The Skull Mantra

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EXTRAORDINARY ACCLAIM FOR
ELIOT PATTISON'S EDGAR AWARD-
WINNING
THE SKULL MANTRA

“One of the hottest debut novels of the season.”

—
Minneapolis Star-Tribune

 

“[A] beautifully-written story . . . Pattison manages the combination of an explosive murder investigation, political corruption, and a plea for freedom in Tibet with an amazing amount of grace and coherence. From the opening scene of THE SKULL MANTRA, you understand that this is no ordinary mystery . . . An elegantly composed mystery that bodes fairly well for his future in fiction.”—
The Anniston Star

 

“A suspense novel that will also enlighten readers . . . The book is a terrific story on many levels, not the least of which is the way in which the tragedy of Tibet's enslavement is presented.”—
The Sullivan County Democrat

 

“Eliot Pattison's first novel, THE SKULL MANTRA, does for Tibet what Martin Cruz Smith's
Gorky Park
did for Russia . . . A colorful, moving portrayal of a strange and complex Tibet under an iron fist, Pattison's novel is as suspenseful as it is beautiful and tragic.”

—
Portsmouth Herald

 

“A venerable plot device—the discredited detective given one last chance—is invested with stunning new life in this debut thriller from a veteran journalist who clearly knows his exotic territory . . . Set against a background that is alternately bleak and blazingly beautiful, this is at once a top-notch thriller and a substantive look at Tibet under siege.”—
Publishers Weekly
(starred review)

 

“Good books take us places we can't reach without transport: a remote locale, an alien culture, another time, or into the heart and mind of a remarkable character. Pattison provides truly remarkable transport . . . It's a riveting story but it's also a great deal more. Pattison's narrative is filled with ritual, portents, and even demons, and somehow imbues the harsh Tibetan gulag with moments of eerie beauty and serenity.”

—
Booklist
(starred review)

 

“Set in the mountainous regions of Lhasa, this first novel is a stark and compelling saga . . . As in Tony Hillerman's Navajo mysteries, Pattison's characters venerate traditional beliefs, and mystical insight as a tool for finding murderers. Pattison writes with confident knowledge and spare, graceful prose.”

—
Library Journal

 

“Eliot Pattison has hit a home run with his first fiction outing. Pattison's writing is lyrical and suffused with energy: a perfect combination for a thriller set in the mysterious and ancient land of Tibet . . . Pattison skillfully creates a picture of modern-day Tibet . . . Altogether, this is not a book you'll soon forget.”

—
Writers Write

 

“A full-tilt thriller that exhibits a profound feel for Buddhism and how it manifests in a particular corner of the world . . . Pattison's novel uses the lens of thriller fiction to illuminate brilliantly the state of a (to Americans) little-known culture. . . . Not only an exhilarating read, but an important one, politically and morally.”

—
Tricycle: The Buddhist Review

 

“THE SKULL MANTRA is an incandescent thriller, a compelling, lyrical journey through the harsh, beautiful world of Tibet. Pattison has made his mark the first time out.”

—Greg lies, author of
24 Hours

 

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Copyright infringement is against the law. If you believe the copy of this e-book you are reading infringes on the author's copyright, please notify the publisher at:
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.

Title

Copyright Notice

Dedication

Acknowledgments

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Preview:
Soul of the Fire

Author's Note

Copyright

For Matt, Kate, and Connor

This book would not have been possible without the support of Natasha Kern and Michael Denneny. Special thanks also to Christina Prestia, Ed Stackler, Lesley Payne, and Laura Conner.

 

 

 

 

They called it
taking four.
The tall, gaunt monk hovered at the lip of the five-hundred-foot cliff, nothing restraining him but the raw Himalayan wind. Shan Tao Yun squinted at the figure to see better. His heart clenched. It was Trinle who was going to jump—Trinle, his friend, who just that morning had whispered a blessing on Shan's feet so they would not trample insects.

Shan dropped his wheelbarrow and ran.

As Trinle leaned outward, the updraft pushed back, ripping away his
khata,
the makeshift prayer scarf he secretly wore around his neck. Shan weaved around men swinging sledgehammers and pickaxes, then stumbled in the gravel. Behind him a whistle blew, followed by an angry shout. The wind played with the dirty scrap of white silk, dangling it above Trinle's reach, then slowly twisting it skyward. As it rose, the prisoners watched the
khata,
not in surprise but in reverence. Every action had a meaning, they knew, and the subtle, unexpected acts of nature often had the most meaning.

The guards shouted again. But not a man returned to his work. It was a moment of abject beauty, the white cloth dancing in the cobalt sky, two hundred haggard faces looking upward in hope of revelation, ignoring the punishment that would surely come for even a minute's lost time. It was the kind of moment Shan had learned to expect in Tibet.

But Trinle, hanging at the edge, looked downward again with a calm, expectant gaze. Shan had seen others take four, all with the same anticipation on their faces. It always happened like this, abruptly, as if they were suddenly compelled by a voice no one else could hear. Suicide was a grave sin, certain to bring reincarnation as a lower life form. But opting
for life on four legs could be a tempting alternative to life on two in a Chinese hard labor brigade.

Shan scrambled forward and grabbed Trinle's arm just as he bent over the rim. Instantly Shan realized he had mistaken Trinle's actions. The monk was studying something. Six feet below, on a ledge barely wide enough to accommodate a swallow's nest, lay a glittering gold object. A cigarette lighter.

A murmur of excitement pulsed through the prisoners. The
khata
had scudded back over the ridge and was plummeting to the slope fifty feet in front of the road crew.

The guards were among them now, cursing, reaching for their batons. As Trinle moved back from the edge, now watching the prayer cloth, Shan turned back to his upset wheelbarrow. Sergeant Feng, slow and grizzled but ever alert, stood beside the spilled rocks, writing in his tally book. Building roads was in the service of socialism. Abandoning one's work was one more sin against the people.

But as he plodded back to accept Feng's wrath, a cry rang out from the slope above. Two prisoners had gone for the
khata.
They had reached the pile of rocks where it had landed but were on their knees now, backing away, chanting feverishly. Their mantra hit the prisoners below like a gust of wind. Each man dropped to his knees the instant he heard it, taking up the chant in succession until the entire brigade, all the way to the trucks at the bridge below, was chanting. Only Shan and four others, the sole Han Chinese prisoners in the brigade, remained standing.

Feng roared in anger and shot forward, blowing his whistle. At first Shan was confused by the chant, for there had been no suicide. But the words were unmistakable. It was the invocation of Bardo, the opening recitation for the ceremonies of death.

A soldier wearing four pockets on his jacket, the most common insignia of rank in the People's Liberation Army, trotted uphill. Lieutenant Chang, the officer of the guard, spoke into Feng's ear, and the sergeant shouted for the Han prisoners to clear the stack of rocks discovered by the Tibetans. Shan stumbled forward to where the
khata
lay and knelt beside Jilin, the slow, powerful Manchurian known
only by the name of his province. As Shan stuffed the scarf up his sleeve, Jilin's surly face took on an air of anticipation. With a surge of new energy he shoved aside the rocks.