toward Zhoka with a worried expression. He did not mean the art, Shan knew, but the evil it was meant to protect against. Shan recognized the words Surya was now speaking in his low, desperate tone. It was a mantra: Om Ah Hum, a special empowering mantra, the last of a series of prayers used to animate deities.
“There is no time for this,” Liya said to Surya. “You must flee.” She stepped to his side and made a pulling motion with her arms, though her hands were empty, as though she were frightened of touching the monk, his arms still streaked with dried blood. “No time,” she repeated, despair in her voice now.
But Shan sensed that for Surya there was time only for this, that despite their own fears, the monk had seen much more to fear, seemed alone to understand the true depths of their desperation, had decided their only possible defense lay with the deity in the painting. For the first time Shan saw that something had been painted below the old painting: a mantra perhaps. The words were obliterated with dark red streaks. Something inscribed there had just been obscured by red pigment, one of the colors Surya carried in little wooden tubes that hung on a leather strap around his neck, inside his underrobe. He saw that the monk’s hands held fresh red stains over the drying blood. Surya had fled to the little shelter not only to clean the old painting but to also rub pigment over what had been written below it.
“Om hum tram huih ah,” Surya cried out in a strangely fierce voice. It was a mantra to bind guardians. Surya said no more but stared into the eyes of the deity. It was as if he had just concluded a pact with Tara.
Liya stopped her strange pantomime of struggle to stare at the monk, then pushed past Shan, her eyes full of tears. He watched as she searched the landscape beyond Zhoka, as though looking for someone in particular, then began urging the fleeing Tibetans toward the trail below the crest, down the steep switchback beyond the outcropping, toward their camps and houses in the hills above the valley. She ran back fifty yards along the crest and swept a stumbling child onto her back, forcing a lighthearted air as she carried the boy past the outcropping, handing him to his weary parents at the edge of the ledge, calling out a blessing as they disappeared over the crest. Shan stepped a few feet down the grassy slope, calling Jara, gesturing for the herder to bring his family.
Only half a dozen Tibetans remained in sight when Liya halted, looking back with a puzzled expression. Shan followed her gaze to see Surya, out on the ledge now, facing the steep valley beyond, his arms stretched outward at his side. Lokesh took a step toward the monk then halted, cocking one ear upward. Shan heard it, too, as he stepped closer, a deep thunder that came from the cloudless sky. Suddenly, running, stumbling figures appeared at the crest, crying out, racing back up the trail they had just descended, discarding the baskets and packs they carried.
Too late Shan recognized the metallic rumble. As he grabbed Lokesh’s arm the thunder roared to a crescendo and a huge whirling blade appeared beyond the ledge, slowly rising to reveal the sleek dark grey body of one of the helicopters used by the army. Everyone seemed to be screaming, scattering in every direction but that of the machine. Jara stumbled through the stream below and began racing toward his niece as his wife gathered the other children. Dawa herself leapt up and frantically ran, not toward her uncle, but along the slope in the opposite direction.
Shan pushed Lokesh back toward the ruins and ran to Gendun’s side as the machine paused, hovering a few feet above the ground. As he grabbed the lama and pulled him to his feet half a dozen troops in combat gear dropped out of the helicopter.
Shan and his friends ran, stumbling, tripping over rocks, Shan repeatedly stopping to help Gendun, pulling him forward, struggling because Gendun seemed unwilling to
“There is no time for this,” Liya said to Surya. “You must flee.” She stepped to his side and made a pulling motion with her arms, though her hands were empty, as though she were frightened of touching the monk, his arms still streaked with dried blood. “No time,” she repeated, despair in her voice now.
But Shan sensed that for Surya there was time only for this, that despite their own fears, the monk had seen much more to fear, seemed alone to understand the true depths of their desperation, had decided their only possible defense lay with the deity in the painting. For the first time Shan saw that something had been painted below the old painting: a mantra perhaps. The words were obliterated with dark red streaks. Something inscribed there had just been obscured by red pigment, one of the colors Surya carried in little wooden tubes that hung on a leather strap around his neck, inside his underrobe. He saw that the monk’s hands held fresh red stains over the drying blood. Surya had fled to the little shelter not only to clean the old painting but to also rub pigment over what had been written below it.
“Om hum tram huih ah,” Surya cried out in a strangely fierce voice. It was a mantra to bind guardians. Surya said no more but stared into the eyes of the deity. It was as if he had just concluded a pact with Tara.
Liya stopped her strange pantomime of struggle to stare at the monk, then pushed past Shan, her eyes full of tears. He watched as she searched the landscape beyond Zhoka, as though looking for someone in particular, then began urging the fleeing Tibetans toward the trail below the crest, down the steep switchback beyond the outcropping, toward their camps and houses in the hills above the valley. She ran back fifty yards along the crest and swept a stumbling child onto her back, forcing a lighthearted air as she carried the boy past the outcropping, handing him to his weary parents at the edge of the ledge, calling out a blessing as they disappeared over the crest. Shan stepped a few feet down the grassy slope, calling Jara, gesturing for the herder to bring his family.
Only half a dozen Tibetans remained in sight when Liya halted, looking back with a puzzled expression. Shan followed her gaze to see Surya, out on the ledge now, facing the steep valley beyond, his arms stretched outward at his side. Lokesh took a step toward the monk then halted, cocking one ear upward. Shan heard it, too, as he stepped closer, a deep thunder that came from the cloudless sky. Suddenly, running, stumbling figures appeared at the crest, crying out, racing back up the trail they had just descended, discarding the baskets and packs they carried.
Too late Shan recognized the metallic rumble. As he grabbed Lokesh’s arm the thunder roared to a crescendo and a huge whirling blade appeared beyond the ledge, slowly rising to reveal the sleek dark grey body of one of the helicopters used by the army. Everyone seemed to be screaming, scattering in every direction but that of the machine. Jara stumbled through the stream below and began racing toward his niece as his wife gathered the other children. Dawa herself leapt up and frantically ran, not toward her uncle, but along the slope in the opposite direction.
Shan pushed Lokesh back toward the ruins and ran to Gendun’s side as the machine paused, hovering a few feet above the ground. As he grabbed the lama and pulled him to his feet half a dozen troops in combat gear dropped out of the helicopter.
Shan and his friends ran, stumbling, tripping over rocks, Shan repeatedly stopping to help Gendun, pulling him forward, struggling because Gendun seemed unwilling to
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