He added an hour to the drive home with a detour on the rough gravel road that led him to a familiar overlook. He parked the car Tan had given him, sturdy despite being several years old, and walked to the edge of the cliff where he had built a small cairn months earlier. Below him was the 404th People’s Construction Brigade, where he had been an inmate. A line of dust marked the closely guarded convoy that was returning prisoners from their daily ordeal of building another road in the mountains. Memories of being on the trucks still ambushed him at unexpected moments, the spasm in his heart sometimes so severe it would paralyze him for a minute or two. The prisoners would have been worked brutally, beaten if they did not keep up the pace, and many of the younger inmates and Chinese prisoners would be slumped against each other, sleeping. But the old ones never slept, just whispered their mantras during the long drive back, quietly working malas, their prayer beads. Their original malas, some centuries old, would have been confiscated decades earlier, so they used makeshift rosaries composed of buttons, little cardboard discs, or even fingernail clippings. Those same battered lamas had saved him, had filled the crushed, hopeless shell that had been Shan with new life and new meaning. Shan did everything within his power to help his son Ko, who was now on one of those trucks, but he knew that the strength and determination he had seen growing in his son was owed much more to the old monks than to Shan. In the last few months much had also been owed to Yara, who had abandoned her life as a feral, defiant, unregistered Tibetan, to get her papers and her teaching job so she could visit Ko every few weeks.
Shan watched as the trucks slowed and entered the gate, thinking now of Metok, who had been a prisoner himself for a few weeks before being executed. When Shan had left the prison, he had said to one of the aged lamas that he owed them everything. “No,” the old man had replied with a serene smile, “you owe us only the truth.”
* * *
It was early evening when he parked in front of the station. Choden met him at the door. “You have a new car?” he asked, visibly excited. “It can’t be more than three or four years old!”
Shan shrugged as he walked inside. “Heater works. But I don’t think it has a siren.”
“And it’s green,” Choden observed. “I don’t think law enforcement has green cars.”
“So much the better,” Shan replied, then noticed the map laid out over Choden’s desk. Someone had been writing on it.
Choden answered his question before he could ask. “Lhakpa,” the deputy explained. “This morning he went out and climbed the gate tower, like those scientists did yesterday, even seemed to study each mountain like they did. Then he came back in and asked if we had a map of the northern sector of the county. He studied it for nearly an hour, muttering ‘wrong, wrong, wrong,’ again and again. Then he took out a pencil and began making corrections.”
As Marpa had indicated the day before, existing maps, including those issued to mere constables, were grossly inaccurate. Lhakpa had been making corrections along the northern border. He had slightly shifted several peaks, even highlighted a remote valley and written a name on it, Gekho’s Roost, and then drawn little chortens in a ring surrounding the valley.
“I don’t understand,” Shan said. “Why did he do that?”
Choden shrugged. “He’s a snow monk,” he said, as if such men were never expected to act rationally.
“Gekho?” Shan asked. The word seemed vaguely familiar, and Shan suspected he had seen it in the archives hidden under the streets of Yangkar.
Choden looked nervously about, and his voice dropped to a near whisper. “An ancient one. A very fierce protector god. The first of the earth deities, the old ones say, from before the days of Buddha,” he added, meaning Gekho was a god of Bon, the animist religion that had dominated Tibet before Buddhist missionaries had arrived from India.
“But why?” Shan asked. “You should ask Lhakpa.”
“I can’t.”
Shan saw the awkward, worried expression on his deputy’s face and opened the door to the cell block. Lhakpa was gone. He had packed his belongings and departed.
“You criticized him yesterday,” Choden said, a hint of accusation in his tone. “You made it impossible for him to spend time here with his niece.”
Somehow Shan suspected his departure had more to do with the visit of the Institute team than the rules of his jail. “Check the stables for him,” he said.
“He won’t be in anyone’s stable. He and Tara left on the northeastern pilgrim’s trail, up into the high mountains. We won’t see him for months. It’s what snow monks do: bless us then disappear.”
Shan looked back at the map. Why had Lhakpa gone to the trouble of marking the map then just left it? It had been a message of some kind, Shan realized, left for him. Why would the snow monk be frightened away from Yangkar by a visiting team of scientists? Why would the Chinese scientists seem to recognize the unassuming, contemplative Tibetan?
He went out to his car and returned with an army map he had found in the glove box and laid it beside Lhakpa’s map, locating the valley Lhakpa had marked to the northeast of Yangkar. The army map too had a recently penciled annotation, on the same valley. The army map identified the valley as simply Five Claws.
* * *
Shan left at dawn for the forty-mile drive to the hydro project and crested the slope leading down into the valley as the work crews were filing out of a large prefabricated building that he took to be a mess hall. He pulled over and trained his binoculars on distant figures as they climbed into dump trucks, tractors, pickups, and even bulldozers then dispersed toward work sites spread throughout the long valley. Before the mess hall, closer to the main road, was a building with a circular drive in front of it centered around a tall flagpole flying the red flag of the People’s Republic. Beyond the mess hall were rows of modular units, hauled in by truck, that he assumed were mostly dormitories. The project was massive. He counted the number of modular units. Even if some were used for storage or offices, there had to be scores of workers. Near the mess hall was a concrete mixing plant, where trucks were lined up to receive their loads. With his binoculars he studied the work at the southern end, the deep, narrow pass where huge forms were being constructed for the footers of the dam itself.
The ground shook beneath his feet as a heavy truck crested the ridge and roared past him. Its license plate explained why he had not seen more signs of the project. The truck was from Sichuan, meaning supplies and equipment were coming in on the road from the east, bypassing most of Lhadrung County.
The valley, as depicted in Lhakpa’s map, was surrounded by a double ring of mountains, the first a series of rugged ridges that enveloped the valley on all sides, then a series of much steeper snowcapped mountains that stood like sentinels guarding the fertile valley. At the northern end, the two highest peaks funneled a tall waterfall onto the floor of the valley, into a small lake that was an intensely turquoise color. From there a narrow river flowed through the valley into the gap at the southern end where the dam would be built. That vital gap, which made the entire project possible, was a narrow split in the tallest of the surrounding mountains, a magnificent snowcapped peak with a descending series of flats that resembled steps, large enough for a giant. It was what Tibetans would call a grandfather mountain, and what Lhakpa had labeled Gekho’s Roost. Huge juniper trees grew around the lake and along the river, and probably had grown all the way to the far end of the valley before the work crews had begun cutting them down and scraping the ground bare.
The Tibetans believed there were spiritual power places created by the earth deities, typically small areas shielded on the north side by natural formations, open to the east for the benefit of the sunrise, and preferably near water and juniper trees. The valley was a power place on a massive scale, the biggest Shan had ever seen. At least it had been before Beijing had overtaken it with bulldozers and dump trucks.
Amah Jiejie had called ahead to make sure Shan was expected as Colonel Tan’s
envoy at the project headquarters. The director, Dr. Ren Yatsen, an overeager man with a vacuous smile, enthusiastically welcomed Shan, and had his assistant serve tea as he presented a short slide show depicting the valley as it would look in the future. The placid lake in the artist’s rendering was framed by concrete structures. In a second perspective from the land below, beaming Tibetans stood before massive turbines as they received outflow waters into fields of golden barley. It would become, Ren assured him, a great source of pride for Tibetans, who could boast that their once useless valley was powering the motherland. When Shan raised a questioning eyebrow, the director explained that the transmission lines would go directly into Sichuan Province, from where power would be distributed into the heart of China.
Ren insisted on taking Shan on a tour of the construction, and as he climbed into Ren’s car, Shan caught the director eyeing his constable’s uniform.
“I am not on the colonel’s military staff, if that’s what you are wondering,” Shan said.
“No, no. I confess I was confused when the colonel’s office said he was sending his inspector.”
“I live in Yangkar,” Shan said, “the closest county office.” Ren seemed somehow relieved by the explanation and resumed his pitch about the wonders of his project as he drove along the valley floor, passing by piles of smoldering trees and huge mounds of fill dirt being brought from the slopes to smooth out the bottom of the valley. Ren stopped at the head of the little lake and pointed to a wide stripe of yellow paint halfway up the cliff face that towered over them.
“Our projected water level,” Ren explained with pride. It meant, Shan saw, that the beautiful valley would be entirely submerged.
The director noticed that Shan’s gaze lingered on a pile of lumber, many of the boards cracked and broken, that a bulldozer was compacting to burn.
“Construction debris,” the director said.
But Shan could see the broken wall frames and sections of roof. It wasn’t debris left from building, it was the ruins of a new structure.
The creation of the huge hydro facility was really a combination of projects. The director eagerly pointed out the teams busily scouring the bottom of the valley, making sure nothing was left that might later foul the turbines. Then he showed Shan the massive foundations being prepared at the base of the narrow high-walled pass, the cement plant, and the rows of worker housing beside the equipment yard. When Shan’s gaze fixed on the fence being erected around the equipment yard, Ren touched his shoulder and indicated the work being conducted high up the slope near the road, where the control rooms would be built.
“What was the conclusion of the assessment done by Religious Affairs?” Shan asked as Ren pulled up by Shan’s own car.
The unexpected question raised a wince to Ren’s face, which he quickly forced into a smile. “I assure you all required assessments were properly completed, Inspector. There were a few odd artifacts discovered in a cave that we hauled away for recycling.”
Shan paused as he opened his door. “A cave. You mean a cavern temple?”
“Just a hole in the mountain with some rusty junk abandoned ages ago,” a new voice inserted. A well-dressed man in his thirties had appeared by Shan’s door, blocking his exit. “The engineers consider such things impediments to clean water flow.”
Ren gave a small wince before making the introduction. “My deputy director, Jiao Wonzhou,” Ren told Shan. “Inspector Shan is representing the governor today,” he added to Jiao.
“I didn’t notice a cave,” Shan said.
“Gone,” Jiao proudly explained. “We blasted it, caved it in. Who knows what other trash might have been inside it. Can’t have debris drifting out into the turbines. Those machines cost millions each.”
“No doubt the antiquities were given the customary evaluation by Religious Affairs,” Shan suggested.
Jiao’s face hardened. His eyes flared at Shan, then his anger was gone, and he shrugged. “Petty bureaucrats have to learn there is no role for them here. The Bureau of Religious Affairs does not appreciate the challenges of hydroelectric construction.”
It was clearly not the first time Jiao had used the words. Religious Affairs had been trespassing on what Jiao considered to be his territory.
Jiao leaned closer. “A few rusty gods in a cave aren’t meaningful to the motherland. And a handful of blurry photos sent by a convicted criminal cannot be relied on. If you wish to help us, Comrade Inspector, you can tell them to purge their files.”
Shan turned away, trying not to show his reaction to the discovery that Metok had sent photos to Religious Affairs. “But no doubt you explained how some old figurines hidden in a cave could foul your huge dam.” He cocked his head at Jiao. “It does sound a bit supernatural, just their thing.”
Jiao studied him with a simmering eye, taking in the frayed cuffs of his uniform and scuffed boots. “I’m sorry, Comrade Shan. I didn’t realize you were an engineer as well as an inspector. Why exactly did you come?”
“Comrade Shan is Lhadrung’s closest senior official,” Ren quickly explained. The director seemed to be unsettled by Jiao’s intervention. “He reports directly to the county governor.”
“Colonel Tan thinks that since his resources are being utilized by the Five Claws team we should have some knowledge of the project,” Shan added.
Jiao’s thin smile did not fade. “Resources?”
“Our jail in Lhadrung. Our new execution chamber. The secure compartment used for his military cargo that yielded a dead Institute worker. The Institute is a partner in your glorious project, I understand.”
Jiao’s gaze grew more intense. “So, you are here as constable of some farm town.”
Shan shrugged. “Constable, special inspector for the governor, roaming goodwill ambassador. Sometimes I get my hats mixed up.”
“We pride ourselves on our autonomy, comrade,” Jiao said, an edge of warning in his voice now. “If the colonel wants us to pay for using his cells, he can send us a bill. And that man Sun was not affiliated with the Five Claws. Just a cartographer on a day off.”
“I didn’t mention the dead man’s name,” Shan pointed out.
“The Institute is creating a master development plan. They are one of our valued partners in advancing the interests of the motherland.”
“Master development plan?” Shan asked. “I fear you have Lhadrung County confused with the suburbs of some eastern city.”
Jiao took a step back to let Shan out of the truck. “The motherland has a responsibility to all her children,” he replied. “And we are well aware that your Yangkar is the closest town to our project,” he added with a gloating expression, then raised a hand in farewell. “Please send Colonel Tan our deepest respects. We look forward to paying him the homage he deserves some day.”
The director seemed relieved as Jiao walked away. “Glad the colonel is finally showing an interest,” he offered in parting. “Tell him to come visit us personally sometime. He’s never bothered to show up. We are going to transform his county.”
Shan drove a mile down the road then waited until a dump truck passed and returned to the compound in its dust cloud, parking at the mess hall. He removed his tunic jacket and donned the old work shirt and wool cap he had thrown in the back seat before leaving Yangkar that morning, then ventured into the dining hall. There would be different shifts for eating, he knew, and a few dozen workers were already in the early lunch line. He took a tray and stood behind them, accepting a bowl of rice and vegetables, then filled a mug with tea and found a seat by a group of men his own age. As he approached he stuffed his left arm into his shirt as if it were immobilized.
He ate in silence, listening to good-natured banter about the weather, equipment breakdowns, and news from distant families. Seeing him struggle to reach a bottle of soy sauce, the man beside Shan pushed it closer. “Flying on one wing, eh?” the worker said.
“Tripped when I fled as that building came down,” Shan ventured. “Could have
been worse.”
“Hell, just good fortune that no one died,” the man replied. “No way that big garage should have collapsed like that. A freak wind they said. We can put a new one up easy enough but it’ll take weeks to replace the equipment lost that day.”
“Lucky no one has died anywhere yet,” the burly man across from them put in.
“There’s been other accidents?” Shan asked.
“More than I’ve ever seen on a job,” his neighbor said. “Engines seize up. A sinkhole opened overnight and swallowed a bulldozer. Cement don’t cure right and walls collapse when the forms are pulled away. The cold weather some say, the elevation others claim. Twice they began to cut trees and a wind comes out of nowhere and topples ’em in the wrong direction, taking out a dump truck each time. Some of the Chinese foremen are even suggesting gravity works differently here, ’cause it’s the top of the world. Others say burning all those juniper trees makes smoke that attracts the Tibetan demons. Should never have leveled that graveyard of dead gods, that’s what I say.”
“Graveyard of gods?” Shan asked.
“Rows of squared stones so covered with lichen they seemd older than time itself. Gave me the shivers just walking by them. All gone now, no trace left, and not a prayer spoken.”
“Messages started coming from the sky,” a man down the table volunteered.
“The sky?” Shan asked.
The man nodded. “Prayers drift down out of the clouds.”
“Shouldn’t have blasted that god’s hole,” muttered the burly worker across from Shan.
“God’s hole?” Shan asked.
“An old cave with strange markings all over its walls and an old painting of some blue demon in the entrance, like he lived there.” The man lowered his voice and grew solemn. “As if he were the last of the old gods, watching over those graves of his friends. Some of those close by the blast said they heard the god screaming inside as the cave collapsed.”
Bones of the Earth Page 6