by Marc Laidlaw
“How long have you been here?” she whispered.
“That vajra interested me. Remember what Reting said about the nomads disguising their devices? Go on, twist it again.”
“I shouldn’t be doing this,” Marianne said.
She started to lay down the ornament, but her own hands resisted her. She was too surprised to struggle.
As Tara twisted the vajra, the shrine lit up again. This time it showed no array of gods. Instead she saw a dark-skinned man wearing little round glasses and a conical leather cap with a fur brim. He was speaking to someone at his side, though there was no sound.
“Now try the drilbu,” Tara said.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” Marianne said, but she reached out to turn the vajra knob on the tip of the bell handle.
The sound came up slowly. She could hear the man now.
“—leave me now,” he was saying. “My brother is on the screen, can’t you see? I’ll be with you in a minute.”
He looked a bit like Dhondub Ling, she thought, although he was skinnier and wore glasses. He turned toward her. “Yes, Dhondub?”
Then he gasped, his eyes widening in surprise.
“Who are you?”
Tara laughed mischievously, taking control of Marianne’s lips. She clapped a hand over her mouth then took it away and blurted, “I’m so sorry!”
He looked frozen, terrified. She didn’t know what to say now, and Tara offered no wisdom. He must think that this private channel had been tapped. She realized that she must reassure him quickly, but what could she say to make him believe her?
Suddenly she heard the tent flap thrown open. The voice of Dhondub Ling himself said, “What’s this?”
She turned toward the entrance, expecting the chieftain’s fury. Instead he threw back his head and laughed.
“I’m glad you’re on our side!” he said. “How long did it take you to figure that out?”
At a loss for words, she moved away from the shrine. The image of Dhondub’s brother grew blurred. Dhondub strode over, put a firm hand on her shoulder, and gave her a reassuring squeeze. He dropped to his knees before the shrine, still laughing.
“Close your mouth, Changchup,” he said to the screen. “You look like a fish out of water. That was the Gyayum Chenmo herself.”
Marianne could not hear the other man’s response; like the image, it was focused solely for the benefit of the person at the shrine. Dhondub nodded and said, “Not until tonight”
She backed away and was standing in the middle of the tent when Dr. Norbu entered with a covered basket and a bowl of steaming soup. He regarded Dhondub with interest. She took the food from him and dropped down beneath the heat-lamp to gorge herself on cheese, bread, and broth.
As she was eating, Tara sprang into her thoughts. “No harm done, Marianne.”
Marianne sighed and answered silently: “No, but I still don’t like it—you taking over like that. This is my body. I don’t like to lose control.”
She felt the girl’s remorse. “I’m sorry. I won’t do it again. It’s just that I want to share everything with you. I got carried away.”
“What kind of a yidam are you, anyway? I thought you would be quiet and solemn and instructive.”
“Is that the only kind of wisdom you’ll accept? I don’t think so, Marianne. I’m more like you—an active emanation of compassion. I mean no harm, but if you think I intend to sit on a moonseat pretending that enlightenment comes only when one’s eyes are closed, you’re wrong. That kind of behavior is for nuns and hermits. We’re at a different place on the wheel, you and I. We have worldly work to do.”
“Well,” said Marianne. “I suppose you do what you must.”
“Trust me.”
“Don’t worry about that.”
“Good. Now finish your lunch. I want to look around.”
Marianne swallowed the last of her soup and mopped the bowl with a piece of bread. The cheese was hard as a brick; there was no chewing it, so she chipped off a piece and tucked it in her lip to crumble slowly.
Dr. Norbu knelt by the shrine while Dhondub showed him something of its workings. She stepped outside without a word, wincing as the sun touched her eyes. It seemed impossibly bright, like a gold coin hanging above the western horizon.
She saw that she stood among a dozen tents that occupied a small part of the vast plain. Horses and yaks grazed nearby, and there were figures riding along the horizon. A jeep was parked behind Dhondub’s tent.
The tents themselves were traditional, embroidered with lucky symbols such as bats, fish and conch shells. Solar absorption disks, decorated like the eyes of bodhisattvas, were ranged around the tent roofs to drink in energy.
“So you’re awake,” said a voice.
She turned and saw Jetsun Dorje striding toward her. He carried a long bow in one hand and wore a quiver of arrows strapped over his shoulder. His hair was woven with colored yarn, braided with beads of amber and turquoise. He looked completely at home among the nomadic tents.
“How long have you been awake?” she asked.
“I didn’t sleep long. Dhondub gave me a tonic to help me recover, and I’ve been getting to know our hosts.”
“Are you an archer?”
“I was once.” He grinned and squeezed his bicep. “I can hardly pull the bow now. Too much poetry writing.”
Marianne found herself staring at him wordlessly, subjecting him to frank scrutiny, as if seeing him for the first time. He was younger than she had thought at first, his face merely weatherworn.
She felt another pair of eyes looking out through her own.
Tara said, “I think he’s cute, don’t you?”
Marianne looked away before Jetsun could see her expression.
At that moment, Dhondub rushed out of his tent. “A Chinese patrol is approaching. You will need identification cards. I’ve had them made up, but we haven’t yet managed to inject the information into the central authorization computer. We’ll be safe unless they run a full check on any of you, in which case the forgeries will certainly be discovered.”
He turned to Marianne. “Green-eyes, you must wear sunglasses for now, until we can get you dark-tinted contact lenses. It will make you look less suspect.”
He handed her and Jetsun small metallic cards, and after a moment a tall woman approached with a pair of mirrored sunglasses. Dhondub introduced her as his wife, Pema.
Marianne bowed and took the sunglasses.
“I am Marianne,” she told Pema.
“Not any longer,” Dhondub said. “You must take a new name, to match vour identity. ‘Sonam Gampo’ is the name that goes with your card.”
“Sonam Gampo,” she repeated, tucking the card into a pouch at her waist. She slipped the sunglasses over her eyes, experiencing a moment of disorientation when she caught a glimpse of her reflection in the twin lenses. It was not herself she saw, but a dark-faced woman with black hair: Sonam Gampo.
“I think you fit in well enough,” Dhondub told Jetsun Dorje, subjecting him to a stern scrutiny. “Just don’t let them see you shoot that bow, or they will know for certain that you’re an imposter.”
“I’m out of practice,” Jetsun said. “But you’ll see—soon enough I’ll have my old arm back.”
“The one you have now seems quite old already. My grandmother can shoot an arrow farther than you.”
Jetsun grinned. “Your grandmother hasn’t had to sit in a border station for eight months out of the year with no heavier burden than a cup of hot tea.”
“True enough. And my grandmother can’t fly a plane, either, although she fixes engines readily enough. That’s where she is now, in fact.”
Jetsun’s face brightened. “The jet! You still have it?”
Dhondub nodded sharply. “We evaded the searchers on the night you arrived. The plane is safely hidden—underground. We don’t dare move it yet, but soon I hope we can put it to good use.”
Pema said. “You shouldn’t carry yo
ur bow in any case, not when the Chinese come.”
She held out her hands to take it from him, then carried it into the tent. Marianne followed her inside, removing the sunglasses. She found Dr. Norbu kneeling at the holographic shrine. He handled the bell, the vajra, and a small Dharma wheel like a lama invoking the elemental powers of the mandala. Kneeling beside him, she saw what he saw: an overhead map with a small red star moving swiftly across the screen.
“They’re almost here,” he said. “And still searching the region after our landing the other night. It will be hard to get through this inspection.”
“Doctor,” Pema said, “allow me, please. I must continue trying to enter your identities into the authorization computer.”
He stood up and let Dhondub’s wife take the cushion before the altar. She was tall and graceful, her dark hair flecked with gray. Marianne admired her as she went about what looked like ordinary devotions. A rosary of black beads lay coiled at the side of the shrine; Pema wound it around her fingers and began twisting the beads and murmuring in a monotone under her breath, the words inaudible to Marianne.
For a moment she was reminded of her mother. The two women were of about the same age. There was something familiar in the steady certainty with which Pema worked.
Outside, the sound of rotors rose above the constant sighing of the wind. Marianne peeked through the tent flap and saw a white plane dropping from the sky, the propellers on its slender wings tipped straight up. It came to rest on the green expanse of land where she’d seen the horsemen riding not long before.
Dhondub Ling ran into the field, waving at the plane as if he were delighted to see it. As he approached, a hatch swung down and steps unfolded to touch the grass. Four figures in green uniforms came down the steps, two of them carrying rifles. Such bulky weapons couldn’t have been necessary, except for intimidation. The Chinese undoubtedly had smaller and more powerful weapons hidden upon them-—especially the two who appeared unarmed.
They walked past Dhondub, heading straight toward the tents. The chieftain fell in alongside them, talking animatedly.
The Chinese ignored Dhondub at first, then one of them began to point out tents. By now Marianne could hear their words.
“Those solar disks—you have a license, of course?”
“Of course,” Dhondub said. He unfastened a box at his waist and produced a small card, but the chief inspector did not even glance at it. “They power our lanterns and shrines, and of course charge batteries.”
“How many are in your camp? Any recent transfers?”
“Thirty-six. We’ve had no transfers for over a year.”
“I would like to inspect your community roster.”
“Certainly. It is in my tent.”
The Chinese halted near the entrance of Dhondub’s tent. Jetsun walked past them and pushed through the flap. Seeing Marianne, he winked and said, “Hello, Sonam.”
“How long have you been encamped in this area?” the inspector asked Dhondub.
“Nearly a week. We plan to move on tomorrow—eastward.”
The inspector nodded, bowed slightly, and waved a hand at the horizon. “Yet there is plenty of grass. Your beasts hardly seem to have touched it.” Now he was smiling.
Dhondub nodded. “We have few animals, as you might have noticed from the air. Those we do have will not eat the vegetation here. There may be contamination in the area. I believe this was a test range for chemical weapons a century ago.”
The inspector looked at the ground under his feet and made a face in disgust, as if he would have liked to step off the earth completely. He pointed at the tent. “We shall go inside now.”
“As you wish,” said Dhondub. “My wife is at prayer. Your presence will not disturb her, but please do not speak to her directly.”
“Prayer,” the inspector said, with a glance at his aide, a thin woman with her hair shaved to the scalp. She had a small console on her belt, Marianne noticed.
“You have a license for prayer?” the inspector asked.
“Would we have a shrine, otherwise?” asked Dhondub. “Please come inside. I will show you all our licenses, if you have enough time.”
Marianne moved back into the tent with Jetsun, as Dhondub held open the tent flap for the inspector and his aide. One of the two armed men entered also, while the other took up a position outside the door.
As the inspector passed Marianne, he glanced at her and stopped short.
She could feel herself blanch beneath the skin tints. The sunglasses were off!
He stared at her for a moment, then took a slow look around the rest of the tent. Dhondub blinked at her but his eyes were calm and he kept a diplomatic smile. Dr. Norbu, however, sank down in the shadows beside the shrine with a helpless expression. Marianne was acutely aware of Pema’s continual murmuring. It sounded as if she were shouting out code words. Surely the inspector would uncover the ruse.
After a moment, he said to his aide, “Take their cards. I want a full check run on everyone in the camp.”
The woman held out her hand and Dhondub hurried to put his metallic card into it; he quickly dipped into Pema’s pocket and brought out her card. Marianne swallowed, reached for her own card, and then saw Dhondub’s eyes warning her to hold back as long as she could.
Pema’s muttering sounded desperate. She was really praying now.
The inspector took a few steps toward Marianne, squinting in the dim light.
“Green,” he said after a moment, as if pleased to discover that his eyes had not tricked him. “How unusual.”
“My mother’s eyes were quite green,” Dhondub said.
The inspector straightened a fraction of an inch. “This is your daughter?”
“Sonam,” Marianne said, sticking out her tongue.
The inspector held out his hand. “Your card, please.”
She fumbled for it. As she gave it to him, the aide finished running her check on Dhondub’s and Pema’s cards.
Silence filled the tent, complete except for the clicking of rosary beads.
The aide pressed Marianne’s card into her belt console.
“Tara,” she thought, “help me. Help us all.”
“Who do you think I am?” came the child’s reply.
The console beeped and fed back the card.
“Sonam Gampo,” the aide said, and added something in Chinese. The inspector returned Marianne’s card and turned away from her, apparently disappointed.
Pema was silent for a moment. Marianne could see her slumped over the altar, exhausted but relieved. It was something like what she felt.
“You, grandfather,” the inspector said, speaking now to Dr. Norbu. “Let me have your card.”
“How dare you speak to me that way!” said Reting. “I’m not your grandfather. Have you no respect for an old man’s peace? Have you lost all your family values, that you would speak to me that way? If I were truly your grandfather, I would pull the tongue out of your head for such insolence.”
The inspector sighed and let out his breath noisily. He turned his attention back to Dhondub.
“What do you know of the night mandalas?”
“I’ve seen them from the hills,” Dhondub said. “We’ve been invited to participate at one time or another, but I must say I doubt their efficacy. Only a simpleton believes that the gods need our lights to find their way to earth.”
“The same sort of simpleton who worships holovision sets?” the inspector said, with a wry look at the shrine.
Pema turned toward him slowly, fixing him with a grim look.
“So, you’re through with your prayers. Will they be answered, do you think?”
“I asked only for an end to the suffering of all sentient beings,” she said.
He smiled down on her. “How selfless of you to omit Tibetans from your prayers—religiousness and intelligence being mutually exclusive.”
She showed him her tongue.
“Shut your mouth,” he snapped.
“It is said that the tongues of demons are black with evil,” Pema said. “I only mean to demonstrate that I harbor no ill intentions, not even toward you. The Last Dalai Lama taught that our enemies teach us patience.”
“Bah!” The inspector swatted at the air. “Demons! Lamas! The stench of superstition is suffocating. Get out,” he told his aide.
When the party was outside again, Marianne heard the inspector giving orders in Chinese. She peeked through the flap and saw them proceeding to inspect other tents. Dhondub followed with his lists and licenses, but now he spoke only when the inspector asked him a direct question.
“They’ll find nothing,” Pema said, putting her hands on Marianne’s shoulders. “We’ve survived more inspections than I can count.”
“Thank you,” Marianne said, turning to face her. “I almost gave us all away.”
Pema smiled. “They made it easy to access the computer—I traced their signal on Dhondub’s card, and by the time they were checking mine I had already entered the information for the rest of you.”
“They suspect us, don’t they?” Jetsun asked.
“They’re suspicious of most Tibetans,” Pema said. “Even Governor Rato, a Tibetan himself, is wary of his own people—as well he might be, considering how he abuses us for the sake of the master’s favor. You will see, though, that the Chinese treat the nomads with greater respect than they give most folks. That is because we have mastered the thing they most respect—technology. In poorer areas, they find it easier to consider the people ignorant savages, although even there it is a delusion. All Tibetans live in the twenty-second century now. There is not one of us who does not know how our misfortune came to pass. Our isolation made us proud; our willingness to turn our backs on the modern world made us vulnerable. We will never make those mistakes again. We are a modern people.”
“There are Tibetans scattered all over the planet,” Marianne said.
Pema nodded. “The Chinese hope that one day we will disappear, but that will never happen. They hope that they will have this land all to themselves, but that will not happen either. The funny thing is, they hate this country! It’s too harsh, too high. They hate it, but they won’t give it up. They’ve gotten it into their heads that it belongs to them. They’re wrong, though. This land does not belong to anyone.
