Blue Poppies

by Jonathan Falla

  From the lane issued a throng of monks: at their head came the Abbot riding a pony led by Khenpo Nima. Regardless of the cold, the Abbot was in fine brocades. He had brought his establishment to join the exodus, and was here to bless their departure.

  The pony halted; the Abbot began to speak. “Travel with peace and hope in your hearts,” he urged. “Do not be guided by illusory passions. Pay homage to the Dalai Lama and trust in his guidance. Do not be seduced by the manners of Lhasa.”

  All those departing passed before the Abbot, who touched everyone on the head with a hand wrapped in a yellow silk scarf. Meanwhile his monks chanted, twizzled their staccato monkey-drums and spun their wheels. When he had done with the people, the Abbot moved through the caravan blessing the animals.

  Jamie looked back to see Puton settling Dechen among the leather bags slung on a mule, swathed in sheepskin. Her own beige hat, of soft lamb’s fleece, was low over the small face.

  “How’s the family? Ready?”

  He went to Puton and drew her mouth to his own. This was the way to embark. They closed their eyes, still for a moment, hearing each other breathe.

  “Hey, what’s that for?” he said, alarmed. She was crying silently. “We’re away to India!” But she said nothing. She thrust her arms in through the front of his sheepskin coat and enclosed him, her hands seeking out the shape of him urgently as though to memorize his form.

  “Oh, now! Come on . . .”

  He pushed her back a fraction and fingered the untidy mess of tear-wet hair on her cheeks.

  “Hey, I think I might be needing this, don’t you?” said Jamie. From his coat pocket he pulled the red scarf, its ends covered with her embroidery: T4JW.

  “Give me,” said Puton. She removed it from his hand and tied it neatly about his neck. She tugged it firm—almost too firm.

  He grimaced, laughing. “Don’t garotte me . . . That’s fine.” Her fingers, fumbling and stumbling over themselves, wriggled it looser. He saw her eyes watering again. “Now, then, it’s time to go,” said Jamie, and he lifted her onto her pony, sidesaddle.

  From the field outside came a last flurry of bells and monkey-drums. The blessing was done: the Abbot and his diminished entourage had turned back into the village. The travelers were moving to their animals, mounting. The little procession came out from Jamie’s yard: two well-laden mules which he led, walking in front with his pony, and Puton’s pony with Dechen’s mule tied to it behind. Jamie looked for Karjen and the radio yak, and went towards them.

  He noticed a cluster of faces around Karjen that stared and looked away again. Then he saw others join the whispering with urgent hissings and quick glances at Jamie’s party. He saw a woman urging Wangdu to something. The smile left Jamie’s face. Wangdu took a step forward from the edge of the crowd, in front of Jamie.

  “Jemmy, please listen . . .” he stuttered. Then came silence: Wangdu could not finish.

  For a second, Jamie paused, facing him. The monk would not look at him. “What is it, Wangdu?”

  But a different, louder voice called out, the voice of a man used to bullying: “Send that woman back, Mr. Jemmy. She doesn’t travel with us.”

  A brutish middle-aged Khampa, a man of means with a paunch to suit. The eyes were narrow and determined.

  “What did you say?” asked Jamie softly.

  “I said, send her back. We have quite enough to contend with, devils and storms and Chinese and all. We don’t need ill-fortune riding in our midst.”

  “What the hell do you mean by that?” snapped Jamie, reddening instantly. “Her only misfortune was living among the likes of you.”

  “Exactly,” said the merchant. “That woman lived in my house a while. My mistake, which I sorted. This time I’ve got my whole family to look after and I’m not taking chances.”

  “No one’s asking you,” said Jamie. “She’s traveling with me, as my responsibility.”

  “But you’re traveling with us,” said the merchant.

  He gestured at a dozen, two dozen men and women grouped behind him.

  Jamie felt panic creep into his voice. “You think I’m going to leave her behind?” he demanded.

  “You, Mr. Jemmy, can do what you like. I’ve no quarrel with you. But you’re not bringing her in this caravan.”

  Everyone was curiously still, even the animals. Jamie looked from face to face: each one implacable.

  “Nima, for Christ’s sake, what is this crap?”

  “Jemmy, they spoke to me last night. I have tried, please believe that I have tried. You must know that I have cared for this girl! But every person here agrees, it is what the whole village says. They will not have her.”

  “Well, they’re going to have to think . . .”

  “Jemmy, you must understand! It is not Puton, it is the evil that attends on her. These people are fleeing for their lives.”

  “And what of Puton’s life?”

  “The Abbot is here, there is plenty of food . . .”

  “Crap! Bloody crap, Nima! She’s coming with me. If we have to ride half a day in front or half a day behind, I don’t care. Puton, for pity’s sake! Where are you going? Puton!”

  But she had seen her fate, and preempted it. The moment that Wangdu stepped forward, she had stopped her pony. As the fat merchant was opening his mouth, she had turned and pulled Dechen’s mule after. And even before Jamie had begun his tirade, she was moving steadily back towards the house.

  “Puton! What are you doing?”

  Even as he howled, Jamie saw the mule and the pony pass back under the archway of his former home and disappear.

  A stillness fell on Jyeko, stillness and the breathing of animals. Jamie gripped the reins of his pony and stared towards the distant gate, unmoving. His nostrils flared and the wind dragged the tears out of his eyes; otherwise he was motionless, stunned. For some seconds the village stood still in witness. Not a horse, not a dog made a sound but looked around the human faces. The fat merchant kept mute from decency. Khenpo Nima, by Jamie’s side, put out a hand to touch him, but could not.

  Then someone moved, swinging into a saddle—and at once the entire caravan stirred into movement, yaks and ponies, dogs and people, mules and monks streaming out on the track through the stone-walled gardens. Jamie barely registered that two men came to his side, one holding his mount’s bridle, the other grasping him by the shin and lifting him deftly into the saddle. The pony moved off after the pack. In a trance, Jamie rode away from Jyeko.

  PART THREE

  CHAPTER ONE

  THEY RODE HARD, not daring to glance behind them. A score of Khampa families with a dozen monks and a Scottish radio operator drove their animals forward in a clamor of shouts and whistles. The noise was unnecessary, since the animals moved readily enough, but it was preferable to the clamor of regret. In the center of the crowd rode Jamie. On Khenpo Nima’s instructions, two novices kept near to him. He did not appear to notice them, or anyone or anything else.

  A short distance from the village, the trail began its diagonal climb up the mountain flank towards the first pass. The throng turned to single file on the narrow track. At the crest of the pass, two miles from the village and several hundred feet higher, the broad saddle was covered with a dusting of snow through which dead yellow grasses stuck. Here, the lead riders paused.

  At last, they looked back. Almost everyone they knew was strung along the trail and climbing towards them. As each family reached the summit they, too, turned to gaze at the distant village, every detail visible in this thin, clean air. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, except for the unusual quantity of prayer flags that still hung on every house, across every gate to keep the Chinese out. But scarcely a living soul was visible in the lanes. No children played, there were no dogs, no traders or market wives, no animals, no smoke from fires.

  As Jamie and the villagers gathered in silence and looked down, a delicate sound reached them in faint wisps and snatches. It was a tiny ringing pain, trembling with
unhappiness. A light wind was rising along the river valley, passing through the village towards the pass. As it went among the deserted houses, it had found a hundred little prayer bells on cords and springs in court-yards, windows and doorways. Touched and shaken, the shivering of these bells reached the people in the pass.

  Khenpo Nima bit his lip and looked around the crowd. He saw a strong man raise a hand slowly to his face. A girl wept noiselessly and twisted a cloth tighter and tighter in whitened fists. Then a woman began to move, leading a mule with two children. She had turned around, back down the mountainside towards her home. A moment later, her husband started after her, hauling a yak on which all their possessions teetered. No one spoke, but Nima felt that everyone held their breath. In a minute, the family was a hundred yards below them, racing for Jyeko on lurching animals.

  Khenpo Nima swung down off his pony and picked up a large flat stone in his broad hands. There was a high cairn at the crest of the pass. Nima strode towards it purposefully, pulling his mount after him. He slapped the stone onto the cairn with all the decisiveness and noise he could manage, shouting: “The gods are victorious, the devils are defeated!”

  They’d all cried it a thousand times, a tradition for the crossing of a pass. No one moved. Khenpo Nima surveyed them in dismay. Then Karjen stooped also and picked up a fat little boulder. He hoisted his rock to the cairn’s top and bellowed the same: “The gods are victorious, the devils are defeated!”

  At last, the villagers began to stir. Everyone, every family, found a rock for the cairn; even small children seated on yaks were given little stones and shown where to toss them. The cry was repeated, and repeated. So the village began to pick their way down the far side of the pass.

  They traveled fifteen miles in the first day. The ground was hard and level; the caravan spread out, allowing the animals to nose for fodder. At dusk, they set up camp. Some of the shelters were huge, stout felt raised on ropes over outer poles, with all the appearance of black spiders in the snow. These were tents for wintering out, gale-proof and clan capacity. But many of the townspeople had only light summer pavilions, or the little ridge tents of brown hemp cloth the herdsmen carried to pasture, open to the wind at one end.

  With fires lit and tea prepared, the villagers had time at last to talk, to reassure each other that they’d acted wisely. Khenpo Nima saw Jamie by a family cooking fire. Karjen was busily repairing a rip in the tent they’d borrowed so these people had given Jamie food. He sat in silence. The daylight failed, the herdsmen drove their animals together and volunteers stood watch. There were leopards in the hills they’d passed through. Brown bears, quick to kill mules, ponies, sheep, had been seen in the distance that afternoon. In the borrowed tent, Jamie, Karjen and a herdsman lay packed between bags of food and the boxed radio equipment. Around them, the children’s cries died down, until the only sounds were the stamps and shufflings of ponies, gruff snorts from the yaks and soft speech at the watch fires.

  So a routine began. It would take many weeks to draw near to Lhasa, even if the winter weather was kind.

  They rose and ate at dawn, then began the elaborate business of repacking. The herdsmen were ready to move well before the villagers, and drove their ponderous yaks onto the trail while some families were still eating. Once re-formed, the caravan stayed together: the old perils of the road—bandits, wolves—were still there. Now many of the travelers were quiet, deep in their thoughts. Again they camped; again they moved on.

  Mid-morning on the third day, there came a shout from the lead riders. A few hundred yards ahead, a small party of two or three families had appeared, leading pack animals on foot. At the sight of the Jyeko caravan, these people began to run. They turned off the main track to head across the empty plain.

  “Perhaps they think we’re Chinese,” said Khenpo Nima doubtfully.

  Wangdu shouted: “Akung, Norbu! Go after them!”

  Several young men spurred away in pursuit; Khenpo Nima saw the Jyeko horsemen cut in front of the strangers, wheel about and lean down from their saddles to talk. While he watched, he noticed Jamie bring his pony nearer, ready to listen. Then the riders returned.

  “What’s happening? Do they take us for bandits or what?” called Karjen.

  The young men’s faces were flushed. “There’s news,” they began.

  “Doubless,” retorted Wangdu. “Where are they from?”

  “Near Chamdo. There’s been a battle! Thousands of Chinese, they’re everywhere! They’ve taken Chamdo!”

  “Taken it?” growled Karjen. “Somebody gave it to them?”

  The information tumbled out in a tangle. “They weren’t prepared, everyone has left, they blew up the magazines!”

  “For pity’s sake,” interrupted Khenpo Nima, “one thing at a time.”

  The boys glanced at each other, then began again: “Five days ago, Governor Ngabo heard that the Chinese had crossed the river at Batang, so he fled. The Khampas wanted to fight, they wanted the ammunition in the magazine. But the Governor wouldn’t give it, and he fled. Then the Chinese attacked Chamdo at night, and now it’s all over, finished.”

  “What’s finished?”

  “They caught Governor Ngabo. The Chinese have got him. We’ve surrendered.”

  “Speak for yourself,” said Karjen. “That’s what happens when you have a ponce from Lhasa in charge.”

  They looked at one another and at the families in the distance, who again moved away south.

  “Won’t those people join us?” said Khenpo Nima. “They’d be safer.”

  “They don’t think so,” the scout replied timidly. “The Lhasa road is cut. And . . . they don’t want to be with anyone from Jyeko.”

  “What’s that meant to mean?” snapped Karjen.

  “There was talk at Chamdo. They say a party of Chinese soldiers is missing—they went to Jyeko and haven’t been seen. There was a captain who came into Chamdo riding alone, completely exhausted. There’s a story that the Chinese were caught in the gorges, killed by rocks.”

  The monks looked at Karjen, who shifted on his pony among a knot of dark-faced friends.

  “They’re saying Jyeko murdered them,” the boy added. “There’s soldiers searching. No one wants anything to do with Jyeko. We’re bad luck.”

  Out of the moment of silence that followed, there came a peculiarly shocking sound. It was Jamie giving a short, bitter laugh.

  No one knew what to say, what to suggest. Wangdu rested his hands on the pommel of his wooden saddle, shaking his head. Khenpo Nima peered again at the party heading south, now drawing steadily away from them.

  “Where are they heading?”

  “Not to Lhasa. They’re going to India.”

  “India?”

  “They say hundreds of people are gathering at Moro-La—”

  “An army, to throw out the Chinese!”

  “It’s not an army. They’re all going to India.”

  “Leaving Tibet?”

  “I don’t believe that for a moment.”

  “That’s exile!”

  “But that’s what they’re doing.”

  Jamie had stopped laughing; he was looking from one face to another. They were floundering.

  “Well, to hell with that!” said Karjen. “Leave Tibet? No, thank you.”

  “Look,” someone shouted. “Look there! Back there!”

  They all looked.

  Above the pass they had crossed, far behind, there was a curious gray smudge on the snowfields that rose and discolored the white clouds above. It was faint at first; they might have missed it. But as the moments passed, it became thicker, blacker, dirtier.

  Someone murmured, “Jyeko’s burning.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  A PAIN GNAWS: we pinch another limb for distraction. As the caravan moved on, the thought of what might have become of Puton in Jyeko was more than Jamie could bear. If he allowed his mind to slink back to her, he’d feel his throat tighten, his eyes sting, his brain throb, the start o
f panic . . . and in desperation he would drag his unruly thoughts elsewhere. Thus he had given full rein to his less generous feelings about Tibet. This was not so hard: he held all Jyeko responsible for Puton’s plight.

  He rode in silence over the frozen ground, letting his pony find a path among the burrows of the pica. In the Jyeko throng, Jamie spoke to no one. These people did not look so charming now. The wind had stirred up white dust, filling the wrinkles on every face, leaving every eye bloodshot. Jamie felt no charity for any of them, neither monk nor merchant nor the children who had stoned Puton. His mind filled with grim images that he had, maybe, stored away for this moment of need. Things in Jyeko, in Lhasa; things that were not pleasant.

  He recalled the beggar-criminals, miserable amputees. It was a routine punishment to manacle a man’s legs and turn him loose without his hands, or his feet, or his eyes. Unable to work, he’d creep from shelter to shelter, begging food. Jamie had seen them in Jyeko: who had done that to them—Wangdu? The only “police” were there in the monastery. One could not take a life in ohso-Buddhist Tibet, of course, but he’d heard that monastic officials might flog a thief to within an inch of his life then dump him on a blizzard-swept mountainside at nightfall. It could not strictly be said that they had killed him. Just as it could never be said that a good Tibetan had taken the life of a yak or sheep. There just happened to be a profession of bad Tibetans, despised outcasts, to do the butchery for them. So much for tradition!

  He’d heard whisper of other things: of pepper forced under eyelids to obtain confessions; of the ritual sacrifice of babies (could that really be true? Just now Jamie was disposed to believe it); of the huge Lhasa monasteries where, it was rumored, a steady supply of young novices was buggered ragged by the monks. An Indian government doctor in New Delhi had worked in Lhasa and warned him, “There’s hardly a Tibetan doesn’t have the clap. Believe it, sir! When their husbands are away they’ll fornicate with their brothers—the nearest merchant, the meanest shepherd will do. I’ve treated ghastly things . . .”