had followed an often terrifying meditation ritual called
chod
. They would spend a night in a charnel ground, with bloody remnants of human corpses and bird-gnawed bones all around them, as a way of underscoring the fragile, transient nature of living creatures. Shan had found his own form of chod. The tower, inhabited by the old Navajo dying of cancer, the young woman whose spirit was adrift, the boy whose hopes had shriveled before Shan’s eyes, was a place where dreams died. Not far away in Drango village, Gendun was being tortured because of Shan and a few acts of reverence by the villagers. The village itself was being slowly strangled by Chodron. And he had no hope of helping any of them unless he found the killer.

He went to a dark, deep place within himself, not exactly meditating but not sleeping, visiting memories, remembering nightmares, unaware of time or place.

IT WA S A LWAYS damp inside the tool shed, and the burlap sacks they hung to block the light of their candle were stained with mildew, the scent sometimes mixing so strongly with that of the night soil in the rice paddies outside that he would become nauseous when he entered it. As usual, he sucked a pebble as a remedy for hunger as he waited, arranging and rearranging his shirt so his father would not see how his ribs poked out. Food was strictly rationed at the reeducation camp, and the inmates of the children’s dormitory only received what was left when the field workers were finished. Sawdust was sometimes mixed with the rice gruel, which usually cramped his nine-year-old stomach so severely he had to lie on his bunk, unable to walk.

He passed the time silently repeating the Taoist verses his father had taught him the night before, struggling not to cringe at the small sounds of the night. If he was caught outside he would be caned until the bamboo came away bloody.

There was a rush of movement and the door was flung open and closed. There was a rustling of clothes, the flare of a match lighting a candle, and all hardships disappeared. His father was there, embracing his son, his gentle smile marred by the missing front tooth that had been knocked out in a tamzing. Officially, at the reeducation camp, parents and children were separated. Officially, the punishment for Shan’s father, the professor, would be far worse than Shan’s if he was found to have broken the rules of curfew, the rules against having unapproved books, the rules against candles.

They worked for an hour in the little shed at the back of the rice paddies, reciting the Taoist verses, reviewing another segment of European history then, the best always last, looking over a page torn from the book of poetry from the Sung Dynasty that Shan’s father had secretly, illegally, brought from home. It was their favorite, Su Tung-po, the poet bureaucrat:

Grasses bury the riverbank, rain darkens the village.

The temple is lost in tall bamboo—I can’t find the gate.

Together they wrote the words in chalk on the plank wall of the shed, his father’s hand sometimes guiding him in the strokes of the complicated old-style ideograms. Then they spoke of how they had spent their days, Shan trying not to take notice when his father’s words were interrupted by long hacking coughs. His father let Shan lean on his shoulder as he spoke of older, happier times, so lost in their reverie that neither heard the sounds until too late. They were still sitting in the corner when the handlers burst in, lanterns in their faces, batons lashing out at his father. The last sight he had of his father for a month was of the professor stuffing the poem into his mouth. The next morning Shan had a bowl of real rice and vegetables, even shreds of chicken. Later that day, the political instructors praised his mother for having turned in his father for reactionary behavior. It took much longer for him to understand the bargain she had struck: she had done it in exchange for Shan’s single square meal.