Текст книги "Prayer of the Dragon"

Автор книги: Eliot Pattison

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He lowered his head, shamed by his earlier relapse into his Beijing incarnation. “I’m sorry,” he heard himself say to the figurines. “I strive to become a shape like them.” His audience of perfect little ceramic gods would know he meant Gendun and Lokesh. “But the only clay I have to work with is that which I brought from the outside.” He fought a chaos of thoughts, forming his fingers into a mudra, Diamond of the Mind, and focusing on it, letting the storm within him blow itself out. Eventually, for the first time in nearly two weeks, he found a quiet place, a meditative place, and worked to stay there. It was, as Gendun once told him, like balancing a smooth weathered rock on the tip of one finger.

His meditation ended abruptly, a long time later. Something was lurking at the edge of his consciousness. The words that sprang onto his tongue seemed to bypass his mind. “On mani padme hum,”for the Compassionate Buddha, then other words for each of the images he recognized among the little figures. Some were words he had not spoken since learning them on dark winter nights from very old Tibetans, risking the penalties of curfew to speak them. “Om ah vajre gate hum,”he finally added, and paused, wondering why something inside, unbidden, had offered up the words for the Green Tara, the Droljang Tara. Of all the manifestations of the Tara he might have chosen, something within him had settled on the aggressive protector form.

His mind became impossibly clear. He heard an insect crawling on the window, a mouse scratching at the rear of the building. He began reviewing the events on Sleeping Dragon Mountain, starting with the moment he had set foot in Drango village, reconsidering every piece of the puzzle, changing their positions, twisting them like little pieces of colored glass, watching them transform in hue as he turned them this way and that. His fear receded, replaced by what some of the Old Ones would have called the mind of the warrior protector. By the time he rose, the moon was low in the sky and he had begun to grasp the pattern of the puzzle.

He bowed to the assembled deities in gratitude and went toward the front of the compound, pausing at the factory door as he reminded himself of what Yangke had said on the helicopter. Tashi had promised he would “ride with the gods” all the way to India.

Gao stood in the dark in the doorway. He spun about at Shan’s approach, then relaxed. “You were right. There are two of them.”

Shan stepped to his side. Gao was watching a shadow inside a shadow. But then the man drew on a cigarette, casting his face in a quick orange glow.

“I wish Heinz were here,” Gao said. “He knows about such things.”

“Have you spoken with him?”

“I called the hotel where he keeps an apartment. He checked in. But he had to drive to the airport. He’ll phone tomorrow.”

“But you’ll be gone tomorrow.”

“No. I can’t leave on the same helicopter that brought us here. Ren would note the serial number and make the pilot talk. Then the mountain will be smothered with soldiers. You would never find the killer.”

Gao was repeating Shan’s own warning back to him. The scientist too must have been meditating in the dark. He seemed to have finally accepted that the only justice for his nephew would be unofficial justice.

Gao tapped a compact instrument on his belt. “My satellite phone. I called the pilot. He landed at a nearby base after arrang– ing to have a mechanical problem. He will take the helicopter on a test flight and come at dawn, without lights.” Gao reached into his pocket and handed Shan a wad of banknotes. “This will make up for the gold you used.”

Shan went to the backpack they had left there earlier. He extracted the digital camera, fumbling until finally he discovered how to scroll through the stored photos. When he found the one he wanted he extended the camera to Gao. “Can you print this here?” he asked.

Gao studied the photo. It was of Abigail Natay, cheerfully sitting on a rock, left foot under her body, right foot hanging over the edge. Her hair was upswept, adorned by flowers. After a moment Gao went to the computer on the desk and then pointed to the printer. A still image emerged. Shan retrieved the photo, placed it in his pocket, then checked the window again.

On the adjacent table, dimly lit by the street light, was the photo of Kohler, his arm around a woman’s shoulder. They were on a beach. Shan held it up. “Where was this taken?”

“In the south of India. Heinz does a lot of business there and has made friends. The company owns a house and a warehouse in India.”

“You must enjoy the contrast in climate.”

When Gao did not reply Shan realized his mistake. “They won’t let you out,” he said. The government’s lifeblood was secrets, and Gao was a walking vault containing the most dangerous secrets of all.

“If I want sun,” Gao said, “they arrange for me to speak at a conference on the southern coast of China. With an escort.”

Shan replaced the photo and rejoined Gao at the window.

“When you find Abigail Natay,” Gao said wearily, “bring her back to my house. But first we must find a way to get the three of you out of here before sunrise.”

Shan considered the problem only briefly. “What time do your workers arrive?” he asked.

AN HOUR BEFORE dawn, Gao switched on the light in his office and walked purposefully to the window, pointing to the blush of pink in the eastern sky as Shan, then Hostene and Yangke appeared beside him. He gestured toward a table that had been positioned near the window, then closed shut the filmy inner curtain and sat with them. The office manager appeared with a tea tray.

They waited several minutes, talking and gesturing broadly before signaling for the first of three early-arriving workers who were squatting along the wall. Shan rose, approached the wall as if to look at a picture, then flattened himself against it and sidled out of the room. The first worker took his place at the table. Soon the three of them were outside.

Shan watched from the deep shadows until the nearest watcher lit a cigarette with a match, destroying his night vision. Shan motioned to his friends and they headed to the soccer stadium. Soon they were airborne. Shan was ready to wake the dragon.

Chapter Eleven

The fields that had fed the inhabitants of Drango village their entire lives were black and barren. In the charred fields, they crouched on their hands and knees to glean a few intact kernels, sometimes finding an entire seed head that had survived the flames. Their hands and faces were covered with soot, and with their desolate expressions they seemed to be wearing the masks Shan had seen used in ritual plays portraying fleshless puppets of the dead.

Yangke ventured into the village. He returned with a warning that Shan should not seek out Lokesh and Gendun. The villagers were still dazed by the catastrophe that had struck their village, and the only thing they knew for certain was that their troubles had started when Shan and the other outsiders arrived. Gendun was now under double guard because Lokesh and Dolma had tried to move him.

“To where?”

“I don’t know. Away, out of the village,” Yangke replied. “They had him on a litter, but weren’t even able to carry him past the fields. If Dolma wasn’t an elder, Chodron would have had her caned too.”

“Was Lokesh caned?” The words seemed to choke Shan.

Yangke slowly nodded. “Thirty strokes of Chodron’s bamboo rod. He demanded to know where you were.” Yangke restrained Shan, who had taken a step toward the village. “He’s not there. I couldn’t find Lokesh or Dolma. But they said he is all right, that he hardly seemed to notice the cane, that he-”

“-recited a mantra and looked toward the sky as he took the beating,” Shan finished in a hoarse whisper. How many times had he seen it before, in their prison camp? Forty? Fifty? At times Lokesh had difficulty bending, because of all the scar tissue.

“Chodron is furious. His generator is broken. He has no radio contact. He keeps hounding the man who is trying to fix it. Everyone is afraid of him and his men. They’re hiding from him.”

Shan had seen the headman observing when the helicopter left them on the slope above the fields. He must have thought Gao was still with them or he would have rounded them up.

“And Gendun?”

“He sits in Dolma’s house, reciting the death rites when he has the strength. For Thomas. For Tashi. For Professor Ma. The villagers took the farmer who died to the fleshcutters. They asked Chodron who killed him. But he told them they must wait until the festival. No words have been recited by the dead farmer’s family. They know if they perform any act of devotion, Chodron will punish Gendun.”

Shan’s throat was so dry he had trouble speaking. “You saw Lokesh?”

“No. He and Dolma must be locked inside too.” Yangke recognized the furious expression that crossed Shan’s face. “Dolma will have ointments for Lokesh’s back. He will be safe. You can’t go down there.” Yangke scanned the slope above them with a worried expression.

“Hostene has started climbing,” Shan explained. “He wants to be alone. He knows where to meet us.” Shan stood, slung his pack over his shoulder, and starting walking. After half a dozen steps he paused and looked over his shoulder. Yangke had not moved.

“You are going to seek out ghosts,” Yangke said.

“Someone once asked Lokesh what I do,” Shan said. “He told the man I am a confessor of ghosts. It’s the best description I have ever heard. In my experience the only people who can be relied upon always to tell the truth are the dead.”

When they arrived at their destination it was late afternoon. The hermit Rapaki was not in his cave. There was no sign that he had been there since he’d fled during their first visit. Hostene had lit a small fire and balanced one of the hermit’s battered saucepans on two rocks to boil water. Shan could see the Navajo scanning the mountainside. Every hour that passed brought his niece closer to death. He had urged that the helicopter drop them off as high up the mountain as possible. Shan had resisted, explaining that they could not risk being spotted by the miners in Little Moscow or spooking the killer.

Shan lowered himself against a rock at the mouth of the cave and found himself blinking away sleep. A warm southern breeze carried the scent of gentians. A bird warbled from a grove of junipers. When he awoke, less than an hour of daylight was left. Soup was cooking. Somewhere behind him, in the dim cave, Yangke was whispering the soft syllables of a mantra. Hostene sat on an outcropping, watching another of Abigail’s videotapes.

When Shan entered the cave, Yangke ignored him. Had Rapaki returned? Shan lit a butter lamp and squeezed through the narrow opening that led to the chamber the hermit used for refuse. The chaos of trash and stores was gone. Someone had cleared the central part of the room, arranging the debris into piles in the two far corners. For the first time Shan saw that the floor had been painted, probably centuries earlier. There were faint broken lines of color, tiny staggered ovals that led from the eastern wall, defining a wide circle at first, then spiraling inward in a counterclockwise direction, making six-no, eight-ever smaller loops until it ended among images that had been recently ravaged. Since his last visit someone had destroyed the center, roughly hacking at the floor with chisel and hammer, leaving only a few colored shards that offered no clue as to what the focal images had been.

Ovals. Hubei’s brother had learned how to use the video camera so he could film ovals on a fresco Abigail could not reach. Shan explored every inch remaining of the strange pattern, following it outward now, discovering that the outer lines of marks did not exactly form a circle. The outer ring of the circle was broken. Two lines bent and climbed the adjoining wall. With his dim light Shan followed the lines upward. They each ended over his head in jagged shapes that looked like lightning bolts. Here, on the wall in front of him, the oval shapes were best preserved. He held the lamp against the wall and realized the little marks weren’t exactly ovals; they were more like plump figure eights. Footprints. The lines were made up of symbolic footprints. Abigail had been here, had probably helped clean the cave in order to study the old signs on the floor. She had found a map of the pilgrim’s path. This was the place of beginning-for pilgrims, for Abigail, probably for the killer. And now for Shan and his friends.

He followed the ovals back down the wall, unable to make sense of them. Then he stepped back to survey the faded characters on the wall as a group. They were all demons, the most fearful members of the Tibetan pantheon-not protector demons but the devils that had been integral to Bon belief long before the Buddhist saints had reached Tibet. They were the flesh-eating, fanged devils who wore skulls around their necks. The style of the paintings was like none he had ever seen in Tibet, crude yet powerful. But if Abigail was correct in her hypothesis, he should expect to see images unlike any found elsewhere. He followed the spiraling footprints, pausing at each of the demons along the way. When he reached the ruined centerpiece he gazed up, as confused as ever. There was no correlation to the mountain, no connection to the geography outside. It was simply a map to hell.

He took out the tiny piece of plaster he had been carrying with him since his first visit to Little Moscow, when he had been thrust against the fresco. He laid it beside the rows of ovals and walked around it, considering the ever-shifting pieces of the puzzle of the Sleeping Dragon, then studied the lines that led to the images on the wall, trying to identify the demons depicted based on their similarities to more modern images. There was a black bull that no doubt signified the Lord of Death, another signified suffering, others delusion and the impermanence of life. It was a map of the kora, though not a literal map.

At the mouth of the cave Yangke was stirring the soup. Dried branches had been added to the fire. Hostene was gathering twigs. As Shan lowered himself beside the fire he saw that Yangke was now cleaning containers in which to serve the soup. He had three of Rapaki’s empty cans beside him and was cleaning three others.

“There’s no need-,” Shan began, then broke off as Yangke nodded into the shadows.

“She wouldn’t let me join them,” Yangke said. “She still blames me for Tashi’s death.”

In an instant Shan was on his feet, the butter lamp raised as he walked along the wall of the outer cave, pausing every few steps, fingers extended to catch any moving air. He found a fold in the rock, barely big enough for a man to crawl through. After four feet it opened into a wide passage. Juniper smoke hung about the roof of the tunnel.

They were in a chamber near whose center was a cluster of four candles, and half a dozen butter lamps were scattered around. They sat facing a wall lined with old wicker chests and huge clay jars. Lokesh was gesturing, speaking in the soft, patient voice of a teacher. Dolma was learning a mantra. Lokesh was using his own method to help Gendun and save the people of Drango village.

Feeling like a trespasser, Shan extinguished his lamp. Dolma did not trust Yangke. If Lokesh had seen Yangke, he would have assumed Shan was nearby, but still his friend had remained hidden.

Lokesh paused in midsentence, raised his eyes toward the ceiling, then twisted slightly and without looking back extended an open, uplifted palm in Shan’s direction.

Shan approached uncertainly, painfully aware that he had been disappointing his old friend ever since arriving on the mountain. He had been in many secret chambers since he had been released from prison, had thrilled with discovery as Gendun and Lokesh explained the significance of old relics in hidden shrines, often felt satisfaction that he could now explain much of their content on his own. But here he was just another intruder.

More objects came into view. Holes had been hand chiseled into the rock and pegs inserted to hold equipment. But not the equipment of worship Shan had often seen in such rooms, not robes, not the twenty different hats used to signify roles and functions in the big gompas, not symbolic offerings. On the wall were ropes and staffs of wood, short yak-tail whips, manacles with hand-forged links, ritual axes and iron goads, wooden collars that looked like shorter versions of the canque Yangke had worn, many old leather bags with long drawstrings, and, even more strangely, felt vests with many pockets.

Shan lowered himself to the floor beside Lokesh. His friend was in a state of reverence. Shan would no more interrupt him than he would have interrupted Gendun in a meditation, though the more he listened the more uneasy he felt. A chill crept down his back. Lokesh was going to the same unlikely place Shan had visited the night before in Tashtul, when the little deities had seemed to push him to where he would not have gone on his own.

“Om vajra krohda,”Lokesh intoned. “Om vajra krohda hayagriva.”Powerful, dangerous words, words that Shan had heard only once before, words that were almost never written, but handed down orally, in remote secret places. They invoked one of the most powerful protector demons, Hayagriva the Horseheaded, the terrifying prince of protectors who clad himself in the flayed skin of his enemies.

“Hum, hum phat!”Lokesh concluded.

Shan listened, strangely scared. This was not the patient, forgiving Lokesh he had known for so many years.

The old Tibetan chanted the mantra invoking emptiness, then with a flying bird gesture recited Om ah humthree times, then Ha ho hrih, followed by the iron hook gesture, then Om sarva bhuta akarsaya.They were the words for summoning all demons.

A bead of sweat rolled off Lokesh’s cheek, his hand trembled. Fear began building in Shan’s chest. His heart began rising up in his throat. There was indeed something in Lokesh he had never seen before. There was no gentleness now in the old man beside him, but rather a dark power, a raw emotion that came close to fury. Lokesh was secretly invoking fierce protective demons and barely tolerant of Shan’s presence, as if Shan were part of what he was protecting against.

He studied the room again, trying to understand, frightened for all of them now. Was it possible that the biggest of the wicker chests was glowing? Lokesh began new mantras, calling upon the tiger-riding Mahakala, then three-eyed Shridevi and snake-bodied Rahula. He wasn’t merely trying to summon a deity to protect Gendun. It was as if he were trying to rip the world apart and start over.

Then the demon rose up. With a wrenching moan Shan threw himself backward.

It was the serpentine Rahula, and it rose from the largest of the wicker chests, one that was nearly four feet high and six long. The thing gazed at the two old Tibetans then seemed to notice Shan sprawled behind them. It cocked its scaly head to study him.

The mantras had finished. Dolma and Lokesh seemed pleased at their work, nodding to the creature as it climbed out of the chest. It had a human shape beneath its demon head, human hands floated along its sides. Beginning to regain his breath, Shan watched as it kneeled in front of Lokesh and bowed. Lokesh uttered a solemn greeting, then pulled off its head.

“It’s only us,” Dolma whispered to Shan. She was at his shoulder, helping him to his feet. “We were not able to explain. The words had to be finished. There is probably not a man in all Tibet who remembers them so well as Lokesh. We are truly blessed.” She brushed off his sleeve, like a mother tidying a small son. “You remember our Trinle, the town carpenter.”

The shadow under the headdress resolved itself into the countenance of the most senior of the elders who had sat with Shan and Lokesh their first night in Drango, the silent one with the wispy beard who kept looking into the sky, the father of the guard Dolma had summoned to her house.

“Trinle has been working on the old costumes. That one’s straps had rotted away. He used some yak-hair cord to fix it.”

The carpenter grinned shyly. “Lha gyal lo,” he whispered.

Shan studied each of the old Tibetans. They too were addressing the violent mysteries of the mountain but they saw them in a completely different way, as disturbances in the natural harmony, as an imbalance among deities. There were no words he could use to reach them, no possibility he could bridge what he was doing and what they were doing. “Lha gyal lo,” he repeated.

“He is the only one left,” Dolma added.

“Left from what?”

“He knows about these things because he used to help store them away each autumn and attended the rituals in spring to awaken them.”

“I thought all the monks at the village temple were killed.”

“They were. They all ran to pray in the sanctuary when the bombs started falling. Trinle was the groundskeeper. He was up in the orchard that day when the Chinese planes came.” Her voice dropped. “He is all we have left. He made a drawing of the old temple that he keeps hidden from Chodron. Sometimes we get it out in the night and sing the old songs.” Her voice became barely audible. “Because we have forgotten most of the mantras.”

Trinle was busy adjusting the headdress again. Lokesh still did not acknowledge Shan. He had formed the Diamond of the Mind mudra. His entire being seemed focused on the top of the spire formed by his two fingers.

Shan walked along the row of chests and boxes, not daring to open any, but seeing two more demon costumes within those that were open. He looked back at the strange objects on the adjoining wall. A dozen questions sprang to mind but he dared not attempt them. “There’s soup,” he finally declared.

Dolma nodded and leaned close to Trinle’s ear. The former groundskeeper reverently laid the Rahula headdress on top of its wicker chest and joined them. Shan paused, looking awkwardly at his old friend.

“Lokesh is not eating today,” Dolma said, and gently pulled Shan away. They rejoined the others.

Hostene’s near frantic concern for his niece impelled him to ask blunt questions of Dolma and Trinle. “My niece said that early pilgrims-people searching for something-came here, long before the other pilgrim circuits in Tibet were constructed. But she told me there was no clear route, no way back for those who set out. You must know the way up and the way out. Where is it?”

Trinle and Dolma listened, then glanced at each other. Hostene’s mistake was that he thought they had come to help him find his niece.

“Everything here is very old,” Dolma offered. “From the time before the first Buddhists arrived in Tibet.”

Hostene nodded. “That’s the reason she came here. But where does the path lead? Why is it hidden? We will find her on the path.” Pleading was in his tone now. “I must find her.”

“This place, this cave, was meant to be an ending,” Trinle said. “Here the lamas tried to convince the travelers to turn back. This was the place between the worlds. When we came here from the village we had to undergo purification rites before we could even enter. This is where the lamas prepared themselves to repair the trail each summer.”

Hostene searched Shan’s face, as if he might be able to explain the riddle of the old Tibetan’s words.

“I think,” Shan said, “we have to understand exactly what was destroyed at Drango village fifty years ago.”

Yangke leaned forward in intense anticipation as Dolma began to speak.

“The temple had been part of the oldest sect of the Bon,” she explained. “Its roots arose from a time before history. Its monks considered Drango to be more like a spiritual guardhouse than a temple.”

“Guardhouse?”

Trinle glanced around the shadows as if for eavesdroppers, then leaned forward. “It guards the entrance to the hidden home of the old gods,” he declared, “the ones from before time, led by the dragon god who protects the earth.”

The announcement seemed to release a torrent of emotion, and memory. The old man spoke quickly now, not always coherently. “Look at this! Look at this!” he said with a gesture at Hostene. Trinle touched the Navajo, pushed his sleeve up, pointing now to the tattooed figure made of lightning bolts. “The Old Ones said this is where all the lightning in the world begins. This one understands!” he said, looking at Hostene as if he had never seen him before. “This one was summoned!”

When Hostene and Shan stared uncertainly, Trinle exclaimed in a sober tone, “Your niece was called here by the first gods.”

The first gods, Trinle continued, had confided to the early Tibetans the location of a special door to their bayal, the underground paradise where gods and saints lived in lush gardens and assumed the shape of rainbows whenever they chose.

Hostene pulled out his map of the mountain. “If that is where the path goes, show it to us. It can’t be to the summit. The summit is surrounded by cliffs.”

Trinle did not seem to understand the question.

“It’s not like that,” came a dry, weary voice from behind them. Lokesh stepped into the ring of light. He poured himself a cup of Yangke’s tea, but did not touch the food. “The more you rely on such a map, the farther away you’ll be.”

“The path was never intended for the gentle Buddhist pilgrims,” Yangke said, “I know that much. It was more of a spiritual obstacle course.”

Trinle nodded. “The Bon pilgrims led a harder existence. Many had been warriors. Salvation was to be won, like victory in war. The path was an ordeal, meant to be terrifying. It wasn’t a reward, but a judgment. They hoped the pilgrims would turn away here. People died on the kora, or else they were transformed into rainbow bodies to become saints. Start as a worm, end as a god, that’s what the oldest lamas used to say. It was said there were certain reincarnates, special messengers of the deities, who would be born with the knowledge of how to find the path.” The old man said apologetically, “The only ones who knew more died in the bombing. Even they rarely used the old path. It’s been over seventy years since anyone tried.”

“Was the equipment I saw inside intended for the pilgrims?” Shan asked. He quickly explained to Hostene and Yangke what lay in the chamber deeper in the cave.

“It was to help them achieve humility,” Trinle confirmed. “To discourage them, to weaken them with doubt. Even the most devout were begged to turn back so they could see their families again.”

“What do you mean?”

“Sometimes the devout made it to the top, to the end of the trail. But none of them came back.”

Shan remembered Rapaki’s letter to his uncle, who had set out to find the gods over thirty years before.

“So,” Yangke summarized, “the ones who failed came back as corpses and the ones who succeeded were never seen on earth again. And that was before there was a murderer on the mountain.”

The words seemed to take everyone’s breath away. They ate in silence, watching the stars, stirring the embers.

“It is not the way of things,” Lokesh said. And though Lokesh was staring at the fire, Shan knew the words were meant for him.

“It is not worth it. You are simply rearranging stones in a stream.”

It was a lesson often repeated to Shan by Lokesh and Gendun and the other monks they lived with. What point was there in trying to manipulate events in the outer world, they would ask. The stream of destiny would not change. No matter how many rocks you rearranged in the stream, the water would always replace them and continue its fated course.

“We cannot simply wait below,” Shan said, also to the embers.

“You must stay below,” his friend said. “This kora is very old, almost totally unconnected to humans.” His words, even his voice, had an otherworldly quality. “It could be the last one on earth. This drukgod, this dragon god, could be the only hope for our people. You can’t go up the path to chase a criminal, you can’t ascend like animals following a trail of blood or this last god will give up and abandon humans altogether.”

Despair settled over Shan. “I don’t know how to stop searching,” he said.

Without another word, Lokesh stood and hobbled away.

“There are bags here, in the chamber below,” Trinle said later. “Those who refused to turn back here were given a pilgrim’s sack, a blanket, and a staff, and told these were the things needed on the trail. Sometimes, if a lama was going on, he would ask to have a wooden collar or manacles put on as well.”

“Tell me, Trinle,” Shan said. “Is any equipment missing?”

“Some bags, though I can’t say how many. And some things kept in one of the baskets.”

“What things?”

Trinle stroked his grizzled jaw. “Ornaments for the Green Tara. A golden headdress, a green vestment, golden bracelets. Sometimes they evoked her by having a nun wear those things at the altar.”

“I don’t understand,” Yangke said. “Is Abigail accompanying a pilgrim or a killer? It must be a killer, for he always flees, always hides, always expresses himself in blood. It must be a pilgrim, for who else would be interested in the old path? But either way, why should he care if Abigail lives?”

“Because she can read the old symbols,” Hostene ventured.

“There’s another reason,” Shan said, and extracted the photo Gao had printed for him in Tashtul.

Yangke took it from him, holding a lamp over it, studying it. Then his eyes widened in surprise. “Buddha’s Breath!” he gasped. He handed the picture to Lokesh, who gazed at it a few moments, then began to nod.

Shan took the photo and explained it to the others. He pointed to Abigail’s extended leg first. “It’s called the position of royal repose, one of the customary symbols in the old paintings.” He pointed to her upswept hair, her golden earrings, the flowers in her hair, her hand resting on one knee, her green sweater.

“I don’t understand,” Hostene said. “This was taken on our afternoon off. I insisted she have some rest. We picnicked.”

Shan pointed to a tiny detail in the upper corner of the photo. “That is the back of a wild goat on the ledge above the rock she sat on. Look at the way it juts out. The goat could not have seen her. He was spooked by something on the opposite slope, someone who was watching you from above. Rapaki was up there. There is a prophesy that the Green Tara will come back to help Tibetans.”