Bone Mountain (57 page)

“It was just a dream,” Shan suggested. If Lokesh had heard about such a dream, he would have asked Winslow if he was sure he had been asleep. Lokesh might have said it wasn’t a dream, but an awareness event.

“I think it means I’m supposed to help Melissa and the Tibetans. Help Lokesh and Tenzin.”

“I thought,” Shan sighed, “that you were supposed to be back in Beijing.”

“And tell the bureaucrats Larkin’s not dead, but don’t worry she soon will be? They probably have a form for it. Report of Future Murder.” Winslow looked into his hands. “I know you’re not going to give up on Lokesh.”

“No,” Shan said softly. “Leaving him is not what I do.”

Suddenly, from near the rock wall, Nyma called for them in a tone of distress.

“He just stopped,” she cried when they ran to her side. Her face was ashen. “He leaned against the wall and sighed, then just slid down it. Jokar … Jokar is dead.”

The lama was slumped against the wall, one leg thrown out, the other pinned under his body. One of his hands gripped a worn bronze dorje. His face gave no sign of life. Lhandro and his parents were saying mantras at a rapid, almost frantic pace. The remaining purbas knelt in a semicircle around the lama, their faces twisted with helplessness.

Shan squeezed between them. Jokar was not breathing. “So old,” Nyma said in an anguished voice. “But no one is here to say Bardo.”

His fingers trembling, Shan lifted the old man’s hand. Lokesh would know what to do. He arranged his fingers as he had seen his friend do dozens of times. There was no pulse that he could detect at first. But then he sensed something like the flutter of distant bird wings. One beat, and after what seemed an impossibly long time, another.

“Sometimes, a man like that can be called away to speak with deities,” Anya said at Shan’s shoulder. The others stared at her solemnly but no one offered an argument. If one deity came to Anya to speak, another could easily summon Jokar to speak somewhere else. “Part of him could have been called back to that bayal he came from.” Jokar was from one of the hidden lands, she meant. It was, as Lokesh might say, as good a truth as any.

With Nyma’s help Shan gently pulled out the leg pinned under the lama’s body. The man’s flesh was cool; not cold, but not nearly as warm as Shan’s.

“He is gone,” Lhandro moaned. “It happens like this, the organs begin to stop one at a time.”

“He embraced the knowledge,” Lepka said softly, at the lama’s feet. When he saw inquiry on Shan’s face he continued. “It was a teaching from Rapjung, that I heard often when I was young. The greatest gift of being human is the knowing, and the greatest knowing is of death.” He gazed at Jokar as he spoke, then turned back to Shan as though he needed to explain further. “It is a great gift, the monks would say, to know of your own impermanence.”

No one spoke. Even the mantras stopped. Lepka looked about with an expression of curiosity, as if he had not expected anyone to be surprised by his words.

“Someone should sit at each side, to make sure he doesn’t fall,” Lhandro’s mother instructed quietly, and took one side herself. Nyma took the other. Shan stepped back and saw the worried expression on Winslow’s face.

“I have a few pills left,” the American offered in a helpless tone. Winslow stepped close to Jokar, one of his hands wringing the fingers of the other. “That herb place. I could go back, if someone tells me what to pick.”

Shan studied the lama, then the American, not understanding the strange connection developing between them. “He mentioned the black thing,” Shan said. “He told you to get rid of it. That’s what you can do.”

“I didn’t understand,” the American said slowly, his eyes shifting back and forth from Shan to Jokar.

“The black thing you carry,” Shan said.

Winslow looked into the shadows a moment, sighed, picked up his pouch and stepped outside. Shan joined him, a few steps behind as he walked to the rim of the plateau.

He reached Winslow as the American turned back to look at Lin, who had moved to sit on a rock near the gnarled juniper. They stepped past the ruins of the old hut, out of Lin’s view, and Winslow opened his pack. “I thought Melissa might need it, with Zhu still in the mountains,” he said apologetically.

Shan did not speak, but pointed to a spot far below where a small chasm created a deep shadow. Winslow reached into his pack, pulled out Lin’s pistol, and threw it over the edge of the rim. It soared in a wide arc then tumbled downward for a long time until it disappeared into the shadow. In quick succession the spare magazines followed.

A great bird soared close by, a lammergier that dove to investigate the tumbling magazines, then pulled back and sent a long screech after them.

They wandered back to the medicine mixing room in silence and joined the vigil beside Jokar. The rongpa recited the mani mantra. Larkin and Winslow sat at the lama’s feet. Somo cradled one of the lama’s hands in her own, lightly stroking it. Anya began singing one of her songs, in a whisper, and, strangely, after a moment, Melissa Larkin began humming in accompaniment, as if the American geologist knew the song. More than thirty minutes passed, when suddenly the fingers of one of the lama’s hands rose, and Jokar’s body jerked slightly forward, then fell back.

Shan had seen deep meditations, had gone into deep meditation himself, and this was not one. Jokar was somewhere else. The lama’s eyes opened, though they seemed to have no life in them. They sparked with energy, then faded. Shan watched, scared. The lama’s eyes were glazed. His fingers were extending and contracting, as if they were climbing something. The mantras in the back of the chamber grew louder. The purbas had joined in. Melissa Larkin stepped forward with a bowl of tea and gently pressed its warmth against the lama’s arm. His eyes flickered again, and his hand reached out as though to clutch something in the air. Jokar’s mouth opened and shut and his head bent back, his jaw clenching as though he were in struggle with something.

The chamber fell utterly silent again.

“It’s like he’s trying to wake from a deep sleep,” Lhandro whispered.

But Shan knew it was no slumber. Jokar had not died, Shan knew, but he had gone to the edge of death, or perhaps somehow death had visited him and he was sending it back. The ancient body had given up for a while, but the essence of what was Jokar fought back, as though it had unfinished business. Lepka started a mantra that Shan had never heard before, a pleading mantra, filled with the name of Yamantaka, the Lord of Death.

Then the lammergeier screeched again, so close it seemed the bird was sitting on the rocks over their heads, and an instant later the lama’s eyes lit, and stayed lit, and Jokar was with them.

Winslow emitted one of his cowboy hoots and the medicine lama’s eyes grew wide; fully awake now, the lama smiled appreciatively at the American, as if it had been the hoot that had summoned him back. But no one offered another word or sound, until suddenly there was movement behind them. Shan turned to see Lin standing in the shadows. How long had he been there, Shan wondered. Had he understood what he had seen? For that matter, did any of them understand?

Jokar breathed deeply. Nyma offered him the tea.

By the time Shan rose, Lin had retreated outside and was studying the gnarled juniper again, as if he expected it to reveal an important secret, or perhaps provide a bird to come listen to him. Shan saw that the constant anger had faded from Lin’s eyes. In some ways he was not the same Lin they had met on the road two weeks earlier. But he knew the short-tempered, predatory Lin was still there, just below the surface of the confused man who sat in the shadow of the tree.

“What that old man did…” Lin started in a low voice when Shan sat beside him. But he seemed uncertain how to finish. “In the village where I grew up, they would have called him a witch for doing that.”

“It doesn’t work,” Shan said, putting a hand on the end of one of the twisted branches, “trying to explain the Tibetans according to what we learned growing up in China.”

A growl came from Lin’s throat, as if he were warning Shan away from such conversation.

“It was Religious Affairs that took Tenzin,” Shan suddenly declared. “Director Tuan.”

“That Tuan? He had no business—” Lin blurted out. He clenched his jaw. “Only because I wasn’t there,” he spat.

Shan stared at Lin and nodded. “Because Tenzin was your mission. Not Tuan’s.”

“We all work for the people’s government,” Lin muttered.

“But Tuan didn’t turn Tenzin over to the people’s government.”

“You don’t know that.”

“He didn’t go north on the highway, he didn’t go south. He used no helicopter.”

“Spies,” Lin hissed. “Those who seek government secrets are executed.”

Shan ignored the accusation. “I think the government would have special plans for the abbot of Sangchi. There is the Institute for Advanced Tibetan Studies in Beijing.” Shan was referring to a favorite venue for realigning wayward Tibetan leaders, a special school created by Mao Tse Tung for instructing senior Tibetans in the precise application of his doctrine. “There’s half a dozen medical institutes where an ailing lama might spend a year or two recovering from a lapse. But he hasn’t gone to them, or to prison. He hasn’t left the area.”

“He owes the army first,” Lin growled.

“You mean he owes the 54th Mountain Combat Brigade. What used to be the Lujun Division.”

Lin glared at him, as though speaking of such things was traitorous. It was the old Lin. Maybe, Shan mused, remembering how Lin had been with the girl, there was now a Lin for Anya and another Lin for the rest of the world. “He stole things from us.”

“A piece of rock.”

“And military secrets,” Lin said in a low voice, toward the tree.

Shan paused. Lin had at last confessed his real interest in Tenzin and the stone. At last confirmed what Shan and Winslow had suspected. “Tenzin has no interest in military secrets.”

“What would you know of such things?” Lin shot back. “The traitors who help him do,” he added. “Maybe it was the price of the purbas for helping him. Steal information from me for them to use against the government.”

“Tenzin would not make such bargains.”

“Motive is unimportant. He took secrets. It’s treason.” Lin looked at him with a gloating smile. “You know how treason proceedings work. Short trial, quick bullet. I can do it with a military tribunal. Secret. The others will keep looking for him along the Indian border long after I have him in a hidden grave in the mountains.”

Shan did not reply, but studied the lichen growing at the tip of the branch. “When you go back, colonel,” he said at last, “will you try to find him?”

“Of course. I will find him, I will take him from whomever has him. He’s mine. The moment he stole from me his life was forfeit. The howlers can’t hide him for long. The howlers are playing in a world they don’t understand. They’ll have to find another tame abbot.”

Shan stared at him, weighing the words. Lin could be right, he suddenly realized. It would explain the strange actions of Khodrak and Tuan and the argument between the howlers and the knobs, then the howlers and the soldiers, at Yapchi. They were delving into the world of public security and state secrets, realms that were normally closed to the Bureau of Religious Affairs. Modern China had its hidden worlds, too.

“When you can walk again without falling off the mountain, you may go,” Shan said wearily. “But it could be several more days, even a week.”

Lin stared at Shan again, rubbed his temple, and blinked. As if, Shan thought, like Jokar struggling to keep control of his body, Lin was struggling to keep the malevolent colonel in control.

“So you should write a letter,” Shan suggested.

“No deals. I told you. Kidnapping an officer means lao gai. Or a firing squad. No forgiveness.”

Who will forgive us for keeping you alive, Shan wanted to ask. “Perhaps you would want to tell someone you are alive.”

“I have no family.”

“Soldiers from your unit are searching, thinking you must be dead. Perhaps you would want to give instructions to Director Tuan and the howlers who have Tenzin.”

The suggestion caused Lin to pause. An icy glint returned to his face. “Why would you want this?”

“Because it would be the compassionate thing, to relieve the anxiety of your soldiers,” Shan suggested. “Because their reaction to such a letter may tell me where my friend is, the one who was arrested with Tenzin.” Because I need to reach them before the army does, Shan told himself, because such a letter might stop Tuan from sending them away.

Lin offered a thin smile that hinted of grudging respect. “You weren’t always in Tibet.”

“I worked for the people’s government for twenty years in Beijing,” Shan said. “For the party members who ran the government.”

“But then you made a pilgrimage to Tibet,” Lin said in a taunting voice.

Shan stared at him, then slowly unbuttoned his sleeve and silently showed Lin his lao gai tattoo. “I went to live with a better class of people,” he said softly.

Lin’s eyes narrowed as he stared at the tattoo. He gazed a long time at the line of numbers, and his expression shifted several times, with anger, suspicion, disdain, and confusion all crossing his countenance. His eyes did not move, but just stared at the empty air, when Shan pulled back his arm.

After a moment Shan rose. “I’ll send some paper out. You know we will read the letter before we deliver it. Say anything you wish. Just nothing about Jokar, and nothing about this place.” He had taken five steps when he paused and looked back at Lin, who still stared into the air. “That girl, Anya,” he said to Lin’s back, “she has no family either.”

Lin’s head pulled up but he did not acknowledge that he heard.

Unexpectedly, there was laughter at the entrance to the hidden rooms when Shan approached it. Winslow was there, with Anya and Nyma, showing them tricks with one of the braided leather ropes the purbas carried. Having made a loop in one end, Winslow was waving the rope over his head and releasing it to catch things. A narrow rock set on its end twenty feet away. A small boulder on the slope above. Anya, standing still, arms at her side, giggled as the rope dropped over her head and closed about her waist. Shan smiled then stepped inside for Lin’s paper, which Lhandro offered to take to the colonel when the rongpa learned what it was for. The young purba challenged Shan’s judgment at first, but Somo raised her hand to silence him.