Текст книги "Water Touching Stone"

Автор книги: Eliot Pattison

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The bald monk readily nodded. The man must be the kenpo, Shan decided, the abbot of the Raven's Nest. "The Third did, and the Fifth. To a hermitage, deep in a mountain. And the last time an army came," the abbot said, "men arrived from Lhasa. Wise men. They said, send your young monks away, to hide. Some went to that mountain place. The dropka brought horses and some of their children. They were going to fight this new army, the dropka said, and their children needed a place to go until the war was over." The abbot sighed and sipped his tea. "The next year we got a letter from one of our monks. They rode for weeks," he recounted, "only at night. Near a city there was great fighting, terrible bloodshed, and the invaders shot cannons into the mountains where our people were. In the end," he said slowly, "three of our monks arrived in the Lhadrung hiding place and two of the children. A young boy and a girl."

What had Gendun said– that he saw the Kunlun with a stranger's eyes but that he knew it in his heart? When he was young, his parents had given him to monks who took him away.

A bell sounded from down another corridor, and the monks handed their pages to the abbot and rose. Jowa stepped eagerly to the shelves, gazing upon the pechas, row after row of sutras and teachings. As the abbot arranged the pages into a stack and slipped them into a silk cover, he starting explaining details of the collection to Jowa.

Shan wandered down the corridor. A door to a room at the end was ajar. Bajys was inside, squatting before a long thangka that hung on the back wall of the room, an elaborate image of a man, not one of the Buddha forms, not even one of the many prominent teachers whom Shan had learned to recognize in such paintings. The floor of the room held a carpet far richer than those he had seen elsewhere in the gompa. Indeed, the entire room was appointed in a style far more elegant than elsewhere in the gompa. A robe with bright embroidery hung on one wall. A bronze figure of a lama, possibly the ancient teacher Guru Rinpoche, sat prominently on a table by the door.

"What is it?" Shan asked, not understanding anything Bajys had done since arriving at the gompa.

Bajys just smiled, the first smile Shan had ever seen on his face. There was a low wooden platform bed against the far wall. Bajys bent to straighten the bedding, then picked up a small bronze dorje, the small scepterlike object of Buddha ritual, on the table beside the bed and carefully wiped away its dust. He looked at Shan with surprise in his eyes, as if Shan had failed to see something important, something obvious to Bajys. He took Shan's elbow and guided him to the place where he had been squatting and nodded at the thangka.

Bajys had never been there before, Shan knew. He had not known about the gompa. But he had recognized the figure in the ancient painting.

"His eyes," Bajys said a tone of awe.

Then, with a catch in his breath, Shan understood. It was the Yakde. Bajys was looking at the boy lama in another body and had recognized him.

"It's his room," someone said over his shoulder. It was the bald monk, the abbot. "The room for when the Yakde visits."

Bajys looked at both men with a small, confused smile, then looked at the dorje in his hands, as if not understanding how it got there.

"How did you know to come here?" Shan asked Bajys. He had not had time to explore the entire structure. Something had guided him to the room. "You were never here before. But you knew it was his room."

"It was just the place I was going to," Bajys began, struggling for words. "I couldn't know," he said, looking at the dorje as he turned it over and over in his hands. The dorje was called the diamond vehicle by many Buddhists, symbolizing the anchor of enlightenment, the indestructible power of Buddhahood. "My eyes didn't know," he said in a tone of awe, as if perhaps the dorje had called him. "But my feet did." He looked up, clearly pained by his inability to understand what had happened but unable to stop grinning.

The abbot took Shan down one more flight of stairs, past a storeroom that held baskets of grain and dried dung. Shan paused at the door to the room, and saw that only a tenth of the space was utilized. From pegs on one wall hung huge coils of ropes. He remembered what Batu had said at the lama's field, that Khitai had told him old men came sometimes to fix the flag on the huge rock tower. Shan followed his guide onto a long terrace that was covered by the ledge above but open on three sides, supported only by pillars of mortared stones. Along the inside wall was a long line of mounted keg-sized cylinders of bronze and wood– prayer wheels. At the far end stood a large four-legged brazier, for burning fragrant offerings. Below, on the valley floor, Shan saw the wall of rocks he had noticed from above, and he realized that it was an old corral. The Raven's Nest hung above the corral, clinging to the side of the mountain, separated from the valley floor by a precipitous drop of at least two hundred feet.

"It must be a difficult thing, to be the abbot of such a place," Shan said.

"I'm sorry?"

"Your job. To be responsible-"

The man smiled shyly. "But I am not the abbot," he said in a tone of apology. "I am just the abbot's assistant. While the abbot is away I do his job."

"Away?"

"On the other side of the mountains."

Shan stared at the brilliant waters. Maybe it was true. They brought visions of truth. "How long ago?"

"Not long. Five, maybe six years. But he's in good health. A nun came once and told us."

"What," Shan asked slowly, "what exactly did the nun do?"

"Gave us the message. No letter. She said a letter would be dangerous. She brought a dried flower, that's how we knew. Rinpoche likes to meditate on flowers. She smiled a great deal and gave us incense and bricks of tea and asked to go to the Yakde's room. She offered prayers there for a long time, and then she climbed down and sat by the oracle lake. She said she had always heard about this place, from her teachers, and she was glad to have seen it before she died. Then she asked for messages to the abbot from each of us and memorized our names and our messages. She said mostly she had come because the abbot was worried about us."

Lau had been there. Lau had sat in front of the thankga and no doubt had recognized the eyes as Bajys had. She had sat by the oracle waters after she had delivered the message from the abbot of the Raven's Nest, the waterkeeper who sat in Glory Camp. Shan vividly remembered the old lama's serene face and the dried flower in his fingers.

"Sometimes," Shan suggested, "sometimes you have other visitors."

"Herders come," the monk said, pointing out the narrow trail that followed the left side of the valley. "They bring grain and new blankets, sometimes. The herders have always kept the gompa alive. They say they can't bring their children for training anymore. But they bring us food." He looked toward a small ledge on the rock face fifty feet away. It held a nest. Three ravens sat there, all watching the two men intently. "Except, one day, the ravens were very scared, and one of the cloud riders came. Loud, like thunder."

Shan closed his eyes. "What did they want?"

"Up on his rock, Rinpoche, our old one, was rejoicing. He said there were some Buddhas who flew like that. But the rest of us saw that they were just Chinese."

"They came to find you?"

"Not really. They paid us no attention at first. We watched from here for a long time as they worked by the lake. Then I put on the clothing of a herder and went down to the valley, and they met me. The man in charge said he knew we were illegal monks. He said that bad Chinese would arrest us, but that they were good Chinese and were our friends. He and his friends came back to the gompa and we offered them tea, and they gave us boxes of sweet biscuits. They asked about us, about who our leaders were, about our sect."

"You mean they were scientists?" Shan asked in confusion. "Professors?"

The monk was watching another group of ravens, flying in circles over the lake as if engaged in some aerial dance. Shan repeated the question.

"Not scientists," he said, still watching the birds. "Builders."

"I don't understand."

He turned back to Shan, puzzled, apparently trying to find words. "Wait here," he said and trotted back to the door, leaving Shan alone.

Shan looked out over the valley with an unexpected contentment. The Raven's Nest was so high, and the horizon so distant, that the clouds seemed to be moving below them, across the mouth of the valley. The place seemed disconnected from the planet, its remoteness a quality unto itself, as if a piece of the world had indeed broken off into the wind, unaffected by time, unaffected by the world below.

But then the assistant abbot appeared, with a satisfied smile, and in his hands was a red nylon jacket and on the breast of the jacket, where he pointed, was a gold emblem of a man and a woman reaching over an oil derrick, a sheep, and a tractor in a field.

Shan felt as though he had been kicked in the belly. He turned away for a moment, fighting a sudden flood of dismay and fear, the emotions of defeat. The world had found the Raven's Nest after all.

"It's a strong coat. We all got one," the monk said in a consoling tone, as if trying to convince Shan not to be worried. "When Rinpoche goes on top this winter he can wear it."

"When they came," Shan said with a sigh, "did they give names?"

The assistant abbot shrugged. "Our Mandarin is poor, I'm afraid. The one in charge smoked many cigarettes, and we couldn't see his eyes because he wore glasses that were very dark. He asked questions about the lake."

Shan looked out over the shimmering waters. "What about it? What kind of questions?"

"When did it freeze, how deep is it, did we drink the water ourselves, where were the sources of the streams that replenished it."

"You said he worked at the lake, before you went to talk. What did they do?"

"I don't know. Maybe they prayed. Maybe they drank some. It is a holy lake, it has been holy for as long as people remember, even before the teachings of Buddha arrived."

"And his questions, how did you answer them?"

"It is always replenished, because it has no bottom. And of course we drink the water, even in winter when we melt its ice. It freezes much later than other lakes."

"Because it is protected," Shan said, "because it is exposed to the south and heat is radiated from the huge walls."

"No," the monk said with a patient smile. "Because the mountain deities bathe in it."

Shan nodded. "And that is all he asked?"

The assistant abbot stared out into the sky. "He wanted to know about the animals in the ranges here. I told him the land below is thick with antelope and wild yak, that the mountains have wild goats and lynx and snow leopard. He wanted to know how many people could sleep in the gompa. He said workers might come to help us, and afterward important people might stay here sometimes."

"Help you?"

"Build things, I think."

"Did they come back after that?"

"Twice. Once to take many buckets of water out of the lake. Once to take many photographs. They brought us more of the sweet biscuits that the old ones like."

"Did you wear your robes when he came those times?"

"No. He asked us not to. He said it could be dangerous for now, that we couldn't trust every Chinese. But he gave me great hope."

"You mean because they are coming to-" To what? Shan wondered. To shoot animals, doubtlessly, but not just that. Not if workers needed to come first. "To build?"

"Of course not, we could not permit it. But I told the old ones," the monk said with a generous smile toward Shan, "I explained that it is a new time, we don't have to be afraid of all the Chinese anymore."

"Why could you not permit them to construct something?"

"We hold the valley and the gompa in trust. We await the return of the Yakde Lama. Maybe in ten years, maybe twenty, I told him."

"I don't understand."

"Only the Yakde Lama could give such permission."

Suddenly the ravens on the ledge shot into the sky, flying in a straight line toward those who circled the lake. They began to chatter, so loudly Shan could hear the echo down the valley.

The monk studied the birds silently for a moment, then nodded and turned to Shan, excitement mounting on his face. "You have luck," he said brightly, "the cloud riders are returning."

Chapter Sixteen

Shan and Jowa jogged along the valley floor toward the trail the monks had described as the route of the herders. There was time if their visitors had to flee, the assistant abbot had confirmed, for the ravens always sensed the approach of the cloud riders from a great distance, in enough time for some of the monks to walk to the lake to meet the machine when it arrived. But there was nothing to fear from the men in the machine, he had insisted. What's more, there was no place to go. They had no more than two hours of light left and in the autumn night of the high Kunlun they would be blind, they would freeze. Sometimes travelers just shriveled in the cold, dry wind and blew away.

But Jowa and Shan knew there was danger. The Brigade knew their faces, and if the two of them were captured at the Raven's Nest the monks too would be in jeopardy. The assistant abbot had reluctantly shown his three visitors the ancient stairway cut in the rock face that was the only path to the valley floor and at the last minute had handed Jowa a battered old candle lantern, a small tin box with a handle of wire and a small glass window on one side.

When they had descended the stairs Bajys had collapsed on the last step with a forlorn expression. Jowa had impatiently urged him on but Shan had motioned for the purba to continue down the path, then turned to Bajys.

"It's a long climb back," Shan said after a moment, looking at the steep, narrow stairs that led up to the Nest. The Brigade knew Shan and Jowa, but they had never seen Bajys. One more unlicensed Tibetan in the gompa would make little difference to Managing Director Ko.

When Bajys looked up, the confusion had left his face. There was something new, a glimmer of gratitude in his eyes. "When we came out of that snowstorm," Bajys said, "it felt like my world had changed."

Shan sighed and looked up at the monks. They had gathered on the lower terrace. They were all wearing red nylon jackets over their robes and waving. Shan offered his hand. "I'd like to come back some day," he said, "and help you fix that window."

Bajys took his hand and smiled again, then began climbing back to the old monks.

Shan caught up with Jowa at the lake, which was as brilliant blue seen from its shores as from the gompa perched in the rocks above. But he paused as Jowa disappeared around the front edge of the ridge. He stepped to the shoreline, dropped to the water, and drank, then cupped both hands and washed his face. It was strangely sweet and caused a tingling sensation on his tongue. The holy water of the Yakde.

For a quarter hour they jogged down the face of the massive escarpment on which the Raven's Nest perched, then suddenly the sound of rotor blades filled the air. Shan lay beside Jowa on the path, the blanket thrown over them as the helicopter sped by and disappeared into the hanging valley above them. Then they sprang up and dashed recklessly along the narrow goat path, risking a plunge of five hundred feet with any misstep, until they reached a fork in the trail. Without hesitating Jowa chose the one that led to the south. Minutes later they crossed a narrow pass. Jowa paused to study the peaks once more, then, with the setting sun in front of them, cut a path to the crest of a long low ridge that descended to the west of the pass.

Jowa did not speak but jogged on, never once glancing back to see if Shan was there. After an hour, with the sun lost in a pink blush to the west, he stopped and stared at the terrain ahead, memorizing it in the last light. In another quarter hour he paused and lit the lantern. They could travel at no more than a fast walk in the dim light it threw, and finally Jowa stopped and said they would wait for the moon. They sat silently against a rock, huddling against the cold, each eating a handful of tsampa, until after nearly an hour the moon blinked over the eastern peaks. Jowa stood and studied the nearby hills, then moved briskly away.

Jowa extinguished the light as they began climbing down into a narrow valley, seeming more confident as he led Shan along the rugged terrain. He left Shan in the shadow of a large boulder by the bottom wall of the valley, handing him the blanket and instructing him in a grave tone not to move, not to leave with anyone but Jowa, as if danger lurked near.

Shan sat in the dark, clutching the blanket to his neck, watching the stars, shifting his view to the north, where Gendun and Lokesh roamed. Did they have shelter from the wind? he wondered. Had they found someone to give them light in the black of the night?

He had not heard the helicopter leave from the Raven's Nest, though it easily could have gone in the opposite direction without detection, back to Ko's home in Yoktian. What was it Ko was doing at the Nest? The question raged in his mind, it defied him, it filled him with a foreboding nearly as great as that he felt over the fate of Gendun and Lokesh. Ko had no authority in Tibet, no sponsor. In Tibet he would be as illegal as the monks at the Nest. But Ko was not like others Shan had known in authority. He was part of the new China. He did not yearn for higher government office, which had always been the source of power in the People's Republic. He wasn't interested in killing boys. He was interested in business, had perhaps been in the Kunlun that night in the truck, on some Brigade business Shan still did not comprehend. Ko saw gain elsewhere. He saw gain from a handful of old, illegal monks in a forgotten wilderness gompa.

He became aware of a noise and of movements in the shadows. He heard Jowa's voice through the darkness. "This way."

Two dark shapes, Jowa and a figure wearing a hooded cloak, emerged from the night and led him through a maze of rocks, wary of the moonlight, as if even in this high wilderness, in the black night, they feared being seen. They entered a cave, where Jowa's companion lit a butter lamp, and they walked for thirty feet in its dim light before the lamp was abruptly extinguished. There was the sound of a knock on a door and creaking hinges, a hastily blurted syllable that Shan could not understand– a password, perhaps– then a hand was on his back, pushing him through.

The door closed with a metallic groan, and Shan sensed that they had entered a new place. There were unexpected smells of metal and incense and damp fleece and onions. The lamp was lit once more, and to his great surprise Shan saw walls of concrete. Jowa and their guide moved rapidly away, and as Shan followed at a brisk walk he saw that the floor too was constructed of concrete. They passed sleeping forms on pallets of dried grass, then silent men and women sitting alone, bolt upright, at the intersections where other tunnels met their own, as if they were sentinels in some vast labyrinth. Several of the silent figures nodded to Jowa, then looked uncertainly at Shan as he passed.

It was an impossible place. It was a purba place, but it could never have been built by the purbas. As they passed through a central room that had wires hanging from the ceiling and cold, lifeless electric lamp fixtures on the walls, he saw dogs and children and several tables with small statues of Buddha and other teachers.

They went down a long stairway, not carved of the mountain rock but made of metal grating with rusty piping for railings, then followed a corridor that seemed to reverse their direction, as if they were now traveling under the valley floor. Jowa's face was fixed in a grim expression. Then, just as Shan was about to stop and insist on an explanation, they moved through a heavy metal door, spotted with rust. Old rubber seals, dried and cracked, hung from the door frame. They entered a circular chamber twenty feet in diameter, which Jowa walked through quickly, as if anxious to be away from it.

In the chamber was a ring of iron railing around a ten-foot-wide circle of deep shadow. Shan took a hesitant step forward and put a hand on the railing. A cold, hard thing grew in his belly, and he understood the essence of the place. It was not just a hole inside the ring. It was a concrete-lined silo.

"How is it possible?" he gasped, both hands on the rusty pipe as he stared down into the darkness.

"The first generation of missile bases," Jowa said in a low, unsettled voice. "Now the missiles are much bigger. Multiple warheads. Huge bases, like the Mushroom Bowl. But thirty years ago they built smaller facilities, as close to India as possible, half a dozen silos apiece. A small crew. Some, in the bigger valleys, were expanded for the new systems. Others like this were abandoned. They sealed the tops. They blew up the entrances to fill them with rubble. But a herder was watching here. He cut the fuse to the explosives in the one tunnel, so he could use it for his sheep in the winter. But later the Chinese made him surrender his herd to a collective."

"So he told the purbas."

"He became a purba. Not because of the sheep. Because they put his brother in prison on flour charges. Some July sixth, years ago."

Shan grimaced. For centuries throwing roasted barley flour into the air had been a traditional Tibetan expression of rejoicing. But July 6, the Dalai Lama's birthday, had been outlawed as a holiday, and those caught celebrating it with flour, even sometimes those caught carrying bags of flour on the day, were subject to criminal charges.

"But all these people," Shan said. "Not just purbas use it."

Jowa opened another heavy door and gestured Shan through it. "I was one of those who opened it years ago. It is one of the few safe places we have in the region. It became something of a sanctuary, for people in transit. They come usually at night, with a purba guide. Few know exactly where they are. Most stay only a few days and move on."

"Transit?" Shan asked as they started down the corridor.

"Sometimes people have to leave quickly," Jowa explained, "cross the mountains before they are arrested. Sometimes they can't take their families. But their families are known to Public Security, so their families must be protected." Public Security would use the families, Jowa meant, would take them as hostages for the return of the fugitive or just punish them in retribution.

"So, all these people– they are waiting to cross the border?"

"Some are. Some just come to help. Some come to rest or recover from injuries that can't be taken to a Chinese hospital. Others come for the quiet, to make plans."

As they walked past another group of reclining figures, a woman sat up and called to Jowa. "Thank you, thank you again," she said in a soft, shy voice, then looked at Shan with a tentative expression, as if she recognized him. As she raised her bandaged wrist, Shan realized who she was and halted.

"They were still very frightened when our people found them," Jowa explained. "Just sitting at the boy's grave, waving that charm. I said, at least give her time here, in safety, to heal her wrist. We sent people to watch their sheep."

It was the dropka woman, the foster mother of the dead boy Alta.

Shan stepped across a collection of sleeping forms to squat by the woman's side. "I hope your hand is better," he offered.

"Soon I will be able to use it, the healer here says," the woman said, bracing her broken wrist on her knee. She placed her uninjured hand flat onto something beside her as she spoke, as if she needed support. Shan glanced down. She was leaning on the charm, the sacred writing left by Gendun the day Alta had died.

"I wanted to ask you something important," Shan said. "I am sorry if the memory is still painful. But we are still trying to understand. The day when you found the killer, was the killer speaking to the boy? Asking him questions?"

The woman's brow knitted as she struggled to remember. She shook her head gradually. "Nothing. No words. Just noises."

"You said he was called away by lightning. Are you sure? Lightning is rare in the mountains this time of year."

"Of course. He saw the lightning and ran away with the boy's shoe."

"Did you recognize the noises he made?" Jowa asked her over Shan's shoulder. He spoke in Mandarin.

The woman looked at Jowa with a blank stare.

Shan glanced at Jowa and nodded. She didn't understand Mandarin.

"He did not speak," the woman said again. "Not in any language. Just noises, like an animal, when he saw the lightning."

"Can you remember the exact sound the killer made?" Shan asked.

The woman grimaced and hung her head. "I will always remember. I hear it in my nightmares now. One of the barking noises that demons make. Kow ni," she said, looking into the shadows now. "Kow ni ma swee. Like that."

"Cao ni ma," Jowa whispered. It was a curse in Mandarin. Fuck your mother. Fuck your mother, Sui.

They nodded their thanks to the woman and began to walk away.

"We should have taken him to the other place," the dropka woman said in a hollow tone behind them. "Alta wanted to go there. Maybe he would be safe there."

Shan turned back. "The other place?"

"Where the shadow clans sometimes meet. The lama field, the children call it, but only the ghosts of lamas live there."

Khitai had shown the place to the zheli, Shan recalled. It was why Batu had insisted on going there. "Why did Alta want to go there?"

The woman shook her head with a sad smile. "Lau had given them work to do, a collection of autumn flowers. Some other boys told him many flowers grew there, that Lau would be pleased with flowers from the lama field. He said the boy Khitai liked to go there, that he often persuaded his foster families to take him to the lama field for a day, that Khitai would meet the new boy with the strange accent and play in the rocks there." She meant Micah, Shan knew. Khitai liked to meet the American boy at the lama field. When the dropka looked up at Shan he thought she was going to burst into tears. "It was for Lau. They thought they had to complete their last assignment from Lau, so she could rest in peace." She looked away, and her head dropped almost as if she were falling asleep. Jowa pulled him away.

"The ghosts of lamas," Jowa repeated in a haunted voice. Shan took a moment to understand. The lama field had another dead lama now. The Yakde Lama.

"There was no storm that night Aha was attacked," Shan sighed. "We were only a few miles away."

"No," Jowa said slowly, as if fitting the pieces together as he spoke. "But the killer saw something like lightning, cursed Sui, and ran away. Which means it wasn't Sui who attacked Alta."

"She could have the words wrong," Shan suggested.

"I don't think so," Jowa said. And neither did Shan.

Jowa led him through another of the heavy security doors to a small room where four men sat at a wood plank table, studying maps. Planning. Shan recognized the young purba who had met them on the trail and driven away their truck. The youth looked up and nodded at Shan without rancor, a conspiratorial nod. The others looked at Jowa, not Shan, with unhappy, impatient expressions. A fifth man, at a table with thermoses, turned as they entered, a thin Uighur with a crooked nose. Fat Mao. Explaining that he had just arrived from Yoktian he filled two mugs with tea and handed them to the two new arrivals. Shan studied the room. Wires hung loose from several conduits along the ceiling. A tangle of pipes ran overhead, some painted red. There was a yellow sign warning of radiation exposure painted on the back of the door. The walls were almost covered with more maps, many bearing the legend Nei Lou across the top. Scattered across the maps were colored pins and bits of paper taped to their surface. Beside the maps on the table sat a portable computer.

"I told them about the boys," Jowa said. "About Gendun and Lokesh. They want to know where the murders took place, on the maps." As he spoke, one of the Tibetans pulled his chair back and gestured for Shan to join them. Together Jowa and Shan studied a map of the region and agreed on the location of the Red Stone camp, the road where Alta had been attacked, the canyon where Kublai was killed, and the lama field where Khitai was buried. The young purba inserted pins on penciled numbers on the spots, one for Suwan, two for Alta, three for Kublai, and four for Khitai. He ran the point of his pencil in the air over the pins as though to outline the route taken by the murderer, a pattern.

As he did so a hand reached over the table and inserted another pin. "Five," Fat Mao said, and he inserted the pin at the head of a valley ten miles from Yoktian. "Not killed," he said quickly as Shan looked up in alarm. "Jakli and her-" he began. "Last night Jakli and others were traveling to the valley because they heard one of the zheli boys was there, with a shadow clan. It was getting dark. They heard a sheep crying in great pain."

They. Fat Mao meant Jakli and her cousins, Shan knew. She had joined the riders from her clan who were searching for the boys.

"They looked down into a pass, where a rough road entered, and saw a sheep tangled in a vine by a tree. Or, that was the way it was supposed to appear. When they got lower they used binoculars and saw that the sheep was tied with wire to the tree and was lying on the ground, bloody." Fat Mao touched one pin, then another, as he spoke. "Suddenly a boy appeared, running to help the sheep. But the moment the boy reached the sheep, a man dressed in black clothes leapt on him. The boy fought back. One of the men with Jakli had a rifle, and they shot the boy's attacker when he stood up for a moment. He was hit somewhere by the bullet and ran into the shadows. A moment later a black utility vehicle raced out of the trees. The boy had been beaten," the Uighur continued, "and his shirt was ripped open at the neck, but he was not seriously injured. The sheep's rear leg tendons had been cut. They had to shoot it."