by Michael West
Li had stripped off his backpack. It sat on the rug in front of him, forming an island between him and the door. He had his machine gun, but his finger wasn’t on the trigger. Instead, he held it in both hands as if it was a bow staff, ready to spar with whoever or whatever came near him in the night.
Yeshe took another long sip from his bowl, then said, “You are both welcomed to stay and wait for fairer weather. The mamo came with the storm, perhaps they will leave with it as well.”
Dohna refilled the monk’s bowl with rancid tea, her sad eyes drifting over to Zhang, awaiting his answer.
Zhang’s gaze momentarily locked with hers, drinking in her beauty, then shifted back to Yeshe. “Thank you, Trapa-la. You are most kind.”
Another long howl made Li shriek.
***
“I’ll take care of you,” Zhang told him. “I won’t let anything bad happen.”
They were outside once more, far from the dank warmth of the monastery, still a long way from home. The moon filled the horizon—a huge, unsympathetic eye, watching idly as they plowed through endless drifts on horseback. And while the storm had subsided, the chill remained, as did the knowledge that they were being stalked, hunted.
“We have to go back,” Li called out, his voice as thin and shrill as the whistling winds. “We have to—”
A surging chorus of howls reverberated off the walls of the canyon, shaking fresh powder from the rocks overhead, giving birth to a new blizzard.
Zhang’s horse reared and threw back its head, neighing fog. He fought to hold onto the animal’s reins; teeth clinched, breath whistling out through his nose. His eyes were no more than slits as he struggled to see what was happening around him, and his ears rang with a frightening melee of sound.
Li screamed and thunder exploded from his machine gun. The howls ended abruptly, replaced by a wave of low, hungry snarls, by the scratch and crunch of taloned feet scurrying across icy drifts, growing louder, closer. They seemed to be coming from everywhere.
Zhang saw black stains seep through the pale curtain of snowfall, feminine shadows. Their dark, emaciated breasts swung limply as they launched themselves at Li, fangs bared, eyes blazing with savage intent. Ruthless claws ripped Li’s gun from his hands and the nightmare harem dragged him from his horse, shredding both his coat and the tender flesh beneath, creating a fine mist of blood that hung in the air with the waning echo of his final scream.
Li’s fallen mare dug into the snow with its front hooves; eyes wide with panic, ears pinned back to block out the rending sounds of the feeding mamo. The horse was still trying to stand as countless fangs and talons tore it open. Panicked whinnies rose to ear-splitting shrieks, then fell off to nothing as the mare was pulled apart.
Zhang had spent half his life in combat. He’d seen the ugliness Man was capable of, but until that moment, he had never known true barbarity.
One of the she-demons looked up from its kill, its malignant stare locked with Zhang’s. Inky hair spilled from its head in wild, unkempt tangles. Its lips curled back like burning parchment to reveal a smile full of bloodied daggers. “This shrine is not your sanctuary,” the rancid thing told him, each word a tiger’s growl. “It’s a prison.”
And then Zhang felt a hand grasp his arm. He reached out blindly, grabbed the stranger by the wrist. It was not the sharpened talon of a mamo. No. This hand was pale, delicate.
A human voice, female; soft as a whisper, yet able to drown out all other sound, “Forgive me. You squirmed in your sleep. It looked as if you were in pain.”
Dohna?
Zhang sat up, and the servant girl was there, kneeling beside him on the floor of the dimly lit monastery. “A dream,” he said hoarsely, the realization flooding him with sudden, inexpressible relief. Zhang glanced into the far corner and found Li sleeping with his back against the wall, machine gun still clutched in his gloved hands. “Only a dream.”
“No, it was more than that.” Dohna squeezed his arm like a child in need of protection, her fair skin painted in the warm flicker of torchlight, her voice filled with deadly urgency. “I have the visions too. Whenever I close my eyes, I see the mamo...out there—” Her dark eyes moved to the sealed door on the opposite end of the chamber. “—waiting for me to step outside this temple, waiting to...”
“It’s all right.” Zhang rubbed the knuckles of her left hand to comfort her. Her sheepskin robe hung loosely from her neck, the twin swells of her breasts plainly visible, yet she made no attempt to conceal them. He realized his gaze had lingered too long and quickly lifted his eyes to meet hers. “I won’t let anything hurt you.”
It was the same promise he’d made Li, and the horrible vision leapt once again to the fore of Zhang’s mind. He’d sat there, powerless to do anything as the creatures devoured his friend. Not real, he reminded himself. It didn’t happen. It can’t happen.
“I’ve tried to stop them,” Dohna said, then she lifted her right hand, held out a knife for his inspection. “But I can’t do it.”
Zhang tensed; his eyes widened.
“Dohna...may I see that?” He reached for the dagger with a steady hand, and she yielded it to him without struggle. In fact, she looked relieved to be rid of it. Its blade was jagged, chipped, the hilt carved into a tusked face with a protruding tongue. “What were you planning to do with this?”
“Kill Trapa-la,” she admitted, her voice calm, emotionless.
“Why would you do such a thing?”
She looked as if she might cry, her moist eyes like mirrors, reflecting the dim glow of the flames. “He told you that their chant pacifies the mamo.”
“Doesn’t it?”
Dohna blinked, drawing wet lines down her face. “It controls the mamo.”
“What are you saying?” Zhang pulled his hand from beneath hers, grabbed her by the arm and shook. “They sent those things to kill my men?—to kill me?”
She leaned against him, her tears moistening his cheek. “It is said that when the lord Buddha was attacked, this chant subdued the mamo, forced them to become protectors of dharma. Once, they were powerful agents of chaos and destruction, now...now they destroy only those who threaten the roof of the world.”
Dohna turned her face so that her words warmed Zhang’s ear.
“They’ve heard what happened down in Chamdo,” she told him, “what the People’s Army did to the monks and their monasteries—imprisonment; death. Even the Dalai Lama’s gone into hiding, afraid of what will happen if he’s captured.”
Zhang’s nostrils filled with the clean smell of her raven hair. “Monks ask forgiveness for even the smallest insects they step on each day. They couldn’t murder—”
“They don’t consider it murder. It is permissible to fight back in order to defend oneself, so long as you are never the aggressor.” Her lips brushed his earlobe. “Your people started this war. Trapa-la and the others are only protecting themselves with the mamo, protecting dharma...and in the process, holding us prisoner, you and I.”
Zhang said nothing. On the chamber floor, the monks sat in neat rows, heads nodding, lips moving in unison. Their words formed an endless, monotonous drone, like bees buzzing around his head. And outside, the mamo howled their reply.
Dohna said, “If we can stop the chant, the mamo would be free to—”
“To smash right through that door.” Zhang nodded at the entrance, at the iron bolt and weathered wood that separated them from the horrors beyond.
“Perhaps. But I ask, if your chains suddenly fell away, and you found yourself free of rank and obligation, able to be anywhere, do anything, would you attack the very people who had liberated you?” She shook her head and lifted her hand to his chest, her index finger moving as if to trace around his heart. “No, you would run as far from this place as you could, see the world and all its wonders; live. I think it would be the same for the mamo.”
Would Dohna feel that way, he wondered, if she had seen the things he had seen?
Dohna l
ifted her head from his shoulder. Her eyes locked with his, dark and serious. She said simply, “We have to kill the monks, kill Trapa-la.”
Zhang glanced down at his hand, at the serrated blade he’d stripped from her, at the carved tongue jutting from its hilt, ready to lap spilt blood. Its metal shimmered in the firelight, showed him flashes of smiling throats. Zhang had taken many lives—a man who could not kill was useless to the People’s Army—but slaying unarmed holy men still made his stomach roll.
Dohna seemed to sense his reluctance.
“You’ve had the vision,” she told him, her voice choked with fresh tears, “If you step outside these walls, the chant will bring the mamo. It’s the only way.”
Zhang studied her a moment, her eyes, her lips and her breasts—wondering what it would be like to lay with her for even a single night, to bathe in her warmth.
“I just want to return to my family,” she pleaded. “Is that so wrong?”
“No,” he said at last. “There’s nothing wrong with that at all.” And his mind dredged up long-neglected memories of his own far-off kin. Would they even recognize him if he were to return, this girl from Tibet on his arm? “I promise you, no matter what we decide to do, when I leave this place, you will be with me.”
Dohna offered him a faint smile, and Zhang could no longer control himself. He leaned in and pressed his lips to hers, expecting her to recoil, to beat at his chest with fisted hands, perhaps even to scream. Instead, she hooked one arm around his shoulder and pulled him to her, breathing heavily as she moved her mouth and tongue against his.
The deafening roar of machine gun fire brought the kiss to an abrupt end. Dohna clapped her hands over her ears and buried her face in Zhang’s chest. A bullet clipped the column beside them, bits of stone raining into their hair. Zhang’s head whirled around, his eyes seeking the shooter, holding up the dagger as if it were a shield.
Li stepped from the darkness, gun held at his waist, his wide eyes aiming out across the chamber. The RPD’s barrel breathed fire once more; shells spun through the rounded cylinder of the its belly, empty casings dropping down onto Li’s boots as he walked.
Hot rounds streaked over Zhang’s head, found homes in the nearest monks. The holy men fell forward, their red robes appearing to melt across the rough stone. A few stood and ran; most remained in their trances, sustained the chant until Li cut them down.
For a moment, Zhang sat frozen, watching this massacre unfold in slow motion—as if it were the product of nightmare rather than actual events. Then he ordered himself to get up, stumble to his feet; lunge at Li, and his body obeyed. He pushed the RPD’s barrel toward the ceiling. Stray bullets struck golden prayer bells on the way up, making them ring like windchimes in the cavernous chamber.
“What have you done?” Zhang shouted into Li’s face, trying to be heard above the tune.
“Those things were going to get us no matter when we left!” Li screamed back. His eyes were wild, fear pushing him to the outer limits of sanity. “I’ve seen it! The girl’s right, we had to kill them all, had to stop the damned chant!”
Zhang looked at Li, and then he looked again at the tangle of bodies spilling red across the floor. Bald heads lolled at odd angles, their vacant eyes staring back at him. Their lips stilled, the chamber slowly settled into eerie silence.
There was nothing to be done now. It was finished.
He turned back to Dohna, saw her stumble to her feet, black tresses swaying as she pulled her robe closed, and Yeshe was there.
The abbot stepped up behind her, mouthing the chant, a long, glittering blade clutched in his hands. He lifted the sword above his head, ready to bring it down and cleave her beautiful face in two.
Zhang glanced down at the dagger in his own hand and hurled it. Dohna saw the blade spin toward her and shrank back, startled. The knife whirled harmlessly over her shoulder and struck Yeshe’s chest.
The abbot’s grip faltered and his sword dropped to the floor with a loud clang. He stumbled backward and sat down hard, his arm draped across the foot of the gold Buddha, covering it in a red shroud. Yeshe’s eyes fell to the sculpted hilt, studied it with great fascination. He nodded, blood bubbling from his lips as he spoke, “To destroy...one’s enemy is to...to destroy one’s self.”
Zhang hurried over to Dohna, his hand cradling her cheek. “Are you hurt?”
“I’m fine,” she told him absently, her focus on Yeshe. “I do not fear death,” the abbot cried out at the ceiling, and then he managed to lift his head and look at them. “I...I fear the world into which I will now be reborn...the world you have created.”
And then he breathed his last.
Sadly, despairingly, Zhang rubbed Dohna’s shoulder and asked, “Do you have a coat?”
She shook her head. “It has been many years since I was outside these walls.”
“Then grab blankets and cover yourself with them. We’re leaving this place at first light.”
At that, Dohna lifted her eyes once more to the wide, peaceful face of the golden Buddha and grinned.
***
Dawn crept tentatively over the Himalayas, as if it were somehow afraid of what its light might reveal. The storm had moved on, leaving a cloudless blue sky and deep white drifts in its wake. And with each frigid step, Zhang, Dohna, and Li left the snow-buried monastery farther behind them—an icy crypt, home now only to death.
“We should cross over into India,” Zhang called out. “Start a new life.”
Dohna had a thick blanket wrapped around her. She reached up and her long nails dug into the wool, drew it closed around her face, shut out the wind. “My new life has already begun, thanks to you.”
Li brought up the rear, his eyes and firearm moving in chorus, scanning craggy peaks on either side of the passage for movement. “Where would they go?”
“Now that the mamo are free of their bonds, they can go anywhere in the world,” Dohna told them. Hair spilled out through the opening in her blanket like black streamers, becoming twisted and knotted by the wind.
The gorge narrowed, and Zhang suddenly felt the weight of countless stares upon him. He looked up and saw them: red eyes glaring out from the hollows of the rocks, glowing hellishly in the darkness. The shadows moved, crept out into the harsh light of day, their talons clicking and scratching at the ice and stone.
“The mamo will cause havoc wherever Man lives,” Dohna told them, and Zhang could hear an odd, impish pleasure in her voice. “Foster war, cultivate famine and pestilence... the mamo’s powers will have no limit.”
“No,” Li said, spinning in place, aiming his weapon in every direction. “No. No. No.”
The mamo continued to emerge, emaciated forms, covered in wild manes of thick, matted hair. They reached out; their pointed claws and teeth shimmered in the sun.
Li screamed, nightmares of being eviscerated in his wide, panicked eyes. He shoved his machine gun barrel into his mouth and pulled the trigger, his head blossoming into crimson fireworks.
Zhang slipped his own firearm off his shoulder, his mournful shrieks consumed by greedy winds. He aimed at the moving walls of the canyon, squeezed the trigger, and produced useless clicks. Jammed! Zhang tossed the weapon aside, dropped to his hands and knees, and dug through the snow beside Li’s corpse, trying to find his friend’s gun before it was too late.
“You need no weapons,” Dohna told him. She put her hand on his shoulder, and Zhang could feel her long nails through the thickness of his coat. “They will not harm you.”
“How do you know?” Zhang asked, tears frozen to his cheeks.
“I know because you have set them free, and because they are my family.”
Zhang Lau stopped; shivered.
“When you walked through the temple door,” she continued, her voice changing, becoming gutteral: a tiger’s growl, “I knew you were the one to break Buddha’s spell, the one to finally free me from my prison.”
He willed himself to run, but this time his body ref
used the order. There was no sanctuary from these demons now, no one left to contain them. Dohna had seen to that.
“I want to thank you,” she snarled.
Zhang turned his head slowly, knowing what he would find despite all his desperate, futile hopes. Whatever glamour the chant had woven had all but unraveled. The thing dropped its blanket and smiled back at him, still trying to sprout fangs—a twisted parody of its former self.
“Thank you for bringing me home.”
Goodnight
“Why do people have to die?”
The voice was groggy and choked with tears.
Ira Howard looked at his great-grandson. He sighed heavily and sat down on the end of the bed, adjusting the Spider-Man sheets so that they snugly covered the boy up to his chin. Ira still remembered the scared toddler who had been afraid to see him standing at his bedside. As time went by, however, little Tyler grew accustomed to visits from this old man, and now it was not uncommon to find him lying awake as if it were Santa Claus coming by to tuck him in. But there was no joy tonight. The funeral they’d attended that afternoon had not been the first for either of them, but it was the first that Tyler would have memory of, and Ira could tell the kindling of reality had only now begun to spark beneath his seven-year-old eyes.
Why do people have to die?
How was he supposed to answer that one?
Was there even an answer he could give?
Some pessimistic acquaintance had once told Ira, “The moment a person is born they start to die.” He could tell this young child that, tell him the mechanics of it all—that the body just runs until it wears out, that God’s got everyone’s name and expiration date in some holy ledger somewhere—but that would be far too cruel a thing to do. Children should be able to dream without fear of death. That particular fear should be the exclusive reservation of the old and the infirm. But it just doesn’t work that way, does it? Death can take anyone at any time.
Even a little boy’s mother.