said it was too hard to find a good Tibetan doctor. He said bad things happened to Tibetans in Chinese hospitals. So he just sewed it up himself. No painkillers. Just a big needle and some yak hair thread he borrowed from a dropka who was repairing his tent.”
Shan remembered how weak Drakte had appeared when he had arrived the night before, how he had leaned against the wall for support before stumbling toward the center of the room. The dropka guard said he had lingered at outcroppings as though watching for someone. He hadn’t been watching, Shan was certain now, he had been resting, nursing his wound, summoning his strength to reach the hermitage. Drakte had thought he was free of his attacker, had even taken the time, hours earlier, to sew up the wound.
The purba runner leaned closer to Drakte’s head and seemed to whisper something in the dead man’s ear. When she straightened more tears were streaming down her cheeks. Shan remembered how she had tended to her braids on the ridge.
They sat in silence, watching as Lokesh gently washed the blood from the wound and replaced the shirttail. Tenzin continued to help, holding a bowl of water, but then he suddenly halted, his breath catching, and he set the bowl down with shaking hands as he studied the dead man again. He pushed back and leaned against the wall, grief abruptly twisting his face. The woman’s eyes glazed and she seemed to forget the rest of them. Her hand rose again and she traced with one finger the long curving scar on Drakte’s forehead, cupped her palm around his cheek then absently traced the scar once more. The motion had an intimate air, like a gesture of affection Drakte might still recognize.
“You would have been such a lama,” Shan heard her whisper. “You would have lived to be a hundred and carried on the true ways.” She laid her palm on his cheek. “Who will be the old ones when you should have been old?” she asked the dead man. Slowly her hand dropped, and when she turned, though her eyes brimmed with moisture, her voice was cool and steady. “What do you mean he was cursed?” she asked the dropka.
“A demon came and spoke words of power,” a voice interjected from behind Shan. The Golok stood in the doorway. “We know why,” he said in a taunting tone toward Lokesh and Gendun. “It’s because that demon won’t have another Chinese taking the eye.”
Shan’s gaze shifted from the Golok to Lokesh, who seemed as confused by the words as Shan himself. Lokesh shrugged at Shan, looked at the man and frowned. “Not a demon,” he said. “A dobdob. If it were a demon he’d be back for someone like you, who speaks with such disrespect around the dead.”
Shan gazed with surprise at his old friend. It was not like Lokesh to rebuke anyone. The Golok answered with an exaggerated wince then stepped back and left the hut.
They finished cleaning the body as best they could, lit more butter lamps, and went outside. Shan lingered for a moment at the door, longing to speak with Gendun, to make certain the lama would be ready to flee with them. But Gendun continued the Bardo, staring now at one of the flames near Drakte. Gendun had lived in a hidden hermitage, carved inside a mountain, almost his entire life. The first Chinese he had ever met had been Shan, the year before. The first time he had left his own hermitage in decades had been only four months earlier. The thing he could not get used to about the outside world, he had sadly confided to Shan, was how many good people died without having prepared their souls, as if they had not taken their gift of human incarnation seriously.
As he stepped outside, Shan was relieved to see the Golok preparing a short grey horse for travel. The dropka guard squatted at a small fire between two of the buildings, protected from the wind, working a churn to mix buttered tea, casting anxious glances toward the ridge where his sister still stacked stones. Lokesh, Shan, and the purba runner
Shan remembered how weak Drakte had appeared when he had arrived the night before, how he had leaned against the wall for support before stumbling toward the center of the room. The dropka guard said he had lingered at outcroppings as though watching for someone. He hadn’t been watching, Shan was certain now, he had been resting, nursing his wound, summoning his strength to reach the hermitage. Drakte had thought he was free of his attacker, had even taken the time, hours earlier, to sew up the wound.
The purba runner leaned closer to Drakte’s head and seemed to whisper something in the dead man’s ear. When she straightened more tears were streaming down her cheeks. Shan remembered how she had tended to her braids on the ridge.
They sat in silence, watching as Lokesh gently washed the blood from the wound and replaced the shirttail. Tenzin continued to help, holding a bowl of water, but then he suddenly halted, his breath catching, and he set the bowl down with shaking hands as he studied the dead man again. He pushed back and leaned against the wall, grief abruptly twisting his face. The woman’s eyes glazed and she seemed to forget the rest of them. Her hand rose again and she traced with one finger the long curving scar on Drakte’s forehead, cupped her palm around his cheek then absently traced the scar once more. The motion had an intimate air, like a gesture of affection Drakte might still recognize.
“You would have been such a lama,” Shan heard her whisper. “You would have lived to be a hundred and carried on the true ways.” She laid her palm on his cheek. “Who will be the old ones when you should have been old?” she asked the dead man. Slowly her hand dropped, and when she turned, though her eyes brimmed with moisture, her voice was cool and steady. “What do you mean he was cursed?” she asked the dropka.
“A demon came and spoke words of power,” a voice interjected from behind Shan. The Golok stood in the doorway. “We know why,” he said in a taunting tone toward Lokesh and Gendun. “It’s because that demon won’t have another Chinese taking the eye.”
Shan’s gaze shifted from the Golok to Lokesh, who seemed as confused by the words as Shan himself. Lokesh shrugged at Shan, looked at the man and frowned. “Not a demon,” he said. “A dobdob. If it were a demon he’d be back for someone like you, who speaks with such disrespect around the dead.”
Shan gazed with surprise at his old friend. It was not like Lokesh to rebuke anyone. The Golok answered with an exaggerated wince then stepped back and left the hut.
They finished cleaning the body as best they could, lit more butter lamps, and went outside. Shan lingered for a moment at the door, longing to speak with Gendun, to make certain the lama would be ready to flee with them. But Gendun continued the Bardo, staring now at one of the flames near Drakte. Gendun had lived in a hidden hermitage, carved inside a mountain, almost his entire life. The first Chinese he had ever met had been Shan, the year before. The first time he had left his own hermitage in decades had been only four months earlier. The thing he could not get used to about the outside world, he had sadly confided to Shan, was how many good people died without having prepared their souls, as if they had not taken their gift of human incarnation seriously.
As he stepped outside, Shan was relieved to see the Golok preparing a short grey horse for travel. The dropka guard squatted at a small fire between two of the buildings, protected from the wind, working a churn to mix buttered tea, casting anxious glances toward the ridge where his sister still stacked stones. Lokesh, Shan, and the purba runner
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