“He is ill. When he awakens he may not be able to speak for himself.”
Chodron silently rose, entered the rear door of his house, and returned a moment later with a small wooden chest that he set on the ground by the fire. The headman extracted a cloth bundle from within, then unfolded it on the ground in front of Shan. “We already know the blackness of his deeds.”
He displayed a hammer, a modern rock hammer, one end blunt and square, the other extending in a long, slightly curving claw. There was still enough light for Shan to see the dried blood and small gray flecks on the claw. “His hands were covered with the blood of those he killed,” the headman explained. “He finished one of them with a blow from that claw to the back of the head.” Chodron tapped the handle of the hammer with his boot, revealing a second object underneath. “No one wants to even think about what he did with his other weapon.”
It was a slender rod of stainless steel that rose into a curved sharp hook at one end. It was so out of context that it took Shan a moment to recognize it as a dental pick. The tip was covered in blood.
The woman shuddered and looked away. The other two elders stared into the fire, carefully avoiding looking at the objects.
“The people of the town say there are no witnesses,” Lokesh reminded them.
“My people are like children when it comes to things of the outside world,” Chodron said. “They must be taught right from wrong.”
“And you will do so by killing this stranger?” Shan asked.
“If the deities wish to prevent it, they can take him before he awakes. Otherwise,” Chodron said in a brittle tone, “those of us responsible for the village know our obligations. We will have a town assembly. We will speak of what happened, of why we must do what we have to do. I have been rereading the old records with the elders. Perhaps it will be enough to take something of his body, perhaps only one eye. In the old days they sometimes just took an eye. We are taught to be compassionate.”
“Compassion in Drango,” Lokesh observed in a haunted tone, “has a flavor all its own.”
The old woman tightened her hands. They covered something inside her blouse. She was wearing a gau around her neck, Shan realized, a prayer box, the only one he had seen among the villagers.
Chodron ignored Lokesh. “The punishment will be carried out according to our custom. If he is still alive afterward he will be taken to the nearest road. For as long as the village has been here it has punished its own wrongdoers. The true test of a leader, like that of a barn beam, is when a storm wind blows. I will not retreat from my duty.”
“We have seen what you do with beams in Drango,” Shan said.
Chodron clenched his jaw. “I caught Yangke stealing from my house. He confessed in front of the village and I read out the traditional punishment. Some argued that he should be taken to the county seat, to Tashtul, that he was not subject to our decision because he had lived so long away from the village. I gave him the choice. I said I would write a report and send him with it to Public Security, which already has a file on him. I reminded him there were many prisons ready for people like him-new prisons are being built all the time. The next morning he asked me to put the wooden collar on him. As for this stranger, how do you think they would deal with a double murderer down in the world? Do you truly wish me to summon the authorities? They will send a helicopter, with soldiers carrying machine guns. If you continue you give me no choice.”
Shan’s mouth went dry. “Continue? I just arrived.”
“Your presence and that of your two friends has caused people to speak behind my back. Many who were weaned of their prayer beads years ago secretly ask your lama for blessings. Half my people realize that this man is a murderer but the others call him a saint. We had plenty of lamps in that stable already but the day after your lama arrived, people insisted there be one hundred eight,” Chodron said with scorn. That was the sacred number, the number of prayer beads on a string and the number of lamps traditionally placed on altars for special ceremonies. “My people speak to perfect strangers about our private affairs. My authority is in question. Our village’s progress is in jeopardy.”
“Do you know who Gendun is?” Shan asked.
“I have heard of someone called the Pure Water Lama who wanders the hills like some lonely old goat. I have no idea what he does.”
“What he does,” Lokesh said, “is collect delicate blossoms in old cracked jars.”
The words elicited a hungry gaze from one of the old men.
Chodron ignored the comment. “I have heard of this lama. I have also heard of talking yaks and mountains that fly.”
“Gendun is here,” Lokesh said, “because these people need him. If he had been aware of what was happening here he would have come long ago.”
Chodron glared at Lokesh. “Do you truly believe you can descend upon our village and destroy all we have struggled to build?” Anger flared in his eyes. “I know now why you sent for this man Shan behind my back. You thought having a Chinese with you would change everything. You thought our people would be so scared of a Chinese that you could simply order us to release that killer.”
“The village needs to understand what took place,” Lokesh protested. “It needs to stop fearing-”
“I am not frightened,” Chodron interrupted. “I know your dishonorable kind. One of his arms will show what he is.”
Lokesh slipped his prayer beads from his wrist and extended them toward the genpo. “Take these to understand our kind.”
Shan put his hand on his friend’s arm to quiet him. He rolled up his sleeve and turned the inside of his forearm into the light of the fire. One of the old men moaned. The old woman covered her mouth with her hand. The elders might know little of the outside world but they knew enough to recognize the row of numbers tattooed on his skin. Shan understood why Chodron’s demeanor toward him had changed. The herders who had traveled with Shan and seen him roll up his sleeves at mountain streams must have disclosed that he was tattooed with a number.
“Tell me this, prisoner,” Chodron asked triumphantly. “Do you have your release papers?”
The question hung in the air for a long time. Somewhere a dog barked. A lamb bleated.
“No,” Shan admitted. He had not escaped but his release had been unofficial.
He was vaguely aware of movement at his side but did not see what Lokesh was doing until the old Tibetan had thrust his own bared arm into the firelight, displaying a similar line of numbers.
“Shan is the reason I did not die in prison. He forced my jailers to release me,” Lokesh explained. “From the hour he was thrown past the barbed wire into our camp Shan has helped Tibetans.”
“You are welcome to join him,” Chodron replied in a chilly voice. “You can help each other back to the hole you slithered out of.”
“Or else?” Shan asked, repressing his anger as he struggled to understand the strange power Chodron held over the village.
Chodron’s thin lips curled into a smile. “Or else it will be like old times when the headman presented proof of the crime, then exacted the punishment with the blessing of our abbot. You will cure my people of this reactionary notion that saints may walk among them. You will restore my people’s confidence by giving me the proof I need to demonstrate my authority.”
“We will not lie.” Shan stated.
“Only affirm the truth,” Chodron replied. “Stand with your lama tomorrow morning and declare that man is a killer and all three of you can be twenty miles away by sunset. You are the ones who created our problem. You are the ones to correct it.”
“The Tibetans I know do not gouge out eyes or throw men from cliffs.”
“Those you know!” Chodron spat. “You are an outsider. A criminal. Do not presume to instruct us in our traditions.”
In the silence that followed, the wind surged for a moment, fanning the flames, tossing open the back door of Chodron’s house. Shan saw a blush of color in the dim light, red with dabs of yellow. An altar? The pattern of color coalesced. Chodron had hung the flag of Beijing at the rear entry.