by Marc Laidlaw
She was scarcely surprised to see that huge metal gates had risen to block off the streets of the new city. Silhouettes of soldiers appeared against the evening sky, commanding spotlights, pacing back and forth. Messages of warning were sent from loudspeakers, demanding that the crowd desist or face grave penalties.
Rocks began to fly at the walls, taking the sentries as targets. Someone tossed a homemade bomb which struck one wall and exploded harmlessly, leaving nothing but a residue of gunpowder on the white face.
When slender turrets rose into view, Marianne screamed. Their lenses gleamed with the red of the western sky. She knew they were not spotlights.
“Stop!” she cried. “Get back!”
But no one heard her. No one recognized the weapons.
She had seen them before, and had witnessed their effects on two occasions: on the dark plains where she had first touched down in Tibet, and again in the Mines of Joy.
She panicked at the memory of fiery lances and the screams of the dying.
Rocks flew faster and thicker now. The crowd surged forward like a wave that meant to rise over that wall and drown the compound beyond. Like a bubble on the tide, she was carried forward with the mob.
“No!” she screamed again. But she was helpless to stop herself, let alone the riot.
Fire licked out. Rays of death danced through the mob. She smelled an odor she had first met at the ghats of Benares. It was the incense of the crematory: human ashes.
At last the crowd realized what had come to pass. The tide of bodies ebbed abruptly, screaming with one voice, folding back upon itself to escape the plaza.
But there was no escape. The Civil Guard enclosed the square, blocking all streets, firing from the rooftops. No one feared bullets as much as they feared the knives of burning light that flayed the edges of the crowd. The police blockades were simply overrun.
The lights continued to probe the square, each radiant cone now full of swirling ashes.
Marianne barely managed to stay afloat. She realized that she was in the avenues again, free of the square; but she still had no freedom from the crowd. She sensed a shadow ahead of her, like a wing spreading over the street. Glancing at the sky she saw men in uniforms, and wondered how they had gotten up so high. They stood upon a kind of bridge or tunnel. But there was no light at the tunnel’s far end.
Someone cried out, “Street trap!”
The blackness closed upon her. She came up hard against a wall. Footsteps rumbled overhead. Her voice and the voices of those around her echoed back from the roof
and walls. She turned around, looking for the evening light and the comparative freedom of the streets.
Then the trap sprang shut, sealing her into darkness. She screamed and banged the wall with her hand. It was metal; she could hear voices beyond it, the sound of feet running, glass breaking, sirens.
A fainter sound came from above,
Hissing. . . .
She put up her hand and felt a cool spray of mist. Before she realized what it was, she had already inhaled too much of it.
* * *
She awoke to groaning and whispers, to darkness. A voice in the distance kept shouting and every shout echoed. She reached along the cold floor where she lay, feeling grit beneath her fingers, chips of stone, damp earth. After several inches she encountered something soft—an arm.
“Hello?” she said.
“Hello,” whispered a woman. “Who are you?”
“My name is Sonam Gampo. And you?”
“Tara Wangdu.”
Marianne’s heart leapt for a moment at the name of Tara. If only Tara were with her to offer advice or give her some inspiring vision.
Tara Wangdu’s fingers closed around Marianne’s. “We’re in the dungeons, aren’t we?”
“The dungeons?”
“Of the Potala. There are hundreds here; only the dungeons are big enough to hold so many.”
“Were you in the riot?” Marianne asked.
“Yes, but I think there are also people here from older riots, prisoners of many years.”
“The Potala,” Marianne said in disbelief.
“I pray my husband escaped. Otherwise, who will take care of our children? I was heading home when the trouble began; the soldiers themselves herded me toward the square. How could I tell them I wanted no part of it? One of them aimed a gun at my head!”
Tara Wangdu began to weep. Marianne put her arms over the woman’s trembling shoulders and lay there shivering beside her with her eyes wide open, trying to detect some spark of light. She had never seen such a thorough darkness. The dungeons of the Potala were windowless, carved deep in the bowels of Red Hill.
After a time she sat up and swept a hand in the other direction. There was a body there, too; it moaned when she touched it. She drew her hand away.
Hundreds of us, she thought.
The wailing of many voices echoed through the black confines, ringing into distance. She wished that she could rise and explore their prison, but she was afraid of losing her place, afraid she might never find it again. At last she realized that the place itself was meaningless.
“Tara Wangdu,” she said, “are you well enough to rise?”
“What for?”
“I don’t want to leave you alone, nor do I much want to be alone myself. But I would like to explore these dungeons. We can follow the wall and perhaps make out a map.”
“What does it matter? We’ll be here forever. We’ll have time to count every speck of dust in this place.”
“I hope not,” Marianne said. “Well . . . will you be all right on your own, then?”
“No!” She heard Tara’s frantic movement. “I’ll come with you. But it seems pointless.”
There was one direction from which Marianne had heard no sounds. Holding Tara’s hand, crouching, she moved toward this silent region and encountered a wall. Leaning against it, she rose to her feet. Tara stood up beside her.
“Hold onto me,” she said. Then, keeping one hand on the wall, she proceeded to the left.
She had no sense of progress as she measured their dark confines. When the way, as often happened, was blocked by bodies, she stepped around or over them. Once she encountered a heavy steel door mounted flush with the wall. Peering into the cracks around the edge of the door, she sought any faint glimmer of light but saw nothing.
“Maybe we should wait here,” Tara said. “They have to come sooner or later, to bring food and water. They won’t let us starve, will they?”
“I don’t know,” Marianne said.
“You’ll wish they would, soon enough,” volunteered a third voice. “It’s better than going on living in here.”
It sounded like a man, an old man who had grown hoarse from shouting and weeping. Now he could scarcely raise his voice above a whisper.
“The irony of it is that these were once granaries and treasure houses. Not even a mouse could slip in here.”
Marianne moved closer to the man, away from the door. “You must have been over every inch of the place.”
“Oh, those of us who’ve been here long enough, we’ve come to know and love every corner. You will too, in time.”
“Is this the only door?” she asked.
“That door leads into another wing of the dungeons. If you want to find where you came through in the first place, you must go back the other way—far, far back. We’re in the hinterlands here. Not that it matters. I have friends near the door who bring me food when the guards deign to serve it. Things are quieter here, more restful. That’s all changed tonight, though, with the likes of you. It’s the most new arrivals to this wing that I’ve seen. What were all of you up to out there?”
“There was a riot,” Marianne began.
“The Gyayum Chenmo is in Lhasa!” Tara piped up. “The Governor all but admitted it.”
“Ah,” said the old man bitterly, as if clearing his throat. “So you thought your day had come, you thought you’d finally send the invaders ho
me with their tails between their legs. And did you actually see your savioress?”
“It was nothing but rumors,” Marianne said, wrapping her arms around herself to suppress a chill.
“Rumors, yes, and the people went wild. Rumors of that sort are most dangerous.”
“But she has come,” Tara Wangdu said. “There have been strange shapes in the clouds: flying creatures, bodhisattvas. Two nights ago someone saw a huge wheel spinning against the setting sun, with a thousand spokes like the arms of Chenrezi.”
“And I thought I had gone mad,” said the old man.
“But these are auspicious signs—”
“Auspicious in what way? And what have they accomplished? You’re here to rot in the Potala until you die; is that what you foresaw in the clouds? No, people interpret portents to match their hopes and fears. And Tibet has lived with fear so long that it has nothing left but hope. No wonder you see these things as auspicious.”
“You talk like a Communist,” said Tara Wangdu.
“Hm. And suppose I am?”
There was a lengthy silence.
“Do you think I’m afraid to admit it? Why would I joke about such a thing? It didn’t save me from this pit.”
Tara Wangdu sounded unbelieving. “The Chinese don’t lock up their own—”
“Believe what you want. I was sent from China to look over the situation in Tibet, to make sure that things had not gotten out of hand during the civil wars. They hadn’t been expecting me. I was a big surprise.”
“Them?” Marianne asked. “Who?”
“Rato and his henchmen. Rato took advantage of China when it was distracted. He amassed great power and a private fortune. I learned he had melted down the statues in the Central Cathedral and replaced them with plastic replicas. With what he gained, he bribed countless Chinese officials; the corruption spread much more efficiently after that. And when things settled down in the mainland, Rato reassured us that all was well in Tibet. The balance had been maintained, he said. Naturally he would appreciate military support from time to time, but otherwise the region functioned perfectly well. I soon discovered that all the funds from China were funneled directly into Rato’s pockets. The only interests he looked after were personal ones.”
“You discovered all this on your own?” Marianne asked.
“I had some authority, but not so much that Rato feared me. At first I accepted his bribes so that he would trust me. I never spent that money. I intended to surrender it when I uncovered all that I could learn of his plans. Somehow he became suspicious of me; my apartments were searched in my absence, and my notebooks were discovered, with all the records I’d been keeping of Rato’s activities. I suppose they faked my death or disappearance when they threw me here. I don’t know why they didn’t simply murder me. Perhaps Rato still hopes to find some use for me.”
“No one trusts him,” Tara Wangdu said after a moment. “We thought him a servant of the Chinese.”
“He serves no one but himself. Don’t you know the motherland was ready to relinquish Tibet? Has word not reached you of the Great Leap Upward?”
“The Great Leap Upward?” Marianne asked. “What is that?”
“The Twenty-Year Plan, my friend. The Exodus. Construction has already begun, the ships are underway. The next expansion of China will carry us into space. Slow ships, sleeping passengers, will drift forth to seed the stars. It will greatly ease the problems of overpopulation, while serving ideological goals as well. Tibet was close to having its independence restored entirely until Rato showed us how well it could function under his command, and how well it could assist in the Great Leap Upward. The mines are more efficient than ever; the materials to build the starships now issue from the Tibetan soil. If you could have held on for another twenty years, your freedom would have been handed to you. But Rato may have changed all that.”
“Rato,” Marianne said. “Where did he come from?”
“He is a Tibetan, like yourself,” the old man said. “But that raises another question. Your accent is most unusual. I am conversant in many Tibetan dialects, but yours . . . as I say, it’s strange. If I didn’t know better, I would say I detect a distinct European flavor.”
Marianne held her breath for a moment, then released it with a prayer.
“I was educated in the United States and Switzerland,” she said.
Tara Wangdu gasped.
“Insanity!” said the man.
“Do you speak English? French?” she asked.
“Certainly.”
“Then listen to my voice,” she said in English. “Listen to my voice,” she said in French.
“You are not Tibetan,” said the old man.
“I . . . serve Tibet. My roots are here.”
“Serve Tibet in what capacity?” he said with a sarcastic laugh. “From the depths of the Potala? I’m sorry that after traveling so widely you should end up here.”
“Perhaps it is part of the roundabout route I must take,” she replied. “I do not think my road ends here. Recently I have seen enough miracles to convince me that nothing is what it seems.”
“It wasn’t miracles that taught me the truth of that phrase. You asked what I thought of Rato’s intentions for Tibet? I think he means to destroy it. He will strip it of its resources, drain its people of their last drop of blood, and make himself into a kind of god, protected by his deluded army of murderous man-made bodhisattvas. He has insane intentions. I once heard his lackeys whisper of the powers he has twisted to his purposes—the very forces that created our universe, the essentials of existence and consciousness. He may unleash a primal energy that will make nuclear bombs look like firecrackers. Then he will leave the Earth. . . .
“But now that I have told you of Rato and myself, I wish to learn more about you.”
What had she to lose? she wondered.
There was no more private realm in all Tibet than this dungeon, buried beneath the noses of the authorities. In a circumstance such as this, what option did she have but to rally all her powers? She knew that she must claim her birthright now, that she must make herself known to the Tibetans—or at least those few imprisoned with her in the Potala.
“My name is Marianne Strauss,” she whispered.
“A good Tibetan name,” the old man said, chuckling.
“But that is not the name by which I am known in Tibet. I am sometimes called, ‘Gyayum Chenmo.’”
She heard a gasp from Tara Wangdu. Beyond that, the silence seemed impenetrable. The voices of the other prisoners faded, fell away. There in the darkness she felt as if she were radiant, glowing with light. A switch had been thrown in her soul, a vital connection made.
Counterpoint to the subtle quickening in her spirit was the amazed laughter of the old man, which grew louder and louder until it boomed from the walls and the encroaching ceiling. Suddenly his voice snapped and he began coughing.
“You?” he sputtered. “Is that simply what they call you, or is that truly who you are?”
“I am the Great Mother,” she said.
“How is it that you come to be held prisoner in the Potala? And why does a Tibetan goddess speak with a foreign accent?”
“I am no goddess. The State Oracle of Tibet in Dharamsala gave me the name. It was said that I would be instrumental in liberating Tibet.”
He chuckled again. “Well, we are sorely in need of liberation.”
She cocked her head toward the blackness, hearing Tara Wangdu whispering nearby, holding a hurried conversation with another prisoner. There were startled words, cries of disbelief, but Tara was emphatic: “She is here! Right here with us! The Gyayum Chenmo!”
“Move away from me,” the old man snapped. “I don’t wish to be trampled.”
“Gyayum Chenmo!”
The name spread through the cavernous confines, touched the far walls, and came rippling back to her—louder now, echoing in the dark. Marianne moved away from the sound until she felt the wall behind her. She was frighten
ed by the mass of voices and a sense of great movement in the dark. What had she done? Some fuse had been lit; an explosion seemed imminent.
But she had done it herself. This was her purpose, her reason for being in Tibet. She could not count on a miraculous Wish-Fulfilling Gem to do her work for her; she must make her own wishes come true. If she were the Gyayum Chenmo, then she must behave as such.
She faced the dark, uncertain of the voices and the people who came rushing her way.
Hands touched her face gently, then drew back as if ashamed or fearful of soiling her.
“Gyayum Chenmo!”
They asked nothing of her, and seemed to want nothing more than to honor her. Their trust humbled Marianne. So what if she were the Great Mother? She must prove her worth by virtuous actions, not expect praise merely for existing. Even if she were no one but a foreigner named Marianne Strauss, she would have joined this struggle. She would have done all she could for these people. But the fact that they believed in her . . . perhaps that would make a difference somehow. It was their faith, and not only her own, that would liberate them.
“Yes,” she said at last, knowing what they wished to hear. “I have come. Like you, I have been captured. But we will not remain here long. Chenrezi’s power grows daily; he extends his protection over all Tibet. We will not be forgotten.”
Her words were carried off through the dark until everyone had heard them.
“Why did you come here?” asked the old man, impatient with her and the crowd.
“I have been to every quarter of Tibet, recovering ancient ornaments of power that must be returned to Chenrezi. The last of five is hidden somewhere in Lhasa, I think.”
“You think?”
“I am still searching.”
“Hah,” he said, without humor. “Search as you like. You will have the rest of your life to explore the dungeons.”
“I think they will free me when they learn who I am,” said Marianne. “The Governor is anxious to meet me.”
The old man fell silent.
“Tell me your name,” she said. “I’ll mention your case.”
“Don’t do me any favors. Recalling me to his mind might merely tip the scales against me—he’ll wonder how much I told you. No . . . get out of here if you can, but let me be. Let me be, I say.”