"Son!" the woman cried and leapt up to embrace Lhandro.
The village headman looked up from his mother's arms and smiled wearily.
"Lha gyal lo, Lha gyal lo," Lepka intoned quietly, his eyes filling with moisture. "The salt has found its way again."
Lhandro stepped to his father and knelt, opening his hand to reveal a mound of brilliant white crystals. He raised his father's hand and solemnly poured the salt onto the dry, wrinkled palm and closed the gnarled fingers around it. The wheezing laugh erupted again from Lepka's throat, and he pressed the handful of salt against his heart.
As Shan stepped to the door sheep began streaming past the outer gate, salt packs still on their backs, coming from north of the valley. Excited greetings echoed down the central path of the village, but also warnings. He stepped outside in confusion. On the slope above the village, near the trees, several of those from camp stood waiting, some waving, some pointing toward the arriving caravan. Then he saw a figure run from the group, in the opposite direction, as if to hide. He turned and saw that not all the Tibetans had been pointing toward the caravan.
Nyma appeared in the midst of the sheep, worry clouding her face. "They searched all our bags, and made us leave five sheep for them," she blurted out, without a greeting. She looked at the rear of the caravan. Two army trucks were winding their way up their valley, just a few hundred yards behind the last of the sheep.
Lhandro appeared in the doorway behind Shan, raised a hand to warn his parents to stay inside, then swept past Shan, pushing him into the shadows. As Shan took a position just inside the door, the headman stepped out into the central path to wait for the trucks. A knot tightened in Shan's belly as he watched the trucks stop and a dozen soldiers jump out. One of them opened the side door of the first truck, emblazoned with a snow leopard, and a man in an officer's tunic stepped down.
"Good morning, Colonel Lin," a voice called out with false warmth from behind Lhandro. Through the open door Shan watched Winslow walk jauntily to Lhandro's side. The American had washed and shaved, and put on a clean shirt. "Another glorious day for youth league maneuvers."
One side of Lin's mouth curled up as he recognized the American. He turned and spoke to someone behind him, out of Shan's sight. A moment later a soldier marched past Winslow and Lhandro, holding a clipboard as he surveyed the village with restless, hawk-like eyes.
"The American embassy has no authority to meddle in the internal affairs of China," Lin growled as he took a step toward Winslow. He spoke loudly, as if to address a larger audience.
"Of course not," the American agreed in a business-like tone. "The Qinghai Petroleum Venture has an American partner. One of its American workers is missing. Matter of international relations," he added pointedly, in a voice as loud as Lin's.
"Not missing," Lin said readily, as if he had made it his business to know what the American had been doing in the mountains. "Dead. Most unfortunate."
Through the door Shan glimpsed a pair of soldiers advancing around the back of the village, behind the animal pens on the opposite side of the path. They seemed to be searching for something.
"Our village is honored by the presence of the glorious soldiers of the People's Liberation Army," Lhandro said in a flat voice, casting an uneasy glance at Winslow.
"Of course you are," Lin said in an amused tone as he lit a cigarette and shot a stream of smoke toward Lhandro. "And your honor can only increase."
The knot in Shan's gut drew so tight it hurt.
Lin stared at Winslow intensely, as though trying to will the American to back down. "There were others with you before. Tibetans. Two tall men." He paused and stared at Lhandro expectantly, then shifted his gaze toward Lhandro's feet as though reminding Lhandro that Lin had once had the headman in manacles.
"I had a driver…" Winslow offered in a speculative tone.
Lin's hand made a quick jerking motion upward, as if he meant to strike the American. But he stopped it in midair and it collapsed into a fist. He surveyed the soldiers moving through the village, then turned back to the American. "But later that day you insisted your driver leave you at the side of the road. Just drop you there and drive away. He was wrong to do that. His report caused quite a disturbance at Public Security. He was punished for his irresponsibility."
"I wanted to walk. Fresh mountain air and all. We call it trekking."
"But how did you get over here?" the colonel pressed. "The mountains are impassable."
"Almost."
Lin frowned. "The petroleum venture is going to bring great wealth to this valley," he observed to Lhandro in his loud, public address voice. "Comrade Lhandro," he added, as if the colonel wanted to remind the village headman that he still knew his name, still held his papers.
"Perhaps," Lhandro offered in an anguished tone, "there isn't any oil."
The amusement returned to Lin's face as he drew deeply on his cigarette. "There's oil. The geologists just have to prove how much. Already there is not enough room in the camp for all the workers, and others will be coming when the oil starts to flow. A pipeline will need to be built. Workers will be stationed here permanently to operate the pumps."
Lhandro stared at the colonel's boots. "We have an empty stable," he said in a hollow tone. "We could convert it, make straw pallets."
Lin's eyes flared, but it seemed as though with pleasure, not anger.
"Please colonel," Lhandro pleaded. "We are simple farmers. We have farmed this valley for centuries. We pay taxes. We could supply food to the workers…" His voice seemed to lose strength. "We have done nothing wrong," he added despondently, still staring at Lin's boots.
"You never explained what you were doing a hundred miles south of here that day."
"Salt," Lhandro said, extending his hand toward the sheep, which the villagers were herding into pens at the far end of the village. "We always go for salt in the spring." Even from his distance Shan saw the hand was shaking.
Lin answered with another frown. "This is the twenty-first century, comrade. You are required to have certificates from the salt monopoly."
Lhandro shrugged morosely, and stepped toward the gate that led to his house. A salt pouch lay on the low wall. He pushed his hand into the open side and extended a handful of salt toward Lin. "We have some money. We could pay the monopoly," he offered.
The colonel sighed impatiently, motioned to one of the nearby soldiers. The man roughly seized the pouch and tossed it on the ground, kicking it with the toe of his boot so that both of the side pockets lay flat. He produced a short bayonet from his belt and probed the contents of the open pocket, then looked up expectantly at Lin, who nodded. The soldier began stabbing the still-sealed second pocket, ripping apart its tight woolen weave, spilling the precious salt onto the ground.
"It is special salt," a woman's voice interjected. Shan saw Nyma step past the door opening to stand by Lhandro. "It could heal you," she declared to Lin, looking straight into the colonel's eyes.
"I'm not sick."
Nyma stared back, as if she didn't agree, but would not argue.
"You should be careful," Lin said icily. "Someone might mistake you for a nun. Yesterday Public Security arrested someone a few miles from here. Under his coat he wore a maroon band on his sleeve. He had a little piece of yellow cloth in his pocket."
Even from a distance Shan could see Nyma swallow hard. Lin meant an outlawed monk had been caught nearby, one reckless enough to carry a Tibetan flag in his pocket.