together. He probed it with his fingers, pulling out two long cotton swabs, a bent, exhausted tube of industrial glue, and a half-used tube of lip balm. Sexy Sheen, read the label in English and Chinese. He examined the swabs. They were on eight-inch-long sticks, the kind found in a well-stocked medical lab, something seldom seen in Tibetan towns.
When he finished, and emerged from the murder site, Lokesh was handing three sticks to Yangke, who had three more in his hand, all identical, all painted with three bands at the top, one blue then two red.
“I thought you said these people were not miners,” Shan said.
“These have been put here since I visited last. Lokesh found them, arranged to lay claim to this whole campsite and beyond.”
“Do you recognize the colors? Which miner’s are they?”
Yangke’s only reply was to insert the stakes into one of the iron hand straps of his collar, and snap them in half. He opened a small trough in the ground with his heel. Lokesh silently helped him bury the broken claim stakes.
Shan gestured toward the high spine of rock that rose toward the summit, dividing the mountain into eastern and western halves. “I know how hard it is to reach this side of the mountain from below,” Shan said. “But what about from the east side?”
“Toward the summit it gets very dangerous,” Yangke explained. “Lightning frequently strikes there without warning.”
“Lightning?” Lokesh asked, suddenly interested. Earth deities often expressed themselves through lightning.
“In the spring and summer, if there is storm anywhere near, lightning will strike there. Sometimes lightning strikes the summit even without a storm.”
“It’s the tallest mountain for dozens of miles,” Shan pointed out. Neither of the Tibetans responded. “Are there farms on the other side?”
“Just that Chinese place, miles away.”
“You called it a secret base.”
“It has a high wire fence around it. Some white buildings. Very quiet. Few are aware of its existence. Even in Beijing it’s a secret, they say.”
“Not an army base?”
“When I was young I used to slip over the top to look around.
My aunts said it was a Chinese base, full of death. The headman said it was full of poison.”
“Chodron?”
“No, that was his father. I would sit in a shadow on the eastern slope for hours, watching. There were a few soldiers. I would hear them singing sometimes. I wanted to speak with them, maybe get some medicine for my mother, who was sick. The soldiers put grain out for some wild yaks. Wild yaks are close to the deities, our old ones said. I knew they must be kind if they fed the wild yaks. Each day I drew a little closer, like the yaks.”
“They weren’t helping the yaks,” Shan suggested in a tight voice, having often seen what Chinese soldiers did to Tibet’s wild animals.
“No,” Yangke said, looking into the water. “The day I determined to go speak with them, a beautiful white yak approached the grain. I watched since everyone knows that white yaks are especially sacred, an omen of great things to come. At that time I had never seen a gun except the old muskets of our hunters. I had never heard a machine.”
“But they had a machine gun,” Shan ventured.
Yangke nodded.
“How do I get there?”
“There is no way, not anymore. Maybe they saw me or some of the other herders. There was only one gap like a narrow gate in a high wall. Soldiers put bombs in the gap and brought the rocks down. The two sides of the mountain can no longer meet. They haven’t for years.”
Lokesh had wandered up the trail to the second set of rock outcroppings. As Shan watched, the old Tibetan tilted his head one way then another, then made a series of hand gestures, ritual mudras , beginning with his hands pressed together, pointing outward, the thumbs and forefingers folded inward. It was the sign for water for the face. He was making the mudras for what the devout called the Eight Outer
When he finished, and emerged from the murder site, Lokesh was handing three sticks to Yangke, who had three more in his hand, all identical, all painted with three bands at the top, one blue then two red.
“I thought you said these people were not miners,” Shan said.
“These have been put here since I visited last. Lokesh found them, arranged to lay claim to this whole campsite and beyond.”
“Do you recognize the colors? Which miner’s are they?”
Yangke’s only reply was to insert the stakes into one of the iron hand straps of his collar, and snap them in half. He opened a small trough in the ground with his heel. Lokesh silently helped him bury the broken claim stakes.
Shan gestured toward the high spine of rock that rose toward the summit, dividing the mountain into eastern and western halves. “I know how hard it is to reach this side of the mountain from below,” Shan said. “But what about from the east side?”
“Toward the summit it gets very dangerous,” Yangke explained. “Lightning frequently strikes there without warning.”
“Lightning?” Lokesh asked, suddenly interested. Earth deities often expressed themselves through lightning.
“In the spring and summer, if there is storm anywhere near, lightning will strike there. Sometimes lightning strikes the summit even without a storm.”
“It’s the tallest mountain for dozens of miles,” Shan pointed out. Neither of the Tibetans responded. “Are there farms on the other side?”
“Just that Chinese place, miles away.”
“You called it a secret base.”
“It has a high wire fence around it. Some white buildings. Very quiet. Few are aware of its existence. Even in Beijing it’s a secret, they say.”
“Not an army base?”
“When I was young I used to slip over the top to look around.
My aunts said it was a Chinese base, full of death. The headman said it was full of poison.”
“Chodron?”
“No, that was his father. I would sit in a shadow on the eastern slope for hours, watching. There were a few soldiers. I would hear them singing sometimes. I wanted to speak with them, maybe get some medicine for my mother, who was sick. The soldiers put grain out for some wild yaks. Wild yaks are close to the deities, our old ones said. I knew they must be kind if they fed the wild yaks. Each day I drew a little closer, like the yaks.”
“They weren’t helping the yaks,” Shan suggested in a tight voice, having often seen what Chinese soldiers did to Tibet’s wild animals.
“No,” Yangke said, looking into the water. “The day I determined to go speak with them, a beautiful white yak approached the grain. I watched since everyone knows that white yaks are especially sacred, an omen of great things to come. At that time I had never seen a gun except the old muskets of our hunters. I had never heard a machine.”
“But they had a machine gun,” Shan ventured.
Yangke nodded.
“How do I get there?”
“There is no way, not anymore. Maybe they saw me or some of the other herders. There was only one gap like a narrow gate in a high wall. Soldiers put bombs in the gap and brought the rocks down. The two sides of the mountain can no longer meet. They haven’t for years.”
Lokesh had wandered up the trail to the second set of rock outcroppings. As Shan watched, the old Tibetan tilted his head one way then another, then made a series of hand gestures, ritual mudras , beginning with his hands pressed together, pointing outward, the thumbs and forefingers folded inward. It was the sign for water for the face. He was making the mudras for what the devout called the Eight Outer
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