by Joanne Pence
They soon reached an area with a few piles of stones that looked like nothing more than crumbled fireplaces and stone foundations. Any wood used to form the walls and roof was gone.
“This was once our monastery. Out here, it’s nothing, but it backs into the mountain. Inside we have carved out a decent shelter. You will spend the night here,” Sirom said. “You will be safe. I will return in the morning.”
Sirom entered an opening that looked like an abandoned mine, one that should be covered with warnings not to enter. Michael followed and found himself in a long tunnel. At the far end, Sirom opened a heavy door. Beyond was a lit corridor with walls painted white, and several doors on both sides of it. Sirom stopped at the first door on the right, and turned the knob. The door was unlocked, and he pushed it open. “This is for you,” Sirom said. “Use it or not, as you wish.” He then walked back into the tunnel.
Michael hesitated, but then went to the door Sirom had opened. Past it was a small, windowless room, empty except for one candle and a thin mattress. Over it hung a cross similar to the one Sirom wore, but larger and fancier. Michael remembered reading that Nestorians venerated the cross, but not the crucifix.
The room was hardly inviting, but was warm and sheltered. Just looking at it made Michael realize how cold and exhausted he was.
Almost immediately a slight, elderly man dressed like Brother Sirom appeared in the doorway. He carried a tray with a cup and bowl, placed it by the door, then bowed and left the room, quietly pulling the door shut behind him.
Michael went to the tray to find green tea, rice and pickled vegetables. Dare he eat? The monk had plenty of chances to kill him, if that was what he wanted to do.
He ate; the warm tea felt especially good. Soon after finishing, he lay down to sleep. He looked around the strange monk’s cell, and as his eyes shut in sleep, the thought flitted past at how odd it was that now, over seven hundred years after Marco Polo’s journey, he was the reason Michael found himself in this strange and unnerving land that time seemed to have forgotten.
The bed, food, warmth might all be a set-up, just as supposedly meeting Irina had been a set-up by demons—perhaps a way to convince him to turn over the pearl to them. But at least for tonight, he’d take advantage of it.
Chapter 37
In the morning, Brother Sirom met Michael with a yak-drawn wagon. “I will take you close to the Torugart Pass,” Sirom said. “From there, you can cross into China, and you’ll be on your own. You must travel to a small town called Baigou on the Old Silk Road.” He handed Michael a paper on which he had written out the name of the town in Chinese characters as well as Uyghur script. “It is about fifteen kilometers before Khotan. Go to the monastery there. It is the place you seek.”
“Thank you for this.” Michael folded the paper and put it in his pocket. “But first I need to go back and find my friends.”
“Your journey will bring them too much danger. You must go alone.”
“But they’ll worry, and come after me,” Michael said. Although the satellite phone was in the van with Jianjun, Michael needed cell service to reach it. He wished he’d thought about getting them each a satellite phone. “Is there cell phone service at the border?”
“I have no idea. Also, you must leave your rifle with me. You cannot get into China with it, and it will only create trouble for you.”
“No.”
Brother Sirom said nothing more, but got onto the wagon. Michael did as well. They rode for a few miles when Sirom stopped at the side of the main roadway and waited. Michael asked why they had stopped, but he received no answer.
Before long, a bus with Buddhist monks came by. Brother Sirom stopped them and spoke to them, then returned to Michael. “For two hundred euros they will drive you to Kashgar. From there, you will need to make your own way.”
“Two hundred euros to go eighty miles?” Michael asked. “Is there a Buddhist term for highway robbery?”
“They use the money for the desperately poor,” Brother Sirom said with a scowl. “They will not allow your rifle, however.”
This argument was unwinnable, and Michael turned over the money and his gun. Sirom kept the rifle and gave the money to the Buddhists. He returned with a maroon robe for Michael. “Put it on and join them. Many foreigners come here to spend time with them to try to achieve ‘satori’—enlightenment. The border guards are used to it, especially if you look both vacant and wide-eyed as they question you.”
Brother Sirom gave Michael a backpack with food and some travel necessities like a knife and flashlight, and Michael gave him a donation for the monastery.
A Buddhist monk who spoke a little English saw Michael checking for cell service as they neared the border. He warned Michael not to speak to the guards, and especially not to ask to use a phone. Anything unusual could cause them to detain and question him. Kashgar, he said, was not far.
At the border station, after one look at the scowling guards, Michael took the advice.
As predicted, although the border agent smirked at Michael’s passport, visa, and his clothes, he stamped it and let him enter the Xinjiang Uyghur Autonomous Region. Here, the western borders of China rubbed up against the nomads of the ‘stans,’ Kazakhstan, Uzbekistan, Tajikistan, and others, an ever-changing land that refused to recognize boundaries in both ancient times and modern, populated by peoples for whom extended family was everything, and the concept of a national identity was new and foreign.
Once past the border, the land quickly began a descent to the flat, desert lands of Western China. After time spent in high, snow-covered mountains and narrow gorges, Michael enjoyed the sense of relief and freedom as the little Buddhist bus zipped down the slopes. The land went from bare rock to tufts of greenery and trees, an area with occasional livestock and homes.
Beyond the foothills of the T’ian Shan, however, the landscape again dramatically changed, now to flat and barren plain covered with rocks and a haze of red dust.
The onetime oasis of Kashgar, now a large city, was gray under a sky made yellow from the strong wind and sand of the desert. But the edges of the city still had the noise, jumble, and bazaars of the old city.
The Buddhists stopped the bus at the first market square they reached. It was raucous and crowded with both people and animals. “We must leave you here,” said the English speaker. They took back their robe and then drove away.
Stalls with ragged awnings, separated by cloth walls, lined up against old buildings. Vendors displayed their wares and foodstuffs on tables, on racks, and blankets spread over the ground. People and bicycles were everywhere, and in any direction, in the distance, Michael could see a minaret or the dome of a mosque.
The stench was from the many horses tethered to carts in the area, plus separate groups of sheep, donkeys and mules, then camels, and even cattle.
The odor fought with the pleasant aroma of foods being cooked in the stalls for hungry shoppers.
Beyond the aging square loomed tall buildings of a surprisingly large city, but the area immediately around him probably hadn’t changed much in centuries. Michael had been to many Central Asian markets, and enjoyed the foods, spices, goods, and humanity.
He checked his cell phone—one bar of service. He tried calling the satellite phone to reach Jianjun, but the call kept dropping. The same thing happened when he phoned Charlotte Reed. He remembered hearing that text messages had a better chance of getting through than voice, so he wrote a text to Jianjun saying he was in Kashgar, China, and that he would meet them in Naryn as soon as possible. He also texted Charlotte and asked her to convey the message to Jianjun’s satellite phone.
When he hit “send” the texts appeared to transmit. He hoped they did.
He soon found a money changer and converted his Euros into Chinese yuan. He asked about a way to reach Khotan, the city back on the Old Silk Road. The money changer directed him to a bus station.
Michael headed towards it when a young teen, a nicely dressed, ple
asant looking kid, walked by and spat at his feet. Michael was shocked. This wasn’t the time or place to react, however, and he pretended not to notice. He never expected that sort of blatant antagonism in China. But this wasn’t China, not really, although he was within the country’s borders. The Uyghurs were a Muslim people of Central Asian Turkic origin who wanted independence from China.
While everyone who was within the country called China was officially “Chinese,” the Han Chinese were those from the heart of the country—the original land ruled by the Han dynasty when China was unified around 200 B.C. The name China, or Zhong-guo, means “Middle Kingdom,” and the people of the Han believed it to be the center of the world, and that those beyond its borders were barbarians. Today, many of those people and their lands have been conquered by China—areas such as Tibet, Manchuria, Inner Mongolia, and the Uyghur homeland.
Now, the Han Chinese were relocating to Xinjiang in huge, purposeful numbers. They had come to outnumber the Uyghurs in the provincial capital of Ürümqi, held most of the good jobs in the area, and forced Uyghurs to study Mandarin Chinese in schools. As a result, the call for Uyghur independence was increasing daily, with ever-mounting violence.
As Michael continued through the dusty market place, he saw that the crowd was a mixture of Uyghur and Han Chinese, without another European among them. The Uyghur women, especially the older ones, wore colorful headscarves, while most of the men wore brimless caps. Other than that, their clothes were mostly Western, with pants and even jeans being surprisingly common. The burkas and chadors of the Muslim women of the Middle East were not seen.
A Chinese woman, dressed in a traditional full-length black dress, scowled fiercely at him from across the market. He drew back as if struck. Her face would have been lovely were it not for her expression. Her shiny black hair was parted in the middle and pulled into a tight bun. She stared at Michael as if she knew him. He started across the square, but he had only taken a few steps when she disappeared into the crowd.
Something about her unnerved him, but it probably meant nothing. More important was for him to find a bus station, and then to get on a bus that traveled the route between the Taklamakan desert and the Tibetan plateau.
How ironic, he thought, that last year he was near Idaho’s Salmon River, called the “river of no return,” and now, he headed for the Taklamakan desert—a place the Uyghurs called “the land you can get into, but never get out of.” He hoped his luck held.
Up ahead, a bright yellow and green CITS sign hung over a doorway—the Chinese International Tourist Service. CITS was the government-run travel agency. He darted away from the office and hoped no one reported seeing him, although at 6’2”, he tended to stand out.
The bus station was next to it. He bought a ticket to Khotan and then looked for a public phone. He would feel better if he could talk to Jianjun or Charlotte, and his cell phone still had only one bar. He eventually found a phone, but the instructions were in Chinese. He put in some money and dialed the number of the satellite phone, and got a recording of a high-pitched female voice shrieking at him in Chinese to do something, but he had no idea what. He tried Charlotte’s number and got the same angry-sounding message.
He saw a cell phone vendor and asked how to make a call. The vendor shook his head and handed Michael a photocopy of an article in the English language Shanghai Daily. It reported that anyone buying a mobile phone or a computer in Xinjiang had to register their personal details with police. The measure was to "prevent people spreading harmful information and carrying out illegal activities."
Michael tried to explain that he only wanted to make a call, not buy a phone, but the vendor kept shaking his head and pointing to the article.
Michael gave up, sent two more text messages to Jianjun and Charlotte as insurance, and then got into a line of people and animals waiting for the bus he needed to take. The agent had said it would depart “soon.”
Michael stood, ticket in hand, when a lanky man in a blue suit marched towards him, shouting in Chinese. As he neared, Michael saw “CITS” in Roman letters, plus some Chinese and Uyghur script stitched onto the pocket of his jacket. The fellow’s hair was clipped short, and a scar from his upper lip across one nostril appeared to be a botched operation to correct a harelip. He held out his palm and barked an order.
Michael didn’t have a clue what he said and handed over his passport. He must have guessed right. Officious and irritated, the agent read it over, and then, in Chinese, made it clear he didn’t want Michael on the bus.
Michael steeled himself and replied, “Mei-you.” He was told it meant “No,” but considering the gasps around him when he said it, it must have been a bit stronger. The agent’s shoulders stiffened, and he nearly levitated with indignation. Michael fought back a smirk. Police, soldiers, and bureaucrats weren’t used to having their requests denied.
When the man returned to earth he asked, in English, with a sneer, “You like girls?” and suggested Shanghai.
Michael’s reply was the same. He then used his minimalist Mandarin Chinese to say, “I go to Khotan.”
The agent shook his head, then his eyes narrowed and he slapped the passport back into Michael’s hand. He told Michael that when he arrived in Khotan, he must immediately report to the Public Security Bureau, aka the police, to let them know he was there. They would escort him to a hotel for foreigners.
Sure they would. Michael nodded gratefully, not telling his tormentor that he wasn’t planning on going all the way to Khotan. Not immediately, in any case.
The official, clearly playing to the crowd, ranted a bit more, raised his chin and all but goose-stepped back to his office.
Michael let out a big sigh of relief.
He faced forward in the bus line when the smell of meat being cooked with ginger, chili and coriander wafted towards him. He noticed many passengers carried food from the market stalls. Much as he tried to ignore them, his mouth began to water, and he doubted he would find another opportunity to eat for several hours.
He left the line for a food stand for hot tea and a pamirdin, a Uyghur meat pie consisting of lamb, carrot and onion. Not until he rejoined the back of the line and boarded the bus did he realize his mistake. The only seats left were those next to sweaty, heavily bundled up men, women with live animals, or squalling kids sprawled several to a seat. He squeezed onto a hard plastic seat next to three chickens with little bags over their heads so that they wouldn’t run off. He tried to ignore the fact that he shared the space with someone’s dinner.
—He’s getting closer.
—He’s alone.
—But not for long.
—And then he’s ours.
Chapter 38
About four miles from the encounter with the bandits, the ground surrounding the roadway was wide and flat enough for Jianjun to hide the van among the brush and shrubs. That was where he told Michael he’d wait. He, Kira, and Renata took turns keeping watch along the road for Michael and the guides. It was dark when the two guides reached them. The guides insisted Michael had safely evaded the bandits because they saw the bandits change the tire he had shot out, and leave the way they’d come. They had no idea, however, where Michael had gone. They also refused to do any more “guiding.” Renata drove them back to a tiny village some five miles away and paid them more money for their trouble.
Jianjun didn’t like any of this. There was something about those bandits that was too violent, too targeted.
Jianjun saw Renata’s disappointment when she returned to the camp and Michael still hadn’t joined them. She was attracted to his boss, and he hoped she had enough experience to know such infatuation would never go anywhere. Michael was haunted by demons—demons that had been part of his life long before he encountered the red pearl. Jianjun didn’t completely understand the cause of them, although meeting Magda and talking with Michael about Irina had gone a long way towards putting together pieces in the mystery that was his friend and employer.
He was worried, but it was too dark, cold, and foggy to search. The three of them slept in the van for warmth, rifles nearby, and prayed Michael would show up the next morning.
He didn’t.
At first light, they returned to the road. Jianjun called Michael’s phone using the satellite phone, but the calls wouldn’t connect. If he’d been thinking straight, he would have insisted they buy two satellite phones in case they got separated. His eye caught a flash of red hair nearby and he knew why he was scarcely thinking at all.
“He’s been captured,” Renata said. “That’s the only explanation.”
“No,” Jianjun insisted. “It’s one explanation, but there are many others. Perhaps he found the monastery and is there now, giving them the pearl.”
“Or,” Renata all but groaned the words, “something worse has happened to him.”
He felt an urge to wrap his fingers around her throat. He had no interest in hearing her conjectures.
“We’re going back to the area we last saw Michael,” Jianjun said. “We’re going to do a thorough search. He might be hurt and needs us to find him.”
Both women agreed.
Jianjun drove back and parked on the roadside. He would have liked to park off-road and hide the vehicle in brush, but the gorge was too narrow, and the land too bare. With rifles strapped over their shoulders, they spent the rest of the day searching the mountains for any sign of Michael. They found nothing.
By evening, dejected, they were climbing down the rocky hill above the road to the van when they heard a loud engine. “Go back,” Jianjun said, leading them quickly back up the hill to some boulders. They lay down and watched.