House of Trembling Leaves, The

by Lees, Julian

  Yes, thought Sum Sum. I’ll make them tsampa. Tsampa made with mule dung. May the wrathful deities of the Bardo Thodol drink their blood.

  The officer and the mineralogist found Tormam stuffing a bronze of Buddha Akshobhya into a basket of freshly laundered spiritual robes.

  They slapped her several times and turned the rooms over, one by one, starting with the prayer hall. They tore up floorboards, kicked over ritual bells and vajras and ripped open novice rugs. They hauled down sections of shelving, which collapsed with a crunch, like the sound of rice paper crumpling in your fist. When they reached the kitchen, they shook the turnips from their sacks and rifled through the chests of tea. The officer in charge eyed the hot cauldrons of soup. They found another bronze statue in a vat of yak butter. The officer, appeased now, grabbed a wooden spoon and sunk it into the cauldron of hot soup. ‘‘Ugh! Taste is terrible.’’ He grimaced. ‘‘Right, I want everything itemized for the metal people. Give me the list and I will hand it to them. If anything goes missing there will be hell to pay.’’

  As soon as they left prayer hall manager Jampa took Tormam aside. There was a cut on her top lip. ‘‘How is your face?’’

  Tormam did not reply. Instead she nodded and led Jampa and the abbess to the kitchen and the cauldron of hot soup. With a wooden paddle she fished out two large pouches made from goat hide and deposited them on a work table. She undid the straps with a cloth wrapped round her fingers and removed the priceless statues – a massive golden image of Shakyamuni Buddha and a 15th century figure of Harit Tara, cast in solid gold and inlaid with rubies. They were the nunnery’s most sacred possessions.

  The abbess smiled at Tormam. ‘‘Inner peace and strength to you.’’

  The following day fighting broke out in Lhasa. A battalion of dob-dobs – monk soldiers – wearing red armbands and with their faces soot-blackened attacked a Chinese foot patrol using spears and cobblers’ knives as weapons. Hundreds of protestors backed them up throwing rocks in support of the Dalai Lama. A wave of Chinese troops arrived and when the protestors threw stones at them they drew their weapons and fired on the people. Like flower buds after a frost they fell to the ground.

  The military commission imposed a dusk-to-dawn curfew. When this stirred up even greater hatred the Chinese shelled the Dalai Lama’s Summer Palace and set it ablaze. The resulting fires spread to the nearby buildings. Many hundreds died in the inferno.

  Sum Sum could smell the burning flesh. The Chinese troops burned corpses in Barkhor Street throughout the day, tossing limp charred bodies into the giant pyre.

  Prayer hall manager Jampa and the abbess were deep in conversation as they padded barefoot across the courtyard.

  ‘‘What were they talking about?’’ asked Sum Sum a little later. She fingered her mala beads.

  ‘‘I don’t know,’’ Tormam replied. ‘‘They went into Jampa’s office and closed the door. But they mentioned your name.’’

  ‘‘My name?’’

  ‘‘Have you done anything wrong?’’ asked Tormam. Sum Sum shook her head. ‘‘Well, I think they are going to want to see you.’’

  The abbess’s mouth curled and quivered. ‘‘The Dalai Lama has fled. The gates of heaven have closed.’’

  Sum Sum and Tormam were in prayer manager Jampa’s room, heads bowed reverently. The abbess was close to tears. Her words shocked everyone into silence.

  Jampa’s mouth grew thin. Eventually: ‘‘The abbess and I have decided,’’ she said with deliberate calm. She was peering down at her desk now, laying her hands on its surface, fists clenched. ‘‘We have decided that the situation in Tibet will only grow worse. Knowing this, we must save our sacred statues. The Chinese will keep returning. One day they will find them. They will find them and destroy them.’’ She unfurled a scroll, an ancient hand-drawn map of Tibet and Bhutan. ‘‘We believe this is the route taken by the Dalai Lama. It is treacherous and strength-sapping and …’’

  ‘‘And …?’’ Sum Sum urged her along.

  ‘‘It is our hope that you and Tormam will follow in their footsteps. Deliver our sacred golden image of Shakyamuni Buddha and our beloved Harit Tara into the hands of His Holiness.’’

  Sum Sum registered the words and information but was unsure what to say.

  ‘‘Will you do this for the sake of our nunnery?’’ pleaded the abbess.

  ‘‘Why us?’’ asked Sum Sum.

  ‘‘You are both young and loyal and exceedingly resourceful,’’ replied the abbess.

  ‘‘If a little mutinous,’’ added Jampa.

  ‘‘It has taken us time to appreciate you, Sengemo, but appreciate you we do. You have a wilful character and a genuine heart. We trust you,’’ continued the abbess.

  ‘‘Will you do this?’’ said Jampa.

  Sum Sum and Tormam exchanged looks. ‘‘Yes,’’ they replied. ‘‘Of course, we will do it.’’

  ‘‘Ndug’re.’’

  ‘‘But how do we do this?’’ said Tormam.

  ‘‘You walk,’’ replied the abbess.

  ‘‘Walk?’’

  ‘‘Yes,’’ she said triumphantly. ‘‘To India.’’

  The skin on the back of Sum Sum’s neck stiffened.

  ‘‘Yes, to India,’’ Jampa repeated decisively. Forgetting for a moment that the abbess was there she took a pinch of snuff from her yak-horn container and snorted noisily. ‘‘This map will guide you. I have outlined your course with landmarks. You will cross the Indian border at the Khenzimana Pass. Give them these papers.’’ She handed them two scrolls. ‘‘Tell them who you are and that you seek political asylum. If they do not understand you keep repeating the Dalai Lama’s name over and over. Whatever happens they must not send you back.’’

  ‘‘And take this firebag.’’ The abbess gave them a leather pouch. ‘‘Inside are flints, tinder and boxes of matches. Keep it dry. This bag more than anything will keep you alive.’’

  The abbess spoke in a strangled tone; the words crackled like dry leaves. But it was what she’d left unsaid that made the blood leave Sum Sum’s face. She read the warning in the old woman’s expression: Lose this bag and you will freeze to death in the middle of nowhere.

  For the first time there were dark circles of worry under Jampa’s eyes.

  The abbess found them boots for the long journey; the soles were made from thick yak skin and the upper made from buff. Jampa insisted the girls wrap cloth over their feet within the boots to stave off the cold and told them if the cloth should wear through they were to stuff their boots with yak hair.

  ‘‘Ndug’re! Also, this is for you,’’ the abbess said to Sum Sum. She handed over a brick of paper, held together with twine. ‘‘Letters from your friend in Malaya. We have held them in safe-keeping for you. Usually we do not allow contact from outside for the first twenty years, but we feel you are deserving of this.’’

  Sum Sum bowed her head and tucked the letters under her arm. For several moments she did not say anything: she was dumbstruck. All this time, Lu See had been writing to her and she never knew. At length: ‘‘May I ask something? I want to send word to a friend that I am leaving. If I write a short message will you ensure it is sent?’’ Jampa assured her that she would take care of it. Sum Sum hesitated before continuing. ‘‘There is more. I have broken a rule. In the last few months I have used a postal-runner, a dakpa, to carry several messages out of Tibet. I wanted this person to know what is happening in Tibet, hoping somehow they could help. Now, I just want them to know I am alive.’’

  The abbess simply nodded.

  Both Sum Sum and Tormam were given earflap hats, sheepskin jackets with the wool turned inside out, thick gloves and several layers of insulating underclothes. They each tied eight taels of silver in a cloth over their waists and secured prayer box amulets round their necks. They filled small leather pouches with tea, butter and barley-flour. Then Jampa escorted them to the prayer hall where the abbess blessed them with a sacred Tantra.

  ‘
‘Look at you, as calm as Namtso Lake on a summer day, lah,’’ said Sum Sum to Tormam. Her friend returned a nervous smile.

  They set off at dawn with two shoulder bags apiece. Tormam was given the golden image of Shakyamuni Buddha; Sum Sum was to look after the figure of Harit Tara.

  The nuns erected windhorse prayer flags in their honour. When Jampa hugged her, Sum Sum tried but could not speak. It was as if she had stones in her mouth.

  Heading south-west, aiming for a scattering of dwellings made almost entirely from goat and oxen horn, and onwards towards the 16,000-foot Chela Pass, they walked at a steady pace. A quick scan of the field behind assured her that they were not being followed.

  They walked until the moon was high in the sky. That first night they settled down by a rock cave. In the far distance, an outline of watery orange lights pooled: flickering fires lit by nomads that necklaced the hills.

  The following morning they looked back on their progress and caught a last distant sight of Lhasa.

  Two days later they descended to the valley of the Brahmaputra River. They crossed the broad stretch of water via a rope-and-barge ferry. Using a thick black rope which stretched from bank to bank, several men pulled the barge across the current. By now Sum Sum’s feet were beginning to ache.

  When they reached the town of Chidisho and came across a horse and yak caravan that was heading south-east for the hamlets of the Himalayan foothills, they almost collapsed with exhaustion. They refreshed themselves with tsampa and butter tea and were told by one of the traders that the salt caravan, made up of thirty yaks carrying heavy saddlebags, was heading off at daybreak. He said for a tael of silver he would let them ride with them, sharing a horse.

  For the next two weeks the thud of hooves and the swishing of whips was a constant sound in their heads. Tormam had ridden as a young girl, so she took the reins with Sum Sum tucked up behind and their bags lashed to the saddlebow. They navigated narrow mountain passes and crossed semi-frozen streams. The yak herders clicked their tongues to calm and guide their beasts, always keeping a keen eye on the lead yak which had red tassels tied to its ear and a prayer flag strung on its back. It also had a string of bells secured to its tail. If the lead yak lost its footing and tumbled to its death down a crevice, the bells would alert the entire caravan. Fortunately this happened only once. After which, each time their horse neighed, Sum Sum’s heart leapt to her throat.

  At nightfall they set up camp and huddled in yurt-like canvas tents. Saddle sore, Sum Sum lay down gingerly by Tormam’s side on sheepskins spread out on the floor. A fire was lit to keep the jackals and wolves away. They ate tsampa and stale flat bread, starting each meal by dipping a hand into the tsampa and throwing droplets in every direction for luck.

  At dawn the traders flicked salt on the morning fire to seek assurance from the mountain gods. If the fire crackled as the salt fell upon it, it meant a storm was far away. If the fire stayed silent, it meant a storm was near.

  Tiny villages made up of ten to twelve houses came and went: places the herdsmen called Shopanup, Lhuntse Dzong and Jhor. The names meant nothing to Sum Sum.

  The caravan route ended at a small settlement made up of stone huts. The girls found that they had descended into a valley full of greenery and buzzing insects. Dismounting, Sum Sum stroked the horse’s muzzle. She laced her hands behind her head and stretched. The long ride had driven hard nails into her buttocks and thighs.

  They rested here for a day, regaining their strength. They ate a lavish supper of barley soup, turnip dumplings and flat bread stuffed with peppers. Sum Sum restored her food supplies, refilling her leather satchels of tea, butter and barley-flour; she also gathered several fistfuls of yak hair for insulation and tinder and bark resin for making fire.

  In the morning, Sum Sum unfurled Jampa’s scroll and peered at the ancient map; there was a landmark up ahead; she looked to the rising sun and worked out her directions. The traders gave them dried meat and a fresh store of safety matches, waved farewell and pointed to the distant mountains. ‘‘From now on we go on foot. That is the direction we are heading,’’ Sum Sum said to Tormam. ‘‘One of the men said we must look out for a huge cavern shaped like the mouth of a bull; after that we head south for a set of twin peaks.’’

  They entered the grasslands. Sum Sum noted the terrain beneath her feet was soft and waterlogged, very different from the hard brittle ground surrounding the nunnery.

  Gradually, they began to ascend. The greenery turned to stubble, then rock and then to snow. The air grew thinner as the temperature fell. Eyes downcast, heads bowed as though inspecting the boots on their feet, they climbed the mountain trail. Once in a while they glanced up in search of the sun to use it as a compass. Sometimes Sum Sum jammed a stick upright in the ground, waited several minutes and traced the movement of the shadow.

  ‘‘Are we lost?’’ asked Tormam.

  ‘‘Not yet,’’ Sum Sum reassured her.

  They came to a rope bridge. Sum Sum stared at the overpass. All she saw were three pieces of cordage, one for the feet and one each for the hands. ‘‘I hope you are a good rope-walker, lah,’’ she said to Tormam, who peered over the sheer drop. There was nothing but eternity below.

  At the lip of the bridge she shunted Tormam in the back. ‘‘Come, lah, we have to hurry. Cannot do this after dark.’’

  ‘‘I’m scared of heights,’’ Tormam admitted.

  ‘‘You want me to go first, is it?’’ Tormam nodded. Sum Sum adjusted the bag on her shoulders and reached for the hand cables. As soon as she secured a firm grip she stepped on to the foot rope. Her boots sent down a rain of little stones. Almost at once she experienced a terrifying swaying. When the swaying subsided, she took a few tentative steps forward, concentrating hard to keep her head steady and upright.

  ‘‘Don’t let go!’’ cried Tormam.

  ‘‘You and your stupid advice!’’

  Sum Sum’s first instinct was to not look down, but then she realized that she had to in order to place her feet firmly on the cable. When she was half way across she felt the ropes begin to swing and shake again. She pulled too much to the left and overbalanced. Her right foot rose and kicked at fresh air. Tormam screamed. She caught herself and pulled herself straight and once more waited for the swaying to subside.

  ‘‘The trick is to take your time,’’ she called out to Tormam.

  ‘‘I thought you were dead!’’

  She peered over the chasm, which was several hundred feet deep. ‘‘It’s easy once you get used to it.’’ Ten minutes later they were both safely across. Tormam was ashen-faced and her hands were trembling.

  ‘‘Let’s go back and do again, lah,’’ said Sum Sum. ‘‘Fantastic exciting, no?’’ Tormam punched her in the arm.

  12

  The Zenith radio blared, rattling the windows. Lu See and Mabel were in the back courtyard. An electric fan spun behind a thick block of ice, driving cool air into their faces. As usual, tablecloths hung on lines of string, drying in the heat. Scrub boards leaned against walls and the dogs lay out in the shade, hidden from the afternoon sun. Cries of ‘Younis!’ and ‘Yasmine!’ flew across from the neighbour’s compound.

  ‘‘To recap the international headlines for November 20, 1960: President Dwight D. Eisenhower to authorize the use of US$1m to resettle Cuban refugees arriving in Florida. South Vietnamese President Diem survives another coup attempt. The funeral of actor Clark Gable takes place in Hollywood …’’

  Lu See allowed the news of Clark Gable’s interment to brew for a while before taking up the scissors again. She thought of Sum Sum and how she had once adored the King of Hollywood. ‘‘For goodness’ sake, keep still, Mabel, stop twitching like an anxious bride.’’

  ‘‘I never asked to have my hair cut.’’

  ‘‘Your head looks like a chrysanthemum. Hospital regulations state that all scrub nurses must keep their hair short, above the shoulder line.’’

  ‘‘… and the International Re
d Cross estimate that 90,000 Tibetans lost their lives in the recent uprising against Chinese occupying forces.’’

  Lu See darted into the kitchen ‘‘What was that about Tibet?’’ She felt a panic strike her gut like a hot stone.

  Mother appeared with a dog by her feet. She shooed it into the back garden. ‘‘There’s been fighting in Tibet. Many dead,’’ she said matter-of-factly.

  ‘‘But what about Sum Sum? I have to do something.’’

  ‘‘Do what?’’ Mother said, scratching her palms. ‘‘Go rescue her?’’ She snorted. ‘‘Like a blind monkey, swinging from tree to tree?’’

  Lu See pursed her lips.

  Dungeonboy said, ‘‘Maybe you ask boss-Stan to help. Pow-lice always good at finding people.’’

  Lu See didn’t reply, but Dungeonboy could guess by her expression what she thought of his suggestion.

  ‘‘And now it’s time for Malay Woman’s Hour,’’ said the radio presenter in a tinny voice, ‘‘where our own Dr Chow and Mrs Gangooly will be discussing whether bananas cause constipation …’’

  Mabel shouted from the courtyard: ‘‘Please hurry up. I have to clock in at the hospital before five for the evening shift.’’ Her head gave an involuntary twitch.

  ‘‘Surely you can be a few minutes late, Mabel?’’ said Lu See.

  ‘‘Of course I cannot. You know how things are since the British left. A Chinese person has to work three times as hard to get recognition.’’

  Lu See nodded. Under the new constitution the Malays got the best jobs.

  ‘‘But first we give you a musical interlude with …’’

  Lu See returned to her barbering duties. ‘‘Keep your head straight, please.’’ Mabel, balanced on a tall stool amongst the pots of rosemary bushes, adjusted her bib for the hundredth time.

  ‘‘It’s causing maximum anger amongst the Chinese and Indian staff.’’