The White Mirror (13 page)

Hamza stood holding up a guttering torch, puffing pale cold clouds of breath into the night air.

*   *   *

Inside, Hamza brushed the snow from his legs and straightened, taking in his surroundings with apparent interest. As usual, the visible signs of physical hardship retreated from him almost instantly. His beard looked carved and lacquered, his blue embroidered hat like new, and his bearing that of someone who had just begun the day after a good night's sleep.

He bowed to Lumo. Then he turned to Li Du. “I came looking for you, thinking you had been pulled under the water by a cursed ghost. Did you find the hot springs?”

“He did,” said Lumo.

Hamza's gaze took in the sleeping Campo wrapped in blankets, and the drying clothes. “What has happened to Paolo Campo?”

“We do not know,” Li Du said. “He fell from the cliff above the pools. He is not badly hurt, but he is unsteady. I was trying to bring him back to the manor when Lumo found us.”

Hamza raised his eyebrows in surprise. He addressed Lumo. “Then you, grandmother of the forest, have saved these two men, one of whom is my dear friend, from a dire fate. You have my deepest gratitude.” Hamza bowed again with an air of such unquestionable sincerity that her hard face crinkled in pleasure. She leaned forward to look in her pot. “There is food,” she said, and gestured for Hamza to sit down.

As Lumo reached for three bowls on a nearby shelf, Hamza and Li Du exchanged looks.
Be cautious,
Li Du tried to indicate in his expression. Hamza gave the barest inclination of his head in response, and sat down.

Lumo had turned to the stew and was ladling it into the bowls. “And what kind of traveler are you?” she asked Hamza without looking up.

“I am a storyteller, grandmother,” he replied. “I came to these mountains to tell a story to an emperor. That feat accomplished, I seek other adventures.”

“And him?” she asked, extending the ladle in the direction of Paolo Campo.

“Paolo Campo is a religious man,” Li Du answered. “From a country a year's journey to the west.”

“What is he doing here, then? Seeking enlightenment? Or fleeing some war?”

Li Du reached up and rubbed the back of his head thoughtfully. “He believes that there were once people of his faith in these mountains. He hopes to find them, and to convert those of other faiths to his own.”

“And is his faith the superior one?”

“He believes it to be the only true belief.”

“Well, maybe our lamas should listen to him. Corrupt charlatans, most of them. Not many good ones left. I once heard a dying lama speaking to his students. They asked him how they would recognize his reincarnation. He became enraged. ‘Lies and falsehoods!' he cried out. He told them that if anyone claimed to find his reincarnation, they should stuff his lying throat full of ash. ‘For,' he said, ‘with the number of sins committed by lamas in this land, the only place I'll be going after death is hell.'” Lumo paused. “He was an honest man.”

Hamza raised his eyes from his bowl. “We do not meet many people in this country who would speak so about monks and lamas.”

Lumo shrugged. “I am too old to say other than what I think.”

“I commend your honesty,” said Hamza. “But are you not, perhaps, a little severe?”

Lumo gave Hamza a suspicious look. “You mock me?”

“I do not.”

“You are too young to understand.”

Hamza's face was serious, but his eyes sparkled. “I am as old as the oldest grandfather in the stories I tell, and as young as the youngest prince or peasant.”

“And who is the oldest character in your stories?”

“Well, grandmother, that is a difficult question and one it will take some time to answer. You see, there was once a turtle who fell asleep by a pool filled with tears of a goddess who—” He stopped to sip the soup broth.

Then he gave a sigh of appreciation. “I have not tasted such good soup since I was hosted by a giant who was setting a trap for a hunter and wished me to tell him if the food was enough to entice the most disciplined man. I was happy to help, for I was not his quarry, and was able to enjoy the food without danger.”

Lumo looked at the dried meat hanging from the ceiling. “It is Doso's generosity that sustains me,” she said.

“How did you come to live here?” asked Hamza. “Your accent is not from these mountains.”

Lumo looked speculatively at her unexpected guests. Then, with a shrug, she settled back in her chair. “I was a traveler once,” she said. “The circumstances of my life left me alone in the world with no wish to stay near the monastery where I was born. I left my home, and for many years I moved through the roads like a raindrop rolls down the veins of a leaf.” She held up a finger and traced it through the air.

“You were a pilgrim?”

Her expression hardened. “I was no pilgrim,” she said. She turned to the two dogs, and her face relaxed. “I was only a traveler. And one day, I became like a lamp that has no oil left to burn. And I stopped so that I could die.” She delivered this statement without emotion. Then she began to count softly under her breath. “Fourteen years ago,” she said. “That was when I could no longer go on. And that is when the lord of this manor found me and told me that his ancestors would not allow him to let someone die if he could help them.”

She looked up with an enigmatic smile. “Fourteen years beyond my time, I am. So you see why it is difficult for me to be afraid.”

“And you have lived here all those years?”

“In this cabin. Doso made it sturdy, and he sends the boy Pema to bring me what I need. Sometimes Kamala asks me to sew for her. A generous family. You have met Yeshe?”

“He greeted us when we came to the manor.”

“Another of Doso's good deeds. Yeshe dragged himself over the pass a few years ago. A farmworker for hire, on his way to offer his services for the harvest, until he was set upon by thieves. They cut his ankles and left him to die in a ravine. He had the good luck to be discovered there by Doso before the wild animals got to him. Yeshe's injuries crippled him—Doso took him in and he has lived in that cottage ever since.”

“Cruel thieves,” said Li Du, “to assign their victim a lingering death.” He repressed an involuntary shudder as a memory of the executioner's platform in the Forbidden City assailed him.

Hamza was looking at him inquiringly, but he was saved from having to explain his discomfiture by movement in the corner of the room. The dogs had stood up and begun to growl. Several minutes later, a knock announced the arrival of Doso himself, who, accompanied by Andruk, had come to retrieve his missing guests.

 

Chapter 11

“He is resting,” said Andruk, as he entered the manor kitchen, where Li Du sat with Doso and Kamala. She held her baby while the other children slept bundled behind her on the wide bench.

“Could he give any description of his attacker?” Li Du asked.

Andruk accepted a cup of clear liquor from Doso and sat down. “He was not attacked,” said Andruk. “Now that he has had time to recover and to recall what happened, he is certain that he merely lost his footing.”

Doso's exhale was almost a sigh. His broad brow relaxed. “The snow is deceptive,” he said. “It extends beyond where it is safe to step.”

“He is not badly injured?” The question came from Kamala.

“He was fortunate,” said Andruk, “to land where he did, and so near a rescuer.”

They all turned to look at Li Du, who hesitated. “I am relieved that he is better,” he said finally. “We both owe a debt of gratitude to Lumo.”

Doso nodded. “We see very little of her. She comes to the manor for festivals, but usually she is content to be left alone. Pema brings her food and chops her wood.”

Andruk spoke in a tone of polite curiosity. “Where did she come from?”

Doso and Kamala exchanged glances. “She was born to a religious family,” Doso said, “but they followed an older tradition.”

Li Du nodded his understanding. “They resisted the reforms?”

Doso hesitated, then gave a grunt of affirmation. “You understand that we do not harbor any criminals,” he said. “The wars between the monks are resolved, and she is an old woman. But you are correct—her family was among those who rebelled against the Great Fifth Dalai Lama, to their sorrow. She was the only survivor.”

Li Du had not yet been born when the Fifth Dalai Lama suppressed the rebellions. As a student, Li Du had read a copy of the Dalai Lama's edict, which had been conveyed to the imperial court by its spies in Lhasa. He remembered the words of the Great Fifth to his Mongol soldiers:
Regarding the adversaries, these oath breakers and legion of foes, see that the lines of their fathers become as trees with their roots cut, the lines of their mothers as streams dried up in winter, the lines of their sons and grandsons as eggs cast against stones, their attendants as dry grass consumed by flame.
No wonder the Kangxi had been concerned about the growing power to China's west.

Kamala was looking at her children. She said nothing, but Li Du felt her emotion stronger than the heat radiating from the fire. Her expression was one of absolute conviction, empty of the small thoughts that usually play at the edges of a face.
If someone threatened her family,
thought Li Du,
she would strike him down, were he the Dalai Lama himself.

Li Du addressed Doso again. “You are very generous to those who come to your land. Lumo told us that Yeshe also remained at your invitation. To the weary and injured, this valley offers unanticipated refuge.”

Doso put up a hand in polite rejection of the compliment, but he seemed pleased. “To have left them to continue alone would have been the same as killing them. It was my duty to help.”

Kamala was fiddling with a loose thread in the swaddling. “Yeshe is a sweet man who suffers but does not complain. When he first came here, we did not think he would live. And when his wounds healed, I feared the presence of a stranger so close, a man like that, with no family. But he is good. He is gentle with the children and watchful of their safety.” She looked lovingly down at her three sons and daughter, their red-cheeked faces calm and asleep.

Then her mouth tensed. “There are others,” she said, “who are less deserving.”

“Promises cannot be broken,” said Doso. His statement brooked no argument. It was infused with the physical strength of the man who uttered it. “I honor the vows I make, as I honor the traditions of my fathers.”

Doso spoke with such unself-conscious assurance that Li Du felt a twinge of envy. Doso was a man who did not struggle to reconcile life's inconsistencies. He was secure in wealth, strength, and family. He had no concerns with advancement within a bureaucracy, and little awareness of the world outside his valley.

Li Du stood up and, with a bow to his hosts, announced his intention to retire for the night. Kamala set the baby beside her and used blackened iron tools to pull several stones from the fire, which she wrapped in two woolen packages. “Please take these to warm your feet,” she said, carefully transferring both to his arms. “And these are for your friend, if he is still awake.”

*   *   *

“Of course I am awake,” whispered Hamza. He stepped aside for Li Du to enter. With a glance in each direction down the dark, silent hallway, he closed the door. “What is happening in this place?”

“According to Andruk,” said Li Du, “Campo now claims he was not attacked, but simply lost his footing.”

“By your tone,” said Hamza, “I surmise that you do not believe it.”

Li Du set the warmers down on the bed. “No. I heard Campo's words clearly. Someone was up on that precipice with him.”

In a corner of the room was a table, on which a candle flickered unsteadily. Hamza crossed the room to it. “Why would Campo alter his account?”

“He must be protecting the identity of his attacker,” said Li Du.

Hamza trimmed the candlewick with a pair of flat blades, then straightened. “But why? And who?”

Raising a finger to his lips, Li Du answered in a hushed voice. “Whom did you see while I was gone? Is there anyone you are sure was not here at the manor?”

Hamza raised his hands in a helpless gesture. “I cannot tell you. I stayed in the hut with the Khampa until it grew dark and I became concerned for your well-being.”

Li Du cast his mind back to the scene in hut. “Did Sera-tsering remain there also?”

“No,” Hamza replied. “She left not long after you did.” He lapsed into speculative silence, then added, “If she is what she claims—a simple traveler going to visit her sister—then I will cease my storytelling and become a silent hermit. But I do not think she is a murderess.”

Outside, the floorboards of the hallway groaned as someone passed by the closed door. When it was quiet again, Hamza continued. “What of Dhamo? Do you still believe that he was murdered?”

“I am certain of it,” said Li Du.

Hamza nodded. “Because of the attempt on Paolo Campo?”

“The two events must be connected,” said Li Du. “But Campo had not yet fallen when I came to the conclusion that Dhamo was murdered. I found cinnabar at the pools.”

“My friend,” said Hamza. “I confess I still do not see why the cinnabar is so important.”

“It is important,” replied Li Du, “because someone who is in the middle of performing a mundane task does not suddenly commit suicide.”

“He might,” said Hamza. “If he was driven into a state of terror or despondency, as I suggested to you earlier today.”

“Yes,” Li Du agreed. “But in that case—if something happened to cast him into an agony so extreme that it overcame his reason—would he have taken the time to disguise his original errand?”