Bones of the Earth

by Eliot Pattison

  Shan took the paper and straightened it, pressing out the many creases against the wall. It was a Tibetan death curse, or rather someone’s idea of a Tibetan curse.

  “Jampa said the words weren’t right and that the three-eyed skull wasn’t a Buddhist thing at all, so it had no effect, it represented no danger.”

  Shan saw that the old Tibetan had been right. He had seen death threats, and this was just a poor imitation of one.

  “It still scares me, Shan. Maybe it wasn’t really a death curse but surely it was meant as one.”

  “No, just meant to scare you, to have you think Tibetans were stalking you,” Shan told her. It meant, he knew, that whoever had done this had not been Tibetan.

  She nodded. “I suppose.”

  Shan folded the paper. “May I keep this?”

  “Yes, yes, please do,” Amah Jiejie said. “But just don’t…” her voice trailed off

  “Don’t what?”

  “Please don’t tell the colonel, Shan. He would worry.”

  * * *

  Shan passed a desperate night at a pilgrims’ rest near the road to the prison camp, keeping nervous watch as Lokesh, Jampa’s belongings arranged before him on a rock, continued reciting the death rites, which would take days to complete. He relented only for quick swallows from Shan’s water bottle and bites of the rice cakes Shan had in his pack, then later, long after midnight, for quick responses to Shan’s questions about his trip to Lhadrung. Lokesh had hitched a ride on a truck with a Tibetan driver after riding a horse to the nearest road. The joyful old man, who was like a close uncle to Shan, was showing conspicuous signs of his age. His firm, steady stride which had taken them over hundreds of miles of pilgrims’ trails, had slowed and sometimes was only a tenuous shuffle. His bright eyes were watery, and at times Shan saw a tremor in one hand.

  They were outside the gate when the boxy old sedan, dented and badly in need of new paint, pulled up at the 404th People’s Construction Brigade. They had not been the first in line despite arriving before dawn, and Shan recalled from his years as an inmate that relatives often arrived the day before for the infrequent family visitation days, spending the night in sleeping bags or wrapped in blankets, sometimes after traveling for days.

  “I’m sorry, Tserung,” he said as the mechanic wearily climbed from behind the wheel. Shan had called to ask him to bring Yara for the long-awaited visit when he had realized he would never make it to Yangkar and back in time. “But at least you have a companion for the ride home. Find a safe place for him until I get back,” Shan said and opened the back door of his car.

  “Lokesh!” Yara exclaimed. Her cry awakened the old man, who groggily returned her embrace and let himself be pulled to Tserung’s car.

  Ko was no longer counted among the high-risk prisoners, so he was not chained to a chair for the visit but rather allowed into a side yard, enclosed with razor wire, with other prisoners and their families. Mothers and wives wept. Fathers and sons clenched their jaws and tried not to glare at the armed guards as the thin, ragged prisoners filed in, some supported by other inmates. Half a dozen prisoners, the oldest, never had visitors but were allowed to sit at the perimeter and contentedly watch the brief, tearful reunions. The families of hard labor prisoners never knew whether a loved one would survive to the next visit. More than once Shan had seen family members collapse, sobbing, as they were greeted not by the prisoner they had come to see but by a certificate attesting to his death.

  Shan hung back as Ko appeared, letting Yara run forward and wrap her arms around him. They held each other tightly, without a word, until a couple of prisoners nearby noticed and laughed. When Ko finally released the Tibetan woman, there was a new, deep strength behind his eyes. Yara recalled the bags Shan had carried from Tserung’s car. Prisoners were not permitted to take food back into their barracks but could eat in the yard, and she unpacked a bag of Marpa’s momo dumplings. Then, in a custom she had established the year before, she walked with a second bag to the sergeant of the guards and placed it at his feet, with a murmured blessing. The sergeant responded with a stern, tight nod.

  Shan gave his son and Yara time to speak alone by going to the circle of old men. He knew most of the aged lamas and pushed down his emotion as he struggled to keep their conversation cheerful, trying to ignore how frail some had become. He had his own bag of momos which he distributed among them, and the rail-thin prisoners accepted them with an eager gratitude that made him feel shamed for being so well-fed himself.

  There were thirty minutes left in the visitation period when he returned to Ko. Yara stood at his side, holding his calloused hand, as Shan asked about the prisoners from Larung Gar.

  “Good men, every one of them,” his son reported. “They’re not in my barracks but sometimes I work with them. They hold teachings in the night. Some from other barracks sneak out after curfew to go listen.”

  “You mustn’t!” Yara interrupted. Being caught outside one’s barracks after curfew brought at least a month’s solitary confinement.

  “I only went the one time,” Ko said. “They had an altar made out of an old carton and they had made clever cardboard cutouts that by themselves looked like nothing more than the remnants of cardboard men stuff in their clothing for insulation. But when fitted together they made the images of gods and deity protectors. They spoke of the timelessness of who we are. At first I didn’t understand, but by the end I grasped that they were saying that the difficulties of our existence don’t really matter, that what mattered was the chain of compassion and truth that had connected humans for thousands of years, and that was more important than any physical chains that may encumber us.”

  Ko hesitated, seeing the surprised looks of both Shan and Yara. They were not used to him waxing philosophically. He flushed. “Any of those momos left?”

  As he ate the last dumpling, Ko recalled an odd story he had heard from two different prisoners in the barracks of the Larung Gar men. “There was one who didn’t seem to belong with them at first. It was almost like they didn’t know him, and one of my friends said at night they gave him extra blessings and thanked him for his sacrifice, like he was enduring a greater hardship than the others. And during those early days there were times when he seemed not to respond to his name, though most dismissed that because everyone knows how the shock of arriving here plays games with your mind.”

  “What was his name?” Shan asked.

  “Lin. Lin Fochow.”

  Shan weighed the news a moment. “Tell me, son, the day those prisoners arrived, when their convoy came with the two dead soldiers, were the prisoners all wearing robes?”

  Ko thought a moment then nodded. “Seven men, all but one in robes, yes. All wearing wool caps pulled low over their heads. No one would have seen except like I said they came in as we were unloading from the work crew trucks.”

  “Seven? I thought there were six prisoners.”

  “Six in robes for the 404th. Another Tibetan man who was pounded by a Public Security officer with his baton and immediately shoved into one of the knob cars after being pulled from a truck. The officer drove away with him.”

  Shan realized that Ko had seen Lieutenant Huan take Yankay the hail chaser away to face murder charges. He glanced at his watch. Their time was almost over, and he did not want to spend what was left speaking of his investigation. “Marpa says he wants to plan a big feast for next time you come to visit,” Shan said, forcing a smile. While Ko had been given a brief parole months earlier, no others had followed, and there was no way to predict when Tan would allow another. It could be in two months or two years. Ko had been convicted of several crimes, some of which carried indefinite sentences, subject to the review of his file every two years.

  “A lammergeier!” Yara called and pointed nearly straight up toward a huge bird soaring overhead. “A good sign, Ko!”

  Ko lifted his head to follow her pointing arm, and Shan saw a long bruise on his neck that disappeared under his shirt. “What hap
pened?” he asked with a gesture to the injury.

  Ko snapped his head down. “It’s nothing. From work. I fell down when pushing a wheelbarrow and the handle slammed into me,” he said, then pointed toward a nearby family, where three children had formed a circle around a prisoner and were singing to him. Shan smiled and accepted his son’s obvious change of subject, knowing he had made up the story of how the injury had happened. Sometimes there were fights among prisoners, often Chinese versus Tibetans, but Ko was smarter than to be drawn into such feuds. More painful to contemplate was the alternative. Most of the guards knew Ko was his son. Ko was his weak spot. If he hadn’t been in brawls with other prisoners, then his injuries could only mean he was being beaten by the guards.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Tserung the mechanic laughed when Shan asked about Lokesh, saying that the old man had indeed immediately gone into the archives when they had arrived in Yangkar, as Shan expected, but had not stayed. Lokesh had recalled that Tserung had mentioned during their drive to town that Yara’s grandparents were visiting for the coming livestock market and had gone to find them. Yara reacted to the news with a nervous laugh and motioned Shan back into the truck.

  The compound beyond the edge of town that she directed him to had once belonged to one of the most important of the farming families in the region and had sat abandoned for decades, except for the sheep and goats who found their way into the old stables during winter storms. Most of the local residents avoided the buildings because they were said to be haunted.

  “The family was executed by the Red Guard,” Yara explained in a matter-of-fact voice as Shan parked the truck at the end of the rutted track that led to the farmhouse. “But my grandparents had been close friends and prayed for their spirits for many years after.” They began to walk up the overgrown track, which showed no sign of use in recent years. “They’re getting too old for the harsh winters. When I took them here my grandmother was frightened at first but bravely ventured inside, telling us not to follow, and prayed for nearly an hour. When she came out she was excited and said the old ones weren’t angry or vengeful, that they were just lonely and would welcome the sound of laughter inside the walls again. The first thing she did was make a little altar for us to revive the prayers the house had once known.”

  As they reached the tall double-doored gate in the compound wall, each of its panels hanging on one hinge, Shan saw that the compound had clearly once been the center of a large and prosperous farm. A two-story stone house, wind-battered but still solid, formed the anchor of the weed-infested courtyard, with a second one-story house forming an adjacent side, probably where extended family or farm workers had lived. An open-fronted shed that included an old forge lined the side opposite the smaller house, and a sizable barn took up the entire side opposite the main house, completing the square.

  “This place is big enough for a whole clan,” Shan observed as Yara led him toward the smaller house, the entrance of which evidenced a fresh coat of maroon paint and several carefully inscribed auspicious signs that looked like the work of Shiva. Inside, the air was tinged with a combination of incense and smoke from the cigars that were the primary vice of Yara’s grandmother Lhamo. A small dog yapped and bounded through an inner doorway to greet Yara, followed by Yara’s son, Ati. The adolescent boy excitedly introduced Shan to the dog, then sobered as a droning voice carried from the shadowed doorway at the far side of the chamber. Shan stepped through the passage and discovered Lokesh at a long, low table upon which the tattered clothing, shoes, and other belongings of Jampa had been laid out in the shape of the dead man. Lokesh was continuing the death rites.

  “He helped us cut fresh juniper for the room where our sleeping pallets are,” came a familiar voice at Shan’s shoulder, and he turned with a smile to greet Lhamo. “He recited some prayers at our altar, even sang one of the old kitchen god songs he remembered from his childhood over our cooking brazier, then said he had a sacred duty to perform.”

  “An old friend died,” was the only explanation Shan offered, and Lhamo gave a meaningful nod. “He’ll stay in there for days probably, and just take tsampa and water for nourishment.”

  Lhamo nodded again. She had probably lost count of the number of death rites she and her husband had conducted through the years. “Except he wants to go to Shiva in the morning, he says,” the old woman explained, “to get a death chart started.”

  Shan went to a window, several panes of which were broken, and gazed out at the compound. Despite the weeds that had overtaken the courtyard, the decrepit condition of the barn roof, and the faded paint on the walls, it still had the air of a sturdy, welcoming outpost. Undoubtedly the farm’s expansive fields had provided food for the monastery for decades, if not centuries, and pilgrims had probably slept in the courtyard, singing their songs of devotion into the night. The compound commanded a view of the rolling hills in each direction for nearly a mile and was obscured from the town by a low ridge that was ablaze with spring flowers. Yara’s grandparents, like Lokesh, were ferals, Tibetans without identity cards, and for most of their lives they had avoided towns. The compound was probably the safest place for them, at least for now.

  “I will bring food later,” he said, then excused himself. Choden would be getting off duty soon.

  Only two reports awaited Shan on his desk. Mrs. Lu had caught the incorrigible young girl with Meng’s companion throwing stones at the bust of Chairman Mao and the Committee of Leading Citizens had demanded that Choden arrest her.

  “They’re still here? You arrested her?” Shan asked his deputy, who looked up with a sheepish expression.

  “If I hadn’t, Mrs. Lu was going to thrash her with a belt.”

  Shan opened the door to the back room. The cells were empty.

  Choden shrugged. “She slipped out between the bars. She’s very thin. But I can truthfully report to Mrs. Lu that I did put her in jail.”

  “And?”

  “That woman with Lieutenant Meng was waiting at the back step. She seemed to expect it, as if it were not the first time the girl had broken out of jail. Buddha’s Breath! She can’t be more than five!”

  “Meng wouldn’t stop the girl?” Shan was reluctantly reaching the point at which he was going to demand they leave town. Surely Meng understood the girl could not stay.

  “She was feeling poorly, took to bed.”

  Shan shook his head in frustration and read the second report, then looked up. “You can’t file this. An ‘obstruction of an emergency vehicle’? What does that mean? What ambulance? I’ve never seen one anywhere close to here.”

  “I didn’t know how else to explain it. It was that old rescue truck they keep at the highway equipment station on the road to Lhadrung town for bad highway accidents. Someone called them and said a Tibetan herder had been hit on the highway and seemed to be close to death. When the rescue truck got there a herd of sheep surrounded it, so the driver and attendant got out and pushed through to the man who had been struck. But he had regained consciousness, said he was fine, and couldn’t leave his herd. So they treated a few scratches, gave him some medicine and left. Except later they called to say the medical pack was gone from the back of the truck.”

  “Medical pack?”

  “Like a big metal suitcase, they said, full of medical equipment and medicines. Except then the driver said the attendant was a damned fool and may have forgotten to put it in the truck. They have several and couldn’t find any inventory list to confirm one was missing.”

  Shan read the report again then ripped it in half and dropped it in the trash can. A phone message had been underneath it, from Amah Jiejie. Lieutenant Huan, she reported, had been in Lhasa the night of the attack on Jampa. Shan wearily braced his head in his hands, elbows on his desk, feeling his exhaustion. He watched Choden, willing him to sign out and go home so he might nap in a cell. But suddenly his deputy was at the window, studying two figures in hooded sweatshirts who were now sitting on a bench in the square, watching a
half dozen sheep who were eating one of the new flowering shrubs Mrs. Lu had planted. Shan was about to tell Choden to go disperse the sheep when his deputy pointed to a white utility vehicle parked on the square. “Lhasa plates. Everyone gets lost in Yangkar these days.”

  Shan studied the two figures a moment. “Go home,” he ordered, then waited while his deputy disappeared down the street before venturing out on the square.

  “I love this town!” Cato Pike exclaimed as Shan sat beside him. “I am a connoisseur of forgotten places, and this one looks like it has been forgotten in so many centuries it practically doesn’t exist!”

  “Sometimes the only way to be free is to be forgotten,” Shan replied.

  “In other words, Yangkar is a Chinese paradise. Hell, it’s not even on the road map. We had to stop and ask a herder.”

  “The mapmakers are all from Beijing. They decided to call it Buzhou. There used to be a sign saying that, but a yak knocked it down.”

  “And the constable chose not to put it up again. I imagine your Chinese residents didn’t much like that.”

  “Staying forgotten requires sacrifices,” Shan said, choosing not to mention that the Committee of Leading Citizens had erected their own sign and Shan had knocked it down with his truck and blamed a yak.

  Pike gave a quiet laugh. “My life story in four words,” he said.

  Shan paused, studying the American, but decided not to press for an explanation. Pike was a strong bull of a man, and his eyes burned with a penetrating intelligence, but Shan had begun to also see a deep sadness etched on his countenance. He was a man who had experienced a great deal of the world and seemed to have given up on much of it. He was a loner who seemed to have left behind the anchors that kept most lives on track, and now had lost his daughter in a forgotten land.

  * * *

  A melancholy grin flickered on Pike’s face as he watched Cao climb up the steps of the tower at the end of the square, and Shan realized the student’s energetic curiosity probably reminded Pike of his daughter. He made a sweeping gesture that took in the square and the buildings around it. “There are layers of time here,” the American declared. “The scale is all wrong. Once something much bigger occupied this space.”