by Guy d'Armen
“Another 150 miles if we follow the Nyang Chu valley. In fact, we’re really about the same distance from it as the bird flues, but we’re not equipped to cut through the mountains; we’ve got to follow the trails.”
They started walking at a brisk pace.
A little later, they heard the sound of a lone horse galloping from behind them. Fearing that it might be a Kolo bandit in pursuit, they hid behind a boulder.
A few second later, they beheld the rather unusual sight of a single horse whose rider was being dragged behind it on the ground, his right foot caught up in his stirrup.
Ardan immediately jumped up from behind the boulder, ran towards the horse and grabbed the bridle, forcing the animal to stop.
They looked at the victim, lying blooded on the ground.
“It’s one of the Kolos,” said Milarepa. “look at his clothes: he was severely burned in the fire. He must have tried to escape, then passed out.”
Ardan had kneeled next to the man, checking for a pulse. He found none.
“He’s dead now,” he said, getting up. “Well, that’s one fewer bandit after us. But this is a lucky break for us. We now have a horse, and also a rifle, two sabers, and some food in the saddle bags too,” he added, completing his inventory of the dead man’s belongings.
The horse could easily accommodate the weight of the two young people, Milarepa sitting behind Ardan, her arms clasped around her companion’s waist.
“There is a Tibetan proverb that says that when Fate gives you the possessions of your enemy without you having to fight for them,” she said, “it means that the gods are smiling upon you.”
“Let’s thank the gods for this lucky break then!” replied the young man, smiling.
They rode at a brisk pace. The horse was of the type bred by Mongols that could easily do sixty miles in a day without tiring. They began to hope that they might reach Shigatse by the next morning, if they rode all night.
The next dawn saw them about six miles from their destination. They had met no one during their night ride, except for a minor civil servant on an inspection tour of the region, whose curiosity has quickly satisfied by Milarepa’s stories.
Ahead of them was a fortified lamasery.
“We’re going to have to pay a toll,” said Milarepa. “Fortunately, I found some coins at the bottom of the Kolo’s saddlebags.”
“A toll? What on Earth for?” asked Ardan.
“They own all the land surrounding the lamasery, as well as the portion of the road on which we are traveling. Everyone must pay a toll. They are very rich,” she added with a sigh.
The toll-keeper, a large, filthy man, had come to stand in the middle of the road, his right hand extended. As they slowly approached, Milarepa handed him two trangkas, the lowest coins in the local currency.
The toll-keeper did not seem satisfied, but, after some grumbling, stepped aside to let the two young riders pass.
Ardan became concerned and gently nudged the horse along, eager to get away from the lamasery. Ahead of them, the trail forked into two branches, each going around the building. The young man took the trail to the right but they had barely gone a few hundred yards before they saw fifteen monks armed to the teeth storm out of lamasery and rush to block their path.
“What do they want now?” asked the young man.
The monks were complaining so loudly that Milarepa could hardly understand the reason for their anger. At first, she thought that they were upset because of the small amount she had paid in toll; but, soon, she understood the true reason for their fury.
“This is bad,” she said. “It appears we’ve just committed a sacrilegious act.”
“What?”
“Yes. You went around the lamasery counter clock-wise. It is a terrible insult to the gods.”
Ardan felt tempted to urge their horse to ride over the mob, but it was already too late. As more newcomers arrived, that option was no longer available to them.
Worse yet—as several hands grabbed the two young people, the crowd rubbed away his makeup and discovered Ardan wasn’t a native but a westerner, thus compounding the offense.
The curses turned to death threats. Milarepa, too, was accused of bringing a foreign devil into the sacred land. They were brutally thrown to the ground and would have been beaten to death, had an older monk with a long, white beard not intervened.
“Stop at once!” he ordered. “They must appear before the Council of the Elders! Only they can decide of the punishment they deserve! Let no one touch them, lest they presume to be wiser than the Elders!”
The crowd reluctantly stopped. Milarepa was dragged away, while Ardan was thrown into a low-ceilinged, windowless, filth-ridden cell.
There he spent the rest of the day fighting off rats until nightfall.
The sun had barely set when Ardan heard the toll of a gong.
The door of his cell slammed open and the young man, amazed, beheld a scene straight out of a nightmare. A group of men, holding lanterns, and wearing Tibetan demon masks, grabbed Ardan and dragged him out.
He was forcibly taken to a large, stone walled room and thrown to the ground. There were seven judges sitting on embroidered carpets, also wearing ornate masks. He looked for Milarepa, but was surprised not to see her there.
The men who had taken him kneeled on the ground before the judges, while positioning themselves on either side of him.
Ardan immediately understood that this was the Council of Elders that was going to judge him for his so-called sacrilege.
The audience began when one of the judges launched into an angry tirade, gesticulating and pointing at Ardan. The young man could not understand a word of it, but thought that its tone augured poorly for his chances.
Much to his surprise, however, one of the men kneeling beside him offered a translation in English:
“The wise elder Choden says that you are one of those foreign devils whose souls are accursed and that you not only committed the unforgivable offense of insulting the gods by going around the lamasery in the forbidden fashion, but that you are also the one responsible for the theft of our most sacred book, the holy Kangyur.”
Ardan was taken aback by that unexpected attack.
“I protest!” he exclaimed. “I confess to taking the wrong path due to my ignorance of your customs, yes; but I have nothing to do with the theft of your holy book! I never even heard of it until now!”
The interpreter translated his words. The young man waited. Another Elder delivered a short speech.
“The Elder Kunchen says that several witnesses have come forward and testified that you stole the Holy Book.”
“They’re liars! I’m innocent!” exclaimed Ardan.
Acting as one, all seven judges raised their right hands and pointed towards him, uttering the same word. Then the Elder in the middle took a brush and wrote a few characters on a thin wood tablet.
“You have been found guilty as charged,” explained the interpreter, “and condemned to wear the cangue 1 until death.”
CHAPTER XIII
Deadly Ambush!
Ardan was taken back to his cell, where he spent the night, barely sleeping to avoid being bitten by the rats.
Then, in the morning, two men carrying the heavy torture implement came. They skillfully inserted the young man’s head and wrists into the cangue’s three holes and locked the boards, all without saying a word.
Then, they left. Ardan had hoped that he would at last be taken outside, even if it meant being subjected to the abuse of the crowd. But with the implement around his neck and arms, his position in the narrow cell was extraordinarily uncomfortable. He was forced to crouch, being able neither to stand still nor lie down.
I’m going to die of exhaustion before I die of thirst or hunger, he thought.
With his hands trapped inside the deadly device, there was no way he could rescue himself, and he resigned himself to death, hoping that his final moments would be quick.
I wond
er what happened to Milarepa? he asked himself. I hope they plan only to ransom her, and not subject her to some kind of torture...
The hours stretched endlessly. He could still keep the rats at bay by kicking them away, but he foresaw the moment where he would be too weak to do so, and could not help but shiver.
Despite his efforts to stay awake, he still dozed off a few times, experiencing horrible nightmares and waking up with a sheen of cold sweat running down his body.
It must have been the middle of the day when, suddenly, he felt a ray of light fall across his eyes.
The door of his cell opened softly and the old monk with the flowing white beard, who had stopped the mob from beating them to death the day before, entered.
“My name is Kalsang,” he said in perfect French. “I am here to rescue you.”
“Thank you,” muttered Ardan, his lips parched.
The Old Monk took a flask of water and helped the young man quench his thirst.
“You know I’m innocent, right?” muttered Ardan.
“Yes. The Holy Book was stolen by spies in the pay of the one you call Mendax. I’m afraid you westerners all look alike to many of my people, and several of them took you for one of the thieves, who was about your age. The Elders felt that it was wiser to blame you for their own lack of security, rather than let you go.”
Kalsang pulled out a small silver key from under his robe and proceeded to unlock the cangue. Ardan was at last able to stand up again and stretch his limbs.
“What convinced you to...?” he began.
But the Monk put his finger to his lips and, taking him by the arm, dragged him away.
“Silence! We have to leave quickly and discreetly. You will have your explanations later.”
The Monk led the young man through a series of narrow corridors and stairs that clearly served as the “service area” of the lamasery. They eventually reached a small, wooden door, which he opened with another key.
It led directly outside.
“Run now!” said Kalsang.
Ardan was surprised by the speed and swiftness of the Old Monk, but was able to keep up with him until they reached the opening of a cave in the mountain not too far from the main road, about twenty minutes away from the lamasery. There, he experienced a pleasant surprise: Milarepa was waiting for them!
“Thank you, Kalsang,” she said, embracing the monk.
“I have done as you asked, little princess,” replied the old monk, smiling.
“Kalsang is a devoted friend of my family,” she explained. “He was, in fact, my preceptor when I was little. It was he who taught me so many things about the outside world...”
“The princess was an exceptional student,” interjected the Monk, smiling. “I recognized her right away, of course. I was almost immediately able to take her to safety, because of my position at the lamasery. I was one of the seven judges, but I was powerless to save you. It would only have attracted attention. Better to act later, as I did. The Elders will not care that you escaped your fate; the only thing that matters to them is that you were judged and sentenced according to form.”
They spent the next hour redoing Ardan’s native makeup and recuperating from their ordeal, before hitting the road, on foot again because Kalsang could not steal a horse without attracting attention.
“We’re only a few miles from Shigatse,” said Milarepa, her voice full of hope gain. “We’ll get there towards nightfall. The local Kenchung, governor, is a friend of my father’s; he’ll help us reach Lhasa.”
“Any news about your father?”
“Kalsang heard that he managed to escape from Kharbin’s clutches and is going to Lhasa, too, to beg for the Living Buddha’s help. With some luck, we’ll get there at the same time. Then our ordeal will be over.”
After several hours’ walk, as the sun was about to set, they heard the furious barking of dogs.
Ah! We’re approaching Shigatse,” said Milarepa.
“You can tell that from the dogs’ barking?”
“Yes. Wood is rare in this region. Coffins are expensive. Therefore, the poor leave the bodies of their departed ones outside, to be devoured by bands of roving dogs. That’s why I know we’re nearing a town.”
Soon, they saw the first lights of Shigatse in the distance, less than a mile away. It was a decent sized town dominated by the magnificent Tashilhunpo Monastery.
As they were about to enter the town, Milarepa saw a dilapidated house and instructed Ardan to wait for her there.
“We must not risk being compromised if, somehow, someone discovers that you are a westerner,” she explained. “Shigatse is the seat of the Panchen Lama. They would react very badly to a foreigner setting foot inside the city. Let me contact the friends of my father, and I’ll return soon with help. And do not forget that you’re supposed to be my mute servant!”
Ardan saw the wisdom in her advice and settled in the ruins for the night. From his vantage point, well hidden inside the remains of the house, he could see anyone entering or leaving the town. He kept a vigilant watch in case some of Mendax’s men had found their trail, but saw no one.
Two hours later, he saw Milarepa return, this time on a horse, accompanied by six riders, one of them leading a seventh horse behind him that had obviously been earmarked for him.
When they were about a hundred yards away, he came out of hiding and bowed deeply to Milarepa, as his role demanded.
Milarepa uttered a few words to her escort, and made a sign to Ardan to climb on the seventh horse.
The young man did so nimbly, betraying an experience which was most uncharacteristic of Tibetan peasants. Unknowingly, by demonstrating his riding skills, he had just attracted the suspicions of one of the men in Milarepa’s escort.
The little troop followed the valley of the Nyang Chu river. They hoped to reach Lhasa in three days.
The first night, they stopped at a local inn, planning to leave the next day at dawn. But when they got up, they realized that one of the men—the one who had been suspicious about Ardan the day before—was missing.
A short investigation determined that he must had slipped out around 1 a.m.—time enough to rush back to Shigatse and alert the authorities—or worse.
They left right away and galloped as fast as they could, but at mid-day, a snow storm moved in, making their progression slower and much more difficult.
They were riding through a canyon, surrounded on either side by steep cliffs, when, suddenly, the horse of the rider leading the small caravan slipped on a patch of ice and collapsed.
At the same time, a boulder fell on the man just preceding Milarepa.
“Retreat!” shouted Ardan.
He grabbed the young woman’s horse’s reins and they found refuge in a cave hollowed out of the rock they had passed less than five hundred meters back.
There, they and their companions took a quick inventory: they had lost two men and two horses, but they still had their rifles and plenty of ammunition.
Ardan peeked his head out and saw light signals being exchanged from the top of the canyon. They had clearly fallen into a trap. To leave the canyon was not an option: the bandits waiting for them at the top could just drop more boulders on them. They were well and truly caught.
However, exploring their refuge, Ardan discovered a small tunnel leading upward. He theorized that it had been dug out so that people trapped in the cave by snow or water would have a way of escape.
Carefully, leading the horses, they stealthily took the tunnel which climbed steeply and ended up on a plateau near the top of the canyon.
Before they came out and remounted, Ardan asked Milarepa to order the men to remain completely silent. Then he tiptoed outside and, thanks to his remarkable vision, soon spotted the bandits lying in ambush for them at the top of the canyon. There were only two men there, keeping watch, but seven horses. As the two bandits were trading light signals with a veiled lantern, the young man guessed that the other five had gone down into th
e canyon after them.
Ardan took his rifle and quickly shot the two bandits in the knees; the men collapsed on the ground, writhing in pain.
Milarepa and her three companions came rushing out. One of them spotted the bandits below and, upon noticing several boulders positioned on top of the canyon, ready to be pushed off the ledge, gestured to his two comrades.
In an instant, they had pushed the boulders and crushed the bandits below, inflicting upon the villains the same deadly fate that they had had in store for them. The cries and moans coming from below left no doubt as to the success of their plan.
CHAPTER XIV
The Plane
“We have to increase our vigilance,” said Ardan, “and not put the success we’ve had so far in jeopardy. Our pursuers probably work for Mendax and he’s not going to let us go easily.”
The small group of survivors was advancing cautiously along the same tunnel they had taken to get to the top of the plateau. Had the men on foot been alone, it would have been a relatively easy task, but they had to exercise caution because of their horses.
“It’s possible that we didn’t get rid of all of them with the rockslide,” said Ardan. “There may be survivors keeping watch at the other end of the canyon. But I have a plan...”
As they emerged from the cave, they saw a number of corpses littering the ground; some were bandits’, others members of their escort. Ardan walked towards them and, with the help of one of their own men, propped one of the dead up in the saddle, then jumped on behind him.
“I’ll draw them out,” he told Milarepa and his companions. “Be prepared to strike back and get on your horses. We’ll ride out of the canyon in force.
The little troop followed Ardan. As they reached the exit, they heard the first shot. The bullet got stuck in the corpse the young man was using as shield. Ardan uttered a loud moan, then pushed the body to the ground, taking care to flatten himself against the horse’s neck.
