Bone Mountain is-3

by Eliot Pattison

  After a few minutes he invited Shan into the quiet house, where they drank tea and ate cold dumplings with Lhandro's parents as Shan explained Professor Ma's project. None of the villagers had known of an old temple, not even in legends. "Dig anywhere in Tibet and you will find something eventually," Lepka said with a sigh. He was stroking the tiny lamb, which lay cradled in his lap.

  "Could it be," Shan wondered, "that the deity resided there once? In a small gompa?"

  "There has never been a gompa here," the old man said again, in a stern tone. He turned to contemplate the photograph on the altar.

  Shan studied the old man. Had he been told the words the oracle had spoken on the mountain? In my mountains, in my heart, in my blood, the strange hollow voice in Anya had said. Bind them, bind them, bind them, the voice had said, as though speaking of wounded people. So many dead, so many to die. What would the words mean to Lepka?

  But the old man was no longer listening, no longer part of the conversation. He had joined his wife at the altar, where they had begun chanting their beads.

  Shan stepped outside to find a small cluster of people at the far end of the village, past Winslow's bench. Some were on the ground beside an open blanket of yak hair felt, and villagers were dumping baskets of barley grain into the blanket. Some dropped khatas onto the blanket with the grain, and others dropped pots and kettles near the blanket. As the villagers noticed Shan they greeted him with hopeful expressions and stepped back from the blanket. Lokesh sat helping Nyma tie the handles of the pots together. On his old friend's lap was a pencil stub and a long sheet of paper bearing several lines in Lokesh's hand.

  His old friend grinned and patted the ground beside him. "I have begun it," Lokesh said in a satisfied tone as he noticed Shan's interest in the paper. "My message to the Chairman in Beijing."

  Shan clenched his jaw and stared at the paper. He had begun to think Lokesh had forgotten about his strange pilgrimage to the capital.

  "I will read it to him, to that supreme chairman," the old man said with an uncharacteristic edge of stubbornness in his voice. "We will drink tea together and I will explain the way of things in Tibet. I am sure he does not understand."

  Shan returned his friend's gaze. It was a new side to Lokesh, the challenge in his eyes, the resistance in his voice. He was warning Shan in his way, for he feared Shan might argue. But Shan turned away and surveyed the landscape, listening to the rumble of the derrick and the distant, defiant beating of the drum. "I am sure he does not understand," Shan agreed.

  Shan joined in the packing of the supplies, which were doubtlessly for those who had fled into the mountains. One of the Yapchi women started singing a soulful song. Another knelt behind a young girl and began braiding her hair. From where they sat on the lower slope the village appeared serene and the sound of the derrick was obscured by the song. It had the air of a festival outing, of a picnic.

  Suddenly the serenity was shattered by a loud boom, like thunder, and an odd whistling noise in the sky. The woman stopped singing, looking up with a puzzled grin at first, as though someone was playing a prank, or lighting fireworks. Then, several hundred yards away, the slope exploded. "Anya!" Nyma cried out, and ran toward the village.

  Moments later Shan found Lhandro at the northern entrance to the village. The headman stared forlornly toward the vehicle now sitting halfway between the village and the derrick. It spat fire, the thunder erupted again, the whistling returned, and the slope exploded again. The tank had advanced and was attacking the deity stone.

  "They told us some young officer is training his men," Shan said, as though it might give comfort. But there seemed to be no other words to say. Two more shells were fired, and when the smoke cleared on the slope the deity stone was gone. Not just the stone- an entire patch of the slope was gone, the trees and lichen rocks replaced by a patch of smoldering, shattered earth. The tank spun about and began its slow course back toward the oil camp.

  No one spoke of the incident, although some of the older villagers seemed unable to move, and only stared mournfully at the smoking patch of earth. With a stab of pain Shan realized they might have concluded another deity had tried to join them, and been killed by the Chinese. Slowly the village went back to its work. Shan watched, perplexed, as Lhandro's mother and Nyma began hanging scraps of cloth from the sills of windows across to the pen walls or to the ground, anchored with stones. Some were khatas, others small prayer flags. Several villagers were sweeping the entrances to their houses, some even washing the walls. One man held a can of black paint and was painting in huge script, inscribing the mani mantra along the front of his house. Between two houses Shan found a dozen of the villagers in a circle, offering mantras. It was a familiar scene to Shan, sad and uplifting at the same time, the way battles were fought between the Chinese and the Tibetans. Prayer flags and mantras against battle tanks.

  As if to complete the festive air, Lhandro ordered a large fire to be ignited in the center of the path, near the entrance to the village. His mother and wife brought a large pot and an urn of butter and set about to make tea for the entire village. They would use the new salt, Lhandro proclaimed, and his mother brought out an old dongma that had been used to churn tea when Lepka was a boy.

  As they drank the tea the headman's father told a story, passed down through many generations, of how their house had been built- a long story replete with details of how the strongest trees had been chosen, with prayers spoken to each tree before it was cut; and how the clan members had gone high in the mountains, above the trees to where glaciers lived, to bring rocks back for the foundation, because they had lived so close to the sky deities and knew the language of the wind and could tell it to blow gently over the valley.

  A remote sort of happiness settled over the village, a contentment edged with anticipation. Shan saw more than one of the villagers wipe away tears, and several more joined in the cleaning of the houses. The group that lingered by the fire began a new song, softly at first, then growing vigorous, even loud. Lokesh looked at Shan with puzzled eyes. It was, Shan realized, one of Lokesh's traveling songs, a pilgrim's song, a song of lonely wanderers.

  When the army trucks appeared again, winding their way slowly up the valley, no one in the village seemed surprised. Lhandro sighed, and helped his father back into the house. "They will search in earnest this time," the headman said to Shan and Lokesh, handing Shan his drawstring bag. "You must go up the slope. You have done all you could do here. Take the trail Anya brought you on, from Chemi's village. Someone will find you."

  Above them, already on the trail, Winslow waved and turned away at a jog. But they didn't follow. Shan and Lokesh stopped in the shadow of the first large tree above the village and watched as the trucks arrived. The first vehicle turned around, so its rear cargo bay was facing the village path. A soldier pulled back the canvas cover, revealing a dozen soldiers in combat gear. Shan took a step forward, a chill creeping down his spine. Colonel Lin climbed out from the cab of the truck and up into the bay, the soldiers still sitting, as though waiting for a command, and raised a bullhorn to his mouth.

  "Citizens of Lujun Valley," he began, and with a sinking heart Shan saw that Lin was reading from a prepared script. "You have been honored to participate in the great economic opening of these lands by the people's government." Lin paused and even from his position two hundred feet away Shan saw a frown on his face. "A new sun is rising, and all the peoples of China embrace you today." Shan remembered his bag, and pulled out his battered field glasses.

  The people of the village had stopped their work, stopped their singing and their mantras to gather in the central path, several moving to stand at Lhandro's back as the headman positioned himself between the trucks and the village. A figure emerged from the first house, leaning on a staff, a burlap sack over his shoulder. It was Lepka, walking straighter and with more strength than Shan had seen before in the man. He stepped to his son's side as the soldiers from the second truck produced a folding t
able and chair and set them up near the entrance to the village, forty feet from Lhandro. A man in one of the green nylon jackets appeared, carrying a clipboard, and settled into the chair. Two men in white shirts appeared and unfolded a small banner fixed to two poles. Serene Prosperity it said in red letters.

  "There are new communities, with water pipes and electricity, waiting for you. You may cast off the last chains of feudalism." Lin lowered the paper with an impatient scowl. "You people are being relocated," he barked. "The village is being requisitioned by the 54th Mountain Combat Brigade on behalf of the oil venture. Some of you may obtain jobs in the venture and live in company housing. The others will be moved to one of the new cities." Lin meant the soulless complexes of cinderblock housing with tin roofs that Beijing built around factory complexes. There would be no barley fields, no livestock, no caravans to Lamtso, no elegant wooden houses infused with prayer.

  "You did not ask us," Lhandro called back. Strangely, his father bent and lifted a thick flaming branch from the fire and held it at his side, like a weapon.

  "Of course we did," Lin shot back. "The venture asked the District Council. They approved on your behalf. They are your political representatives."

  The wind had died. Lhandro's words came as clearly as those Lin spoke though his bullhorn. "The District Council is all Chinese. They have never been to Yapchi Valley," the headman shouted. "We demand to speak to the Council."

  Lin smiled icily. "Be careful what you ask for, comrade."

  "No one asked the land," a thin but strong voice called out. "No one asked the land if it wanted to give up its blood, so Chinese could run their cars in Beijing." It was Lepka. Other villagers reached into the fire and lifted burning sticks, like torches. They had no weapons. Surely, Shan thought, they didn't believe they could rid themselves of the army simply by burning two trucks. Even if they tried the soldiers would cut them down. He lowered the glasses and took an anxious step forward.

  Lin glared at Lepka, turned and snapped out a command. The soldiers on the benches beside him leapt out and instantly formed a tight rank in front of their colonel.

  "You will assemble in a line by that wall," he commanded the villagers. "Have identity cards ready. You will approach the table one at a time."

  The villagers did not move.

  "You will form a line!" Lin shouted, throwing down the bullhorn. He unsnapped the cover on his holster and his hand settled over the butt of his automatic pistol.

  Lepka slowly moved, not toward the table but back toward his house. He began to sing again, in a loud, reedy voice that carried up the slopes. The lonely pilgrim's song. Shan was confused. What was in the bag at his shoulder? It had the shape of a thin box with sharp edges. Other villagers joined in the song and began wandering back among the houses. A woman ran forward and wiped a window clean. Another woman appeared at a doorway, paused to hang a long brown cloth on a peg by the door, and darted around the house.

  Two soldiers stepped along the wall near Lhandro, as though to rush past him to grab one of the villagers.

  Lhandro raised his hand, and stepped forward to the wall to block the soldiers. Shan saw that he had one hand wrapped around his gau. "Yapchi Village," Lhandro proclaimed in a loud, calm voice, "returns your embrace." And his father threw his torch inside their precious wooden house.

  "No!" Shan moaned, and lunged forward as the other villagers threw their torches inside the remaining houses. "We have to stop-"

  But Lokesh's hand gripped his arm so tightly it hurt. "Because you and I," his old friend said, the pain obvious in his voice, "have no home, we may long too much for others to keep theirs." Lokesh had understood, not at first, but before the torches were thrown. "It is the only way they can speak with those Chinese," he added in a softer, quiet tone.

  "That house is so old," Shan said, in a choking breath. "It is their temple." He pulled again, and Lokesh pulled back, with both his hands now. It was already too late. The dry ancient wood was like tinder. Flames were already leaping out the door. Lepka was hobbling up the path, not looking back. The sack still hung at his side. Shan knew what was inside now. There was one thing, out of all the treasured belongings in the house, that he would not leave behind. The photograph of the Dalai Lama.

  The soldiers leapt forward as Lin roared out furious orders. The man in the green jacket pulled a portable radio from his pocket and began yelling into it. A moment later the air horn sounded in the distance.

  One of the soldiers by Lhandro slammed a baton into his belly, and the headman fell against the low wall, then sprawled on top of it, clutching his abdomen.

  Lokesh pushed forward to help Lepka up the steep terrain as other villagers pushed past. Shan stared at them forlornly. They had no hope now. The soldiers would easily overtake them on the trail and turn them over to the knobs. They had destroyed what had become state property. They had interfered with a priority project for the economy.

  A woman paused, the large woman who had taken Shan into the village the first day. "Thank you," she said softly. "We'll have to find our deity somewhere else."

  The words tore at Shan. They had given up their village, their valley. They were openly defying the army. And the woman had stopped to thank Shan. His eyes welled with moisture. "Your deity is still here," he said hoarsely, but no one heard.

  For a moment a mad thought seized him, that he would climb the cliffs and stay, he would search every rock and he would find a way to bring the wrath of the deity down on the soldiers. But then he looked at Lokesh and the others struggling up the slope. They needed his help.

  More trucks sped up the valley. Most of the villagers had already left, Shan realized, thinking back on the circle by the fire. The only old ones had been Lhandro's parents, who had doubtlessly insisted on staying. They had all known. They all planned it. They had lovingly cleaned their houses, the way a body would be cleansed for the death rites. The talk at the fire and the singing had been a way of saying farewell to their beautiful village. Someone rushed by to help Lokesh with the old man. Nyma, in the dress of rongpa woman, a tattered red scarf on her shoulders. A soft bellow came from nearby. Shan turned to see Gyalo and Jampa. Lepka laughed as Nyma helped him onto the broad back of the animal, and the yak and monk moved up the trail at a surprisingly brisk pace, the old Tibetan lifting his hand high in glee. "Lha gyal lo!" Lepka called out and Lokesh, a step behind, echoed the cry.

  There was still no chance, he thought bitterly. But Nyma waited, and hurried him through a gap in the high ledge that would have been wide enough for one of the utility vehicles used by the troops. She waved a hand when they were through and two figures rose from the top of the ledge. Shan saw the flicker of a knife blade, and suddenly a rope sprang free and logs and rocks tumbled into the opening, filling it to a depth of several feet. Nyma tossed in a small rock, turned with a satisfied gleam, gathered her robe in her hand, and trotted up the trail. Twice more in the next half mile, where the trail narrowed into tight defiles, figures appeared above them and tossed down rocks and logs to block the path. At the last one Winslow was on top, urgently stacking logs and rocks that were being handed up by a chain of villagers.

  Below, no more than a few hundred yards behind, they heard whistles and angry shouts. Winslow hesitated, looking in the direction of the approaching soldiers, then began filling the defile, making the wild hooting sounds Shan had first heard when the American had ridden the wild yak.

  "If they know we're on the trail, they will know they can intercept us at Chemi's old village," Shan pointed out. It made no sense. They had nowhere to flee to, no sanctuary to hope for.

  "The purbas said it would probably be only Lin and his men. They said they think the howlers and the oil workers will not help," Nyma told him. "Gyalo and Jampa are far ahead by now. The old ones will be safe once they reach the gorge above Chemi's old village. It's like a maze above there, full of caves. The people are splitting up. The purbas said the army won't be that interested in pursuit, that the priority fo
r them would be keeping the oil crews working."

  But the purbas hadn't looked into Colonel Lin's icy eyes. They hadn't seen the way he had looked at Lokesh and Lhandro when they had first met, or witnessed his furious explosion when the houses had begun to burn.

  He waited as Winslow climbed down from the rocks. "You should go. Run ahead. Help Lokesh if you can."

  Winslow frowned, then cursed and nodded slowly. "Adios, partner." He set off at a quick pace up the mountain, leaving Shan alone with Nyma. Shan looked after the strange American. Not only did he not understand the man's last words, he wasn't even sure why the American was there. Melissa Larkin was dead, and Winslow was due back at his embassy.

  Someone called out from the rocks below. To his amazement Lhandro emerged, wearing one of the company's green jackets and a safety helmet. It was the jacket Somo had given Shan, the village headman quickly explained as he nervously scanned the slope below. He had hidden it on the other side of the wall, with the hat. In the confusion after the fires started he had rolled over the wall, on top of the jacket, and lain as if unconscious. Minutes later, when the trucks of workers arrived to fight the fires, he slipped on the jacket and hat and mingled with the workers.

  They jogged slowly on, the last of the fugitives. Lhandro pulled ahead of them, telling them to stay in the gorge as he set off to find the other villagers. Thirty minutes later they paused at the clearing that opened toward Chemi's ruined village. There was no sign of activity. But there was a sound in the wind, the sound of clinking metal. Shan and Nyma ran, hard, across the clearing and into the upper gorge as the metallic rumble increased and they heard the sound of voices on a radio. A rifle shot rang out. A bullet ricocheted high above them. The army would not want them dead, only in custody. They caught glimpses of figures ahead of them in the gorge, disappearing as the trail twisted out of sight. Then the high rock that towered overhead exploded a hundred feet above them. The tank was shooting into the gorge.