Bone Mountain is-3

by Eliot Pattison

  "Not even," the man said. He opened the pouch and produced a one-liter plastic bottle. The label it once bore had been torn away. Tibetan script ran along the side, made with a bold black marker. Sum, it said, the number three, and below that chu, river. "It's going to the sky birthing, for the Green Tara," he said, still in his bright tone, then he returned the bottle to the sack and started down the trail again.

  "What did he mean?" Winslow asked as he followed the man with a confused gaze.

  "Offerings," Shan suggested. "Perhaps they have decided to invoke the protectress deity called the Green Tara. She is believed to be very powerful."

  "A protector deity," Winslow sighed. "Where do I sign up?"

  Workers were stretched across the valley as Shan and Winslow surveyed it two hours later. The logging crews had cut a swath nearly three hundred yards wide above the camp. Through their binoculars, tiny figures could be seen scrambling over the tower of the derrick as it kept cutting into the earth below. And at the near end, the south end, by the ruins of Yapchi Village, crews unloaded a truck trailer stacked with freshly sawn lumber.

  Each time the American had paused to study his map, Shan had looked back, hesitating. He had been to the oil camp before, and the howlers had tried to take him. Would Somo still be there? Had the intrepid woman been discovered and arrested for helping him? Increasingly, he sensed that helping Winslow find what had happened to Larkin was also somehow helping to find the deity.

  They climbed past the little canyon, now empty, where the villagers had hidden, planning to circle the valley along the edge of the band of trees. They were above the derrick when Winslow stopped and looked at Shan.

  "Stay up here," the American said. "I'll go in, talk with Jenkins about Zhu's crew, maybe his secretary can help locate them. I'll find them and talk to them without Zhu knowing-" he was interrupted by a sudden sound, the slow beat of a deep drum. It seemed to be coming from directly above them on the slope, no more than a hundred yards away. The two men stared at each other, then Shan took a step toward the sound and Winslow grinned, offering a wave of his hand.

  Shan ran. Whoever was beating the drum would not likely hear a few broken twigs or sliding rocks. The pounding grew louder, in a rhythm of two rapid beats and a pause, even more like a heartbeat than before. He was close, he was certain, no more than a hundred paces away, searching the clusters of boulders that dotted the slope.

  Suddenly something leapt on his back. A leopard, a voice screamed in his mind, and he was down, claws in his back, his struggling hands batted away violently, his head pressed into the earth. He groaned in fear, his breath rushing out of him, his arms flailing, connecting only with the earth. Then, strangely, his attacker seized his arms behind him and rolled him over.

  It was a man, Shan saw through a haze of pain. Was the drum still pounding or was it his own heart he heard? A man he seemed to recognize, who surely recognized him, for as soon as their eyes met the man gasped and released him.

  No, it was a bear, the distant voice in his head said. The fog lifted from his eyes and Shan saw it was the Golok bear, Dremu. But not the Dremu Shan had known, for this one was torn and gaunt, a shadow of the prideful Golok Shan had last seen the night the eye was stolen.

  Dremu pulled Shan upright, his legs still on the ground, and for a moment his hands lingered, clenching Shan's shoulders in something like an embrace.

  "They said you had fled," Shan ventured.

  Dremu put his finger over his lips. "Damned soldiers took me," he whispered. "I was riding near the oil camp, in the trees and I didn't know they had soldiers hiding." Shan saw heavy bruises around the Golok's eyes. "They beat me and put me on that work crew, took my horse even, to haul their logs." Dremu looked toward the drumming sound, which continued, louder than ever, very close. "They didn't know who they had caught," he said in a defiant tone. "Thought I was just some rongpa, like those others who just take their orders. I ran away. But first I told those rongpa that their eye was back in the valley, that the eye was watching again."

  "Why would you say that?" Shan asked, studying the forlorn Golok. Had Dremu taken the eye, as Lhandro suspected?

  "Because the valley's heart is beating again." Dremu, too, stared toward the drumming. "I'm going to get that stone for you, Chinese. So you can make it like the old days." He pointed in the direction of the heartbeat, bent and moved forward, like a predator stalking prey, Shan a few paces behind.

  Just as Dremu seemed about to pounce around an outcropping onto the drummer, the Golok jerked back and held his shoulder, wincing with pain. The drumming stopped, and they heard the sound of feet running. He looked in despair at his shoulder, slowly lifting his fingers. "Buddha's breath! I thought I was shot." He bent and picked up a round stone from near his feet, a pebble that did not belong with the sharp granite shards that otherwise lay underfoot. "A sling," he said, with a hint of respect in his voice, as he looked about cautiously.

  The slope was silent, and seemed empty now. Dremu rubbed his shoulder, seeming reluctant to follow. In the hands of an expert a sling could be as deadly as a rifle. He bent low and inched around the rock.

  The patch of ground on the far side of the outcropping showed evidence of several boots; prints of the smooth-soled boots worn by Tibetans, made with woolen uppers. They were nearly all small prints.

  "Children," Dremu announced as he squatted by the tracks. "Two or three children," he said in a puzzled tone. "Maybe one adult. They sat, and knelt," he explained, pointing to several areas where the earth was pressed smooth. The site had been chosen well, with two large slabs of rock behind it to amplify the sound in the direction of the valley. Shan bent and lifted several pieces of grass that lay at the edge of the clearing. They had little knots tied in them. On a small boulder in front, facing the valley, someone had worked with a chisel, trying to cut away a piece of rock, trying to make an elongated hole in front of the rock.

  "For the eye," Dremu said over his shoulder, and with a rush of excitement Shan realized the Golok was right. The eye was back in the valley, and someone had been trying to fashion a new home for it. Shan found himself touching the hole, feeling its rough contours. He stared at the crudely worked stone until finally he realized the Golok was staring at him. Dremu seemed to be waiting for orders.

  "Some of the villagers thought it was you who took the eye," Shan said. "I can tell them otherwise now."

  Dremu scowled. "You mean you thought it, too. Or you would have told them already."

  Shan said nothing.

  "I wouldn't have done that. Not before you got it back to the valley."

  "You mean you planned to take it."

  The Golok stared at Shan. "I don't usually plan that far ahead," he said, and offered a hollow grin. "It's just that… I think my father and grandfather need me to do something about it. Could you understand that?"

  Shan nodded soberly, and the Golok brightened and gestured down the slope. "There were sick people who came to the valley. Some had children. Some of the village children fled."

  Shan saw for the first time that Dremu's gau, and the small pouch that had hung beside it, were both missing. "You should get food," he suggested, studying the gaunt man. "And rest." But he didn't know how, didn't know where the other Tibetans were, and who would offer help to the Golok. He could not send Dremu to the mixing ledge, where Lhandro was, who had thrown stones at him. "That monk Gyalo and his yak are in the mountains, on the high ridges. If you can find them they will help you get food. All the others have fled. You should, too, until the soldiers go."

  "Not all," Dremu countered.

  "You mean the drummer."

  "I saw some others on the slope this morning. In the high rocks, moving stealthfully. I think maybe they are trying to damage the oil rig."

  "Purbas?" Shan asked with a chill.

  "I only saw them from a distance. They moved slow, and without fear, as if they didn't care about the soldiers. Probably they have charms to protect them."

&nb
sp; Shan stared at the Golok uncertainly, then, asking him once more to leave for the high ranges, he turned and jogged away. He found a game trail that ran parallel to the valley floor and had trotted northward on it for several minutes, watching for movement on the upper slopes and the shadows of caves, when suddenly two figures appeared on the trail in the distance- not walking so much as strolling, conversing, watching the ground as if hunting for something. Shan faded into the shadows between two rocks. He pushed back as far as he could in the cleft and watched, first with fear, then with confusion as two shadows passed by. One of the figures was singing a Tibetan pilgrim's song.

  He scrambled out and leapt forward. "Lokesh!" he called out in alarm.

  Thirty feet down the trail his old friend turned and offered his crooked grin. "Good fortune!" Lokesh exclaimed. "You can help us, Xiao Shan." His companion, wearing an amused grin, awkwardly raised a hand in greeting to Shan. Tenzin.

  "Help with what?" Shan asked in exasperation, looking about for some place to hide the men.

  "I told you," Lokesh said sheepishly. "Looking for medicine herbs. Tenzin wants to learn about herbs too."

  "In the mountains, you said in the mountains."

  Lokesh waved his hand around the landscape. "The mountains around Yapchi," he said with another grin. "Surely you remember. Jokar Rinpoche said it would help that officer. His heart wind is so distressed he could die."

  "Tell me where," Shan said in a pleading voice. "Tell me where and I will get your herbs. Just go back. Now-"

  His words choked in his throat. Two green uniformed soldiers stepped around a large tree less than a hundred feet away. From behind the soldiers a figure in a white shirt emerged, followed by half a dozen other Tibetans. Shan recognized the man in white. Director Tuan. Four of the others were oil workers, wearing the green jackets of the venture. But the other two wore the robes of monks.

  Tenzin gasped as he saw Tuan, grabbed Lokesh and pointed urgently toward the trees above them, pushing him away from the trail. But another soldier appeared on the slope above, thirty feet away, and began speaking excitedly into a small radio.

  A moment later a whistle blew from the direction of the camp. Shan saw more of Tuan's white-shirted guards running up the slope. There was no hope, no chance of escape. The soldiers and howlers had won.

  Their captors swarmed around them. Lokesh lowered himself to the ground and began saying his beads. Tenzin seemed frozen, looking from Shan to Lokesh with a grim, apologetic expression.

  But it wasn't the soldiers who stepped forward to claim the capture. Instead Tuan pulled a camera from a belt pouch and began taking photographs. Of Tenzin, of Lokesh, of the two monks who trotted forward and stood by Tenzin.

  One of the monks grabbed Tenzin's hand in both his own. "Rejoice with us, Rinpoche," the monk said gleefully. "Our teacher is returned to us."

  Rinpoche. Shan looked at the monk, more confused than ever. He had called the fugitive Rinpoche.

  Tenzin, his face still grim, looked at the monk and sighed. "I am no longer your teacher," he said in his deep, melodious voice. "I am but a novice again, and have found new teachers," he added, and gestured toward Lokesh and Shan.

  The monk looked injured. Lokesh stared in wonder.

  Tuan grimaced. "The abbot of Sangchi will learn to teach again someday," he declared with a victorious smile, and nodded toward the howler guards as more soldiers arrived, guns at the ready. One of the soldiers stepped forward and in a blur of motion fastened a manacle around Tenzin's wrist. Then he bent, roughly grabbed Lokesh's arm, and fastened the other end of the manacle to the old Tibetan.

  "We need you, Rinpoche," one of the monks said with a sob, then, with an impatient gesture by Tuan, the soldiers jerked Lokesh to his feet, cutting off his mantra.

  Shan watched, paralyzed with confusion, as Lokesh and the abbot of Sangchi were led down the path toward the oil camp.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Shan had learned from the lamas how to confront the lies that had once ruled his life, and how to abandon both the lies and the comfort they had given him. The lie that for twenty years as an investigator in Beijing he had made a difference. The lie that he and his wife, or at least he and his son, would someday be reconciled and reunited. And the lie that his release from the gulag meant he could live the rest of his life in freedom. He had come to accept that he would be returned to a hard labor camp eventually. For Shan, in the life he had chosen it was as inevitable as death, and perhaps above all else, the Tibetans had taught him not only to stop fearing, but to embrace the inevitable.

  Yet somehow he always clung to the illusion that Lokesh could not be touched, that thirty years of his life had been enough to give to Beijing. It was an illusion that fed Shan's twisted view of the world, the view that said everything else was worth it, all the suffering could be endured, because a few wise, joyful creatures like Lokesh survived and walked the remote corners of Tibet.

  But Lokesh would not survive. He had been taken by the soldiers and howlers, who had been told that the abbot of Sangchi was in the hands of purbas. The two would be kept together, for that was the way their handlers would prefer it. They would use Lokesh, make him suffer to extract whatever it was they wanted from Tenzin. With only one prisoner to interrogate they would eventually resort to chemicals, as they had with Shan in his early days of capture. But chemicals gave unpredictable results, and though few Tibetans would give information under torture, they would often surrender it when a companion was tortured because of them.

  He let himself drift down with the crowd that had assembled around the new prisoners as they were conveyed into the camp. No one questioned him. No one came to put manacles on him. Tuan did not even seem to have noticed Shan. The excitement over the discovery of the famous abbot of Sangchi seemed to distract everyone.

  He had been so blind. Gendun had known, and Shopo. Someone had died, Gendun had said. He had meant the abbot had somehow died, and Tenzin was trying to find a new life. He recalled Tenzin's first words to him, that day overlooking the red river. It was possible to start a new incarnation in the same body, because Shan had done so. Images flashed through Shan's mind: of Tenzin's anguish over Drakte's death, of the bitter way he had heaved a rock into the lake when Shan had suggested a pebble might capture his guilt, of the days and weeks he had watched the tall Tibetan carry dung. Shan had suspected Tenzin was the infamous Tiger, trying to reform after a life of violence. But some other dark weight had hung around the soul of the abbot of Sangchi, and he had decided to start again. And now they were dragging him back in chains, back to the particular prison he had fled.

  As the soldiers led their prisoners past the army tents a loud argument broke out. A beefy soldier whom Shan remembered as Lin's sergeant shouted that the prisoners belonged to the 54th Mountain Combat Brigade. But the howlers kept pushing the two men toward one of the white utility vehicles. Tuan hovered close to Tenzin and stood with four of his men behind him as the sergeant railed, then one of the men in white shirts stepped to the soldier's side, spoke quietly, and handed the man a business card. As Shan stepped closer, trying to hear, a hand closed around his shoulder.

  "You must have a death wish," Winslow growled, and pulled Shan away. "Jenkins told me what he knows. Mostly it's that you are number one on the list for the 54th Combat Brigade. They have your name. They think you may be a criminal escapee, that you kidnapped Lin. They're sending more troops in. Looking for Lin, looking for you."

  Shan let himself be pulled by Winslow as he watched numbly. Lokesh and Tenzin were being photographed again, standing by the white trucks, wearing leg manacles now, their hands unfettered. For appearances, for the photographs, because the howlers would not want to show the abbot in chains. Shan stared, still perplexed, and did not protest when Winslow pushed him into the bay of a cargo truck and followed him over the tailgate. Shan hardly noticed when the truck began to move. He opened his mouth to call out for Lokesh but his tongue was too dry to speak. The truck passed
quickly through the gap in the low saddle of land and the camp was gone.

  Shan gazed out the rear of the truck for a long time, half expecting to see the white trucks speeding behind them. Lokesh and Tenzin would go to a Public Security lockup, which would most likely be in the nearest large town. He pulled out the map he had taken from Jenkins's conference room. Wenquan, or maybe Yanshiping. He would get out of the truck at whatever town they passed through. But maybe the soldiers would take their prisoners south, directly to Lhasa. In which case he should jump out at the first crossroads. And do what? Throw stones when the soldiers raced by?

  "Best thing we can do is get some sleep," Winslow said as the truck began a steep descent through the long narrow gorge that led out of the mountains.

  "Sleep?" Shan asked in confusion.

  Winslow gestured at the map in his hand. "It'll be late by the time we arrive. At least seven hours' drive, if the roads are clear."

  Shan looked about the cargo bay. It was mostly empty, a few cardboard cartons were stacked against the cab and secured with twine to the slats of the bay. There were ropes and a pile of what appeared to be dirty coveralls, and several empty shipping pallets with the oil company's name stenciled on them.

  "Golmud?" he asked in disbelief.

  Winslow nodded. "Venture headquarters. Center of operations. Where we can find out about Zhu's crew. Where Jenkins said somebody accessed Larkin's electronic mail account."

  "When?"

  "Two weeks ago."

  "But that was before she died," Shan said in confusion.

  "Right. Except she was supposed to be in the mountains on field work at the time. Someone used her pass code at Golmud two weeks ago."

  Shan stared at the American and shook his head. "I can't," he protested, and put his hand on the side of the truck to lift himself up. "Lokesh-"