That evening, Gongzha heard Bala and Ama saying that the temple’s elderly living Buddha had been arrested and there would be a meeting to criticise him that night. He was accused of having hidden the Buddha statues handed down by generations of living Buddhas, including the statue of the Medicine Buddha, the most precious of Cuoe Temple’s treasures. Nobody knew what it was made of, but it was said to be an ancient relic that had once belonged to King Gesar, and it was supposed to contain secret information about his legendary treasure. A very rare copy of The Epic of King Gesar written in gold ink had also been passed down. Luobudunzhu said that these artefacts were highly poisonous grasses that had to be rooted out and immediately handed over to the County Revolutionary Committee. But even though the Red Guards had turned the temple inside out, they hadn’t been able to find them.
Everyone on the grassland had heard of the legend of King Gesar’s treasure. It was said that there were two caches: one on Mount Chanaluo on Cuoe Grassland and the other by Tajiapu Snow Mountain in Shuanghu. Even if it was more than just a legend, even if there really was treasure up there, the herders knew that to take the story seriously would be to risk their lives. Chanaluo and Tajiapu were more like mountain ranges than individual peaks, comprising countless large and small snow mountains extending for thousands of kilometres. Up there among the peaks and ridges, at the mercy of the wind, frost, rain and snow, where the bears and wolves made their homes, how could anyone hope to find the treasure – or the corpses of those who died looking for it?
‘What does the Medicine Buddha look like, Bala?’ Gongzha was sitting in front of the stove and blowing the flames into bright tongues with the lambskin bellows.
‘I’ve only seen it once, and that was five years ago. It was during a cham performance in the temple. The living Buddha was very excited and had it brought out so we could pay our respects to it. I think it was black, or perhaps a very deep blue-black, and very shiny.’
‘Oh!’ Gongzha’s heart jumped and he opened his mouth to tell them what had happened on the mountain. But then he remembered Zhaduo’s pleading eyes as he’d thrust the Buddha into his arms with the words, ‘Please help the Buddha, child.’ The living Buddha was usually so calm and composed, no matter who he was talking to. But today he’d been so flustered that he’d asked a mere boy for help. He must have been in a great deal of trouble, otherwise why would he have given such important objects to a child to look after?
For a living Buddha to have put such trust in him was a huge honour. The last thing Gongzha wanted was to betray that trust or let Zhaduo down. So he decided not to say anything.
*
The sun rose above the mountain peak like a great ball of fire, quietly surveying Cuoe Grassland. Far below, the herders advanced slowly with their yaks and sheep. Their long shadows stretched across the plain like an animated scroll painting in black ink. Occasionally a man quickened his pace or an animal lingered and the shadows intersected, creating a new image. The lake shimmered in the distance, its clear water sparkling like diamonds beneath the sun’s rays. The snow mountain had always stood there, for a thousand years, even for ten thousand years; it seemed immutable, and yet each day it was different. There were always eagles overhead, swooping or circling, embellishing the landscape at just the right point. This ink painting had life – it had a quickness and grace.
It should have been an auspicious, tranquil scroll painting. It could have been heaven, if it weren’t for the man in the red armband patrolling up and down outside people’s homes and yelling through his megaphone: ‘Struggle session tonight! No absences! No asking to be excused!’
The sun had not yet sunk behind the snow mountain’s peak when the first of the herders began arriving at the empty yard in front of the production-team tent. Ciwang, the director of the Commune Revolutionary Committee, would be leading this struggle session himself. Although he was from Cuoe Grassland, Ciwang had never been a herder or a hunter. Instead, he’d drifted all over the grassland, turning up wherever there was a wedding or a funeral, eating and drinking his fill. Grassland elders used to single him out as an example to other lazy young men of how not to behave. But when the Cultural Revolution came, this bullyboy wastrel somehow managed, overnight, to become the Communist Party’s local representative, to lead a gang of other violent layabouts in an orgy of destruction and looting, to rise up the hierarchy and in the blink of an eye.
When the herders arrived, they found Cuoe Temple’s Living Buddha Zhaduo tied to a prayer-flag pole. His crimson robes were torn and covered in dust. Some of the herders were curious or even excited to see him like that, others were upset. Five-coloured prayer flags still fluttered from the pole, the six-syllable mantra of the bodhisattva Avalokitesvara dancing in the wind. It was a strange world. People cried out to destroy the Four Olds, to deny the existence of spirits and ghosts, but at festivals they still strung up banners petitioning for peace and prosperity.
At a table in front of the tent, three men sat on a bench: Ciwang in the middle, Luobudunzhu to his left and Team Leader Danzeng to his right. Ciwang took in the size of the gathering and saw that most people had arrived. He glanced at Danzeng. Danzeng stood up to quiet the crowd. He told them that the meeting was about to begin and that Director Ciwang would be instructing them.
Ciwang raised the Little Red Book high and led the people in the reading of a passage. Then he sat down, cleared his throat, glanced round the crowd and said, ‘We called you here today, comrades, to clear out once and for all the highly poisonous grass that we have weeded, but not weeded thoroughly, that we have burnt, but not yet burnt to the ground. We all know that Chairman Mao has had us grasslanders in mind for a long time. He wanted us serfs to liberate ourselves and become our own masters. We have yaks, we have sheep, we have food and clothing. But there is someone here who cannot stand to see us serfs living comfortably. He cannot stand to see us happy. Who is that person?’ Ciwang scanned the faces of the crowd as he shouted this last question.
Asked in that way, the crowd became agitated and countless pairs of hands pointed at the living Buddha tied to the prayer-flag pole, their strange cries echoing to the clouds.
‘It’s him! Beat him to death! Beat him to death!’
Ciwang nodded contentedly. A wisp of a smile floated around the corners of his mouth. ‘Cuoe Temple is hiding the most poisonous grass on the plateau. Not only has he refused to bring it out so it can be destroyed, but he’s hidden it, ready for the day when he can begin poisoning us with it again! You decide – can we let him do this?’
‘No!’ Another round of raised fists and savage shouts from the crowd.
Ciwang was delighted. He stood up and strolled over to the prayer-flag pole. He stooped a little and looked down at the drooping head of the former living Buddha of Cuoe Temple, now the capitalist roader Zhaduo, and laughed coldly. ‘Speak! If you tell us where those things are hidden, perhaps the people will forgive you.’
Zhaduo lifted his head and glanced at him, then said lightly, ‘The things you are looking for are not in the temple.’
‘I’m asking you: where is that black Buddha?’ Ciwang stared at him, a fierce smile pasted on his face.
Zhaduo met his gaze, his expression calm and peaceful. ‘My temple has never had the black Buddha you speak of.’
This infuriated Ciwang. No one had dared to speak to him like that before. When people saw him, they bowed respectfully and smiled ingratiatingly – without exception. He despised Zhaduo, had despised him since he was young. How had Zhaduo become a highly respected living Buddha just by putting on some monk’s clothes? Why should Ciwang have to bow his head and give Zhaduo the right of way whenever he saw him? Luckily, times had changed. Today the grassland was Ciwang’s kingdom. He raised his hand and slapped Zhaduo. ‘Do you want to eat rocks?’ he asked menacingly.
Zhaduo did not move. He didn’t even blink. He just looked steadily at Ciwang. A trickle of blood began to creep down his forehead, but on that calm, still face it seem
ed like a torrent.
Ciwang turned to face the crowd. ‘Even in the face of death he refuses to confess. What should we do, comrades?’
‘Beat him to death! Beat him to death!’
Perhaps it was because Zhaduo was too calm; perhaps it was because of that trickle of blood; or perhaps it was because their darker natures had been stirred up by Ciwang’s slap. The crowd began to get restless, to surge forwards, and then, flood-like, a chaotic barrage of kicks and cries crashed over the peaceable old man.
Gongzha clutched his father’s robe. Lunzhu’s hand clenched into a fist and his face twisted with pain. He and Zhaduo were the closest of friends – like father and son. To see his dear friend suffer such injustice was like a stab to the heart. It was as if each blow and kick was landing on his body too. Eventually, he could control himself no longer and forced his way into the fray of frenzied herders. But when Zhaduo saw him, his impassive face suddenly changed and he cried out loudly, ‘Fuck off, you black demon! What do you think you’re doing?’
Gongzha and Lunzhu were startled by his words. But the others surged forwards even more aggressively, piling into Zhaduo. In the chaos, someone thwacked Zhaduo’s leg with a stick. Zhaduo screamed and his leg went limp. Purplish blood streamed out from beneath his crimson monk’s robes, seeping into the sand and drenching the ground.
The scene in front of the black tent was grotesque: scarlet blood, dead grass, a monk’s robes covered in sand, a calm face, fluttering prayer flags, crazed people. It was as if the door to hell had been opened by mistake.
*
Lunzhu sat slumped on the couch, his head drooping, sighing occasionally. His woman, Dawa, was sitting by the stove, mechanically adding yak pats to the fire. Their five children were huddled naked under a rough yak-wool blanket, looking at one another, not daring to make a sound.
‘Gongzha, get up. Get dressed.’ Lunzhu had finally made up his mind. His tone did not allow for questions.
Gongzha darted out from under the blanket, put on his sheepskin chuba, pulled on his boots, and stood by his father’s side.
Lunzhu pulled a small yak-skin pouch from a basket by the door and took out a black medicine pellet that Zhaduo had given him some time ago. It was excellent for healing flesh wounds. There’d been two pellets: he’d used one when he was bitten by a wolf and there was one left.
Dawa looked anxiously at her man. ‘Are you sure about this? If even his own sister won’t look after him, why are you taking the risk?’
Lunzhu glanced at her, hesitated, and then stretched out his hand towards his son. ‘Take this to Zhaduo.’
‘Be careful! Don’t let anyone find out.’ Dawa saw that her man would not be dissuaded; she could only turn and fuss over her son.
Gongzha nodded, then turned and left.
It was very quiet outside. The dogs were all lying beside their tents, napping. When they sensed Gongzha walking by, they opened their eyes and looked at him briefly before lowering their heads and continuing to sleep.
Gongzha walked towards the field behind the tents, acting as if he was looking for a place to defecate. When he got to the small, lonely tent on the east side of the encampment, he glanced around to check there was no one nearby, then flung open the flap and hurried in.
Zhaduo was not asleep. He sat bolt upright. ‘Who is it?’
‘It’s me!’ Gongzha said quietly. He squatted by the couch and handed over the medicine. ‘Aba wanted me to bring you this.’
Zhaduo took the pellet, put it in his mouth and chewed it up without a second glance. Gongzha quickly poured a bowl of cold water for him by the weak light of the moon. Zhaduo took a couple of sips.
‘That Buddha—’ Gongzha whispered, keen to tell Zhaduo that he’d hidden the statue.
‘What Buddha? I don’t know about any Buddhas. Go home now, go quickly,’ the old man interrupted, waving him off.
Gongzha raised his head and looked at the old man on the couch. The old man looked back at him, his gaze both knowing and vacant, as if it contained everything and nothing. Gongzha kept his own gaze steady, but in his gaze there was both fear and confusion.
The old man and the young boy exchanged looks, then nodded simultaneously.
‘I’ll go and pick herbs for you tomorrow,’ Gongzha said, and slipped out of the tent.
Zhaduo smiled peacefully and lay back down.
Gongzha glanced out at the empty wilderness then to the quiet encampment. He began to whistle, then returned to his tent as if he had just finished defecating.
In the days that followed, the fire of the Cultural Revolution continued to blaze. The adults were kept busy studying Quotations from Chairman Mao Zedong. Gongzha looked after the sheep and collected yak pats just as he always had.
Late one night, Lunzhu shook Gongzha awake. He’d slung on his rifle with the forked stand. Gongzha got up with silent understanding and put on his leather chuba and fox-fur hat. Dawa fastened Lunzhu’s belt and warned him to be careful and to come back early if he couldn’t get anything. Lunzhu nodded, pushed open the tent flap and went out, Gongzha following behind. They didn’t dare ride; they took the sheepdog Duoga and walked quietly towards the river valley.
When a man went out hunting, it affected the rest of the production team, whether he was absent for just one day or whether he was away for ten days or more. The commune had issued a directive about this two days earlier: herders were no longer allowed to hunt for themselves. It disrupted the production quotas required to make the revolution a success. From now on, anyone who went hunting would be punished for being a selfish individualist and would lose their entire winter meat ration.
Directives were all very well, but they weren’t always practical. It was too early for a harvest, and last year’s meat had already been eaten. People just didn’t have enough to fill their bellies. The adults liked to say that the children didn’t care whether there was a revolution or not: when they were hungry, they cried.
Gongzha and his father walked along the river valley, the dog at their side. Save for the crunch of their footsteps, everything around them was silent.
3
Yaks were the principal livestock on the Changtang Plateau. Despite their bulk, they were docile and easygoing. But wild yaks had very different temperaments; they were unpredictable, aggressive and in the most remote reaches of the grassland often gored people.
August was mating season for wild yaks. The males were at their most aggressive then, sparring incessantly to establish dominance and win a mate. One by one, defeated bulls would be driven from the herd until the last bull standing became the new leader. Once exiled, the losers would turn their attentions to the domesticated female yaks. A domesticated bull was no match for a wild one and could be chased away in seconds, leaving the wild yak in sole command. The domesticated female yaks seemed to prefer the wild yaks and it was not uncommon for them to run off with one.
Father and son knelt on the mountaintop, looking at the yaks massing below them. Duoga lay by their side.
‘How do we get them, Aba?’ Gongzha’s eyes were wide with excitement; he could not wait to hear the gunshot.
‘What’s the rush? Just be patient. If you wait until they lie down after they’ve eaten and find the right angle, you can kill a yak with a single shot. If you don’t do it with a single shot, the yak might attack you in self-defence.’
The sky was a perfect blue, without a wisp of cloud. The sun warmed them, and the distant snow mountain gleamed silver. The mountains of northern Tibet were terrifyingly high, but when you stood in front of them, they didn’t seem nearly as tall or remote as you might imagine. This was particularly true of the snow mountains of No Man’s Land, which unfurled in layers, ridge after ridge. It was as if an immortal being had scattered precious stones across the empty grassland. Wild yaks, wild asses, antelopes and herders were also part of the landscape: they animated the plateau, they were its lifeblood.
Lunzhu nudged the drowsy Gongzha, who stirred and sat up.
Rubbing his eyes, he looked down at the valley. It had a dreamlike beauty in the evening light. The golden rays of the setting sun lit up the dark cliff face, colouring it tangerine, and a little way off, the snow mountain burnt red and emitted golden rays of its own. In that light, the parched grassland looked idyllic. Black yaks lay on the ground and calves romped by their mothers’ sides, occasionally butting heads with a playmate. It was a scene of shifting loveliness: quiet but full of life.
Gongzha twisted his head and saw that his father was loading his gun. ‘Which one will we kill, Bala?’ he asked.
‘We can’t kill the ones who have young. If the mother dies, the calf won’t have anyone to protect it, which will make it hard for them to survive. We mustn’t be greedy, son – we need to leave seeds so that new grass will grow.’ This was one of Lunzhu’s favourite sayings.
With that, Lunzhu lay on the ground, set up the forked stand for his gun, and slowly took aim at the yak herd below.
As the sound of a single gunshot pierced the air, a thin, weak-looking yak on the fringes of the herd fell to the ground and did not move again. In a flash, the rest of the herd lumbered to their feet and began to run, the calves in the middle and the strongest adults on the outside. They thundered off, turf kicked up behind them, the rumble of their hooves echoing across the valley.
Within moments, they’d vanished from sight.
‘We got it, Bala! We got it! We won!’ Gongzha jumped to his feet, punched the air, and raced down the mountain with a grin on his face and Duoga by his side.
Lunzhu watched him go with a smile. Unhurriedly, he gathered up his gun and allowed himself to relax. He opened his box of snuff, poured out a little, inhaled deeply and sneezed happily. He wiped his mouth with his hand, picked up his son’s leather chuba and headed down the mountain.
Love In No Man's Land Page 3
