"Sky Burial, An Epic Love Story of Tibet" - читать интересную книгу автора (Xue Xinran)

6 THE THIRTEEN HOLY MOUNTAINS

Throughout the years that Wen spent with Gela’s family, she clung to her belief that one day she would be reunited with Kejun. Although in many ways she had adopted the Buddhist way of life and, like the Tibetans around her, was accepting of her fate, a part of her would never renounce her quest. Her thoughts about Kejun were confined to her diary, but as her Tibetan improved and she found herself able to express herself with greater subtlety, she began to try to explain her feelings to the family. Hum was the first person she talked to about Kejun. The strong spirituality she had noticed in him when she first arrived had grown over the years and she felt able to confide in him. She remembered how, as a small boy, he had been so frightened of Kejun’s photograph. Now she drew it out and showed it to him. “This man,” she said, “is my beloved. My sun and my moon.”

Gradually Kejun became part of the conversation. The family would listen spellbound as Wen told them about her former life in China. Pad in particular, now a grown woman, seemed to drink in information about this very different world in the east. Finally the day arrived that Wen had never dared hope for. Gela came to her and announced that the family had decided to help her in her search. Hum was now of an age to be of help to Gela and so Ge’er could be spared. Pad also wished to accompany them and Gela had agreed since her mysterious gift for prediction might be of use to Wen. He would give them three horses and sufficient dry provisions to keep them going for some time. When these ran out, they could rely on the generosity of other Tibetans and the monasteries.

When she heard how the family was planning to separate in order to help her, Wen wept. She didn’t know what to say. There were no words sufficient to express her debt to them. Not only had they rescued her from death, they had made her a part of their loving family for many years. Seeing Wen’s tears, Saierbao quietly took her hand and gently stroked it. Wen felt the roughness of Saierbao’s skin. She had aged. Her colorful clothes had faded, her ornaments were tarnished, but her face still shone.

Their parting was a solemn affair. Gela and Saierbao watched silently as Ge’er loaded the horses. Saierbao had prepared sacks of food and water-skins; there was a tent, bedding, rope, and medicines.

As Hum held the bridle of Wen’s horse for her to mount, he confided quietly to Wen that, as soon as Ge’er was back, he intended to enter a monastery as his brothers Ma and Me had done. He had reflected on Wen’s words about Kejun: he thought he understood what her love was like because, for him, the spirits were as the sun and moon.

Amid all the farewells, Wen removed the carnelian necklace Zhuoma had given her and pressed it into Saierbao’s hands, along with the old army uniform that she had never worn again. Images of Ni’s face filled Wen’s head. She knew that wherever she went, she would never forget the girl who had been like a beautiful wind chime, or the quiet love of her family.

DURING THEIR plans for the journey, Pad had suggested to Ge’er that they seek out the stonecutters who carved the mani stones on sacred mountains. These men were visited by all manner of people who wished to make an offering to the gods. Perhaps they would have news of any Chinese people who had passed that way in recent years. Ge’er agreed that this was how they should start.

For many months, their inquiries were fruitless. They traveled from mountain to mountain but none of the stonecutters that Ge’er talked to recognized Kejun’s photograph or had met any Chinese. Nor was Wen able to glean any information about what had happened to the People’s Liberation Army in this area of Tibet. “Is the conflict over?” she asked the people they met. They just looked at her strangely and did not reply.

Then, one day, they came across an old stonecutter who did recall having met some Chinese. Wen and Pad waited while Ge’er climbed the mountain to speak to him. When he returned, he reported excitedly that, many years ago, the stonecutter had seen a group of Tibetans pass by, among whom were some Chinese. They had all been wearing Tibetan robes but it had been easy to spot the non-Tibetan faces among them because they hadn’t been burned bronze by the harsh plateau sun. Each of them carried a rifle with a bayonet. There was a wriggling bundle on one of the horses. He had assumed that there was a live animal inside. The men had said they were heading northeast.

Wen and Pad looked at Ge’er in astonishment. Could these men have been Zhuoma’s kidnappers? Wen thought they should head northeast to see if they could gather more information, but Ge’er was anxious that they were abandoning the search for Kejun. Perhaps it would be better, he suggested, to travel toward the southeast, where, according to several of the people they had met, they would find many Chinese.

Wen gazed up into the deep blue sky, her hand on the photograph of Kejun in her breast pocket. “Zhuoma saved my life. We Chinese like to repay debts. I think if Kejun knew, he would want me to look for Zhuoma first.”

THE ROAD northeast would take them through high, windswept mountain passes. Ge’er warned Wen that it was only possible to cross the snowcapped mountains in summer, so they would have to wait out the winter at their foot. They spent the winter months in their tent, building up their strength and energy. Ge’er hunted antelope and other wild animals and gathered edible plants. He showed Wen and Pad how to recognize the medicinal roots that still clung to life in freezing temperatures.

In the spring, they set off again, traveling for days in near silence, concentrating on guiding their horses safely through the difficult terrain. Shortly after they had finally descended from the mountain ridge, they encountered a group of pilgrims. They wore long pieces of felt on their fronts and wrapped around their hands and feet. Wen soon saw the reason for this. After every step forward, the pilgrims prostrated their entire bodies on the ground so that even their foreheads touched the earth. They got up and repeated the whole full-body obeisance. Seeing Wen and her companions, the pilgrims stopped to rest. They said that they had been traveling for four months on a pilgrimage to Mount Anyemaqen. Wen knew that Anyemaqen was several weeks’ hard ride away. At the rate they were going, it would take them years. She wondered whether her own faith could sustain her in the same way.

AFTER THAT, they saw no one. Wen added another line to her diary, covering over words she had written many years earlier: “Help me, Kejun! I know you’re watching me-wait for me!”

Just as their food and water were about to run out, they spotted a tent. The three weary travelers were given a warm welcome by the nomad family and stayed with them for two days and nights. Wen could see that this family’s living conditions were very different from those of Gela’s family. They had plenty of semimechanized household and farming tools, a bicycle, and even a tractor. It had not occurred to her that the life of the Tibetan people could differ so much from place to place.

The head of the family explained that all these things had been bought from “truck shops” that had been traveling around this part of Tibet during the last few years.

“Are the shops run by the Chinese?” Wen asked.

“No, they are Tibetan merchants,” the man replied.

Ge’er was amazed by all the machines, gingerly prodding them. He couldn’t stop asking questions.

“What do these little iron things eat?”

“What do they do at night?”

“Do they ever get angry?”

“Can you ride a bicycle on the mountains?”

“How many pieces of dung can a tractor pull at once?”

Wen had never heard Ge’er talk so much.

BEFORE THEY set off again, their host asked them whether his son Zawang, who was also planning to go north, could travel with them. Ge’er was only too happy with this arrangement. An extra man in the party, and a young, strong one at that, would mean that the journey’s chores-fetching water and firewood, lighting cooking fires, putting up the tent, mending harnesses and saddles-would become much lighter.

The presence of Zawang changed their mood and relieved the monotony of the journey. Pad seemed particularly delighted by him. Wen had never known her to talk and laugh so much. Watching the two young people together, she and Ge’er often looked at each other and smiled.

Zawang was on his way to the renowned monastery of Wendugongba to see his older brother, who was a lama there. He hadn’t seen his brother for ten years because the monastery hadn’t permitted family visits during that time. His brother had needed all his attention to concentrate on learning to sew the intricate tapestries that the monastery was famous for. Zawang explained that, for these tapestries, pieces of fabric were sewn onto a padded background to create elaborate and beautiful pictures of the spirits. His brother’s work now hung upon the walls of the monastery. Wen was overcome by nostalgia for the embroidered clothes she had worn in the Yangtze delta-the padded silk jackets decorated with dragons and phoenixes in colored thread. She thought of her parents and her sister, who must, by now, believe that she was dead. She reached into her robe and touched the book that still contained her sister’s paper crane.

WHEN THEY arrived at Wendugongba, Wen and Pad waited outside because women were not permitted within the precincts of the monastery. The lama who received the men told Zawang that his brother was absent from the monastery, accompanying the abbot on an administrative visit around the region. However, all travelers were welcome guests at the monastery and he and his companions could await his return at the monastery’s guesthouse nearby.

The accommodation separated men and women. Wen and Pad were led to a simple mud-brick room, with an adjoining room for their animals. The doors and windows were made of oiled felt rugs nailed into wooden frames. The room was about fifteen meters square, the main wall hung with a long religious scroll. Beneath this were some simple wooden shelves. Two single beds were the only other furniture, except for two rush cushions on the floor for meditation and reading the scriptures.

Wen almost cried when she saw the room: it had been so long since she had slept somewhere with walls that she felt quite overwhelmed. She sat on the bed and savored the privacy it offered. To share a sleeping space with only one other woman was a huge luxury.

When she examined the few objects on the wooden shelves, she was astonished to find that several of them came from China. There was a plastic bag from the famous Rongbaozhai art-materials shop in Beijing and glazed paper made in Chengdu; there was even a torch made in Shanghai. Seeing these things brought more tears to her eyes: other than her own meager belongings, she hadn’t seen a single object with a Chinese connection for years. Chinese people must have brought their possessions to this empty room. She sensed she was drawing closer to the answer she sought.

At suppertime, a lama told them that a huge ceremony called the Dharmaraja would take place at the monastery in a few days’ time. The lamas would be practicing in the open courtyard in front of the entrance to the monastery and their rehearsals must not be disturbed. The three Tibetans felt blessed that such an important religious festival would be taking place while they were at the monastery. Pad explained to Wen that whoever had their head touched by the Dharmaraja would attain peace, safety, and their heart’s desire.

THAT EVENING, before the men and women separated to go to their separate quarters, Wen asked Ge’er if it would be possible to make inquiries about Kejun the next day at the monastery. Ge’er promised to talk to the lamas in the morning.

Before she fell asleep, Wen inlaid yet another line of text in her book: “Jun, today I have seen Chinese writing again. This must be a sign from you. My dearest husband, tonight please tell me in my dreams where you are.” But Wen lay awake all night, unvisited by dreams.

The next day, a lama came especially to let Wen know that they would inform the whole monastery of her search at the hour for scripture debate, and that they would also ask the visitors and sightseers who attended the forthcoming Dharmaraja festival.

AT DAWN on the day of the ceremony, several large gongs rang, waking Wen. Looking out of her window, she saw a figure standing silhouetted on the roof of the monastery: a lama dressed in a purple robe, banging a huge bronze gong. For the next two hours, the lamas could be heard chanting the scriptures, the sound rising and falling through the buildings. Wen thought of Saierbao, Zhuoma, and Ni, three pious women who had spent their lives praying and reciting the scriptures.

Just before the ceremony was about to begin, a boy lama came running over to the guesthouse to escort them to the monastery’s courtyard, situated in front of the ornate entrance to the monastery. He arranged for them to sit on the ground in the front row, which was the best position from which to receive the Dharmaraja’s blessing.

This was the first time Wen had watched a Tibetan religious ceremony from such close range. She stared, entranced, at the sea of banners. In front of the monastery doors, eight long horns were propped up, flanked by lamas wearing tall, crested helmets. Lamas in costume were forming themselves into a great square. Suddenly, a line of lamas dressed in robes of red and gold sounded their glittering trumpets. A group of performers, looking rather like Peking Opera actors, came striding out of the monastery building. “These are the lamas who are going to perform the dance,” Pad whispered to Wen. “When the Dharmaraja passes, don’t forget to step forward with me so he can touch your head.”

It was an incredible spectacle. Dozens of dancers, dressed in bright colors and wearing headdresses that represented horses or cattle, filled the courtyard. Lamas chanted sutras and blew on copper horns and conch shells. Blasts from the longer horns set the pace of the dance, as the Dharmaraja went around the spectators bestowing blessings. Wen had no idea what the dance meant, but she was exhilarated by what she saw.

She turned to survey the crowd to see if the other spectators were similarly uplifted by watching this extraordinary communion between the human and spirit worlds. To her astonishment, she noticed a number of Chinese faces. Her heart missed a beat to see the familiar blue, black, and gray of their clothing among the brightly colored Tibetan clothes. Although her instinct told her to push her way through the throng toward them, she was overcome by the gulf that now separated her from the world she had left. She had not uttered a Chinese word out loud for many years. Would she even be able to speak to them?

She made her way cautiously through the sea of people, trying to find a group of Chinese people who looked approachable. When she spotted a woman of about her own age, animatedly discussing the ceremony with her friends, she went up to her and bowed her head.

“Excuse me,” she said. “Can I ask you a question?”

The words felt strange in her mouth.

“You speak Chinese?” the woman asked, clearly surprised that someone who looked like a Tibetan nomad could speak her language.

“I am Chinese,” Wen said sadly. “But I have been in Tibet since 1958.”

How could she possibly begin to explain what had happened to her?

The woman and her friends were amazed. They overwhelmed her with a torrent of questions.

“How did you get here? Were you a prisoner?”

“When did you learn to speak Tibetan?”

“Do you live with Tibetans? How do they treat you?”

“Is your family here?”

One of the men in the group suggested that they find a quiet place to talk, away from the crowds.

“We have many things to ask you,” he said, “but I sense that you also have questions that you want to ask. Let’s go and sit on that hillside over there.”

THE SMALL group of people assembled themselves in a circle on the hillside. Besides the man, who Wen learned was originally from Hubei and worked in agriculture, there was a young man and woman from Henan who worked as technicians in a Tibetan hospital and an older woman from Sichuan who was a teacher. They all had different reasons for coming to live in Tibet. The young people told her that they had taken advantage of the financial incentives offered by the Chinese government to move to Tibet; there were many jobs to be found here. The older man said he had come to Tibet in the 1970s when agricultural workers from Hubei were in demand because it was preferable to the difficult political situation in China. The woman said that, because Sichuan was close to the Tibetan border, she had moved to Tibet in the 1960s to “support the border regions.”

It took some time for Wen to explain to them how she came to be dressed in Tibetan clothing, her face weather-beaten, her hands rough. When she had finished, the group was utterly silent. They looked at her in disbelief.

It was the older woman who broke the silence.

“You know, don’t you, that the fighting between the Chinese and Tibetans ended long ago?” she asked.

Wen didn’t reply, although her mind was reeling from this information. There seemed no way to communicate to these people the kind of isolated life she had experienced. They knew next to nothing about the empty plains of Qinghai or the nomadic way of life. Though they lived in Tibet, they remained enclosed in their Chinese communities. How could she tell them that she had been living in a place where there were no politics, no war, only the calm self-sufficiency of a communal life where everything was shared-and limitless space, where time stretched out endlessly.

“Please tell me,” she asked, “what is the situation now between the Chinese and the Tibetans?”

The woman and her friends looked at each other.

“In the time you have been in Tibet,” the woman said, “China has changed greatly. Perhaps more than you can guess. It is difficult for us to know exactly what is happening in Tibet and why the Dalai Lama is no longer here.”

Since her conversations with Zhuoma all those years ago, Wen had not given much thought to the Dalai Lama, but she was nevertheless shocked to learn that he wasn’t living in the Potala Palace as she had imagined.

“But why did he leave?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” said the woman. “I’ve heard people say that relations between the Chinese government and the Dalai Lama were pretty good to begin with-and that, in the early 1950s, the Communist government had the support of the Tibetan people and the approval of the Tibetan elite. Otherwise, why would the Dalai Lama, who had gone into hiding in the tiny remote border village of Yadong, have returned to the capital, Lhasa? And why would he have sent representatives to Beijing in 1951 to sign the Communist government’s Agreement for the Peaceful Liberation of Tibet, making Tibet an autonomous region of China? Apparently the Dalai Lama’s meeting with Chairman Mao Tse-tung in 1954 was very friendly and the Dalai Lama was impressed by Mao’s intelligence and ability. The poem he wrote in praise of Chairman Mao and the Golden Wheel of a Thousand Blessings, which he presented to Beijing, are said to be proof of this. In that year, both he and the Panchen Lama accepted the mandate of the Chinese government at the National People’s Congress, which showed that Tibet endorsed the Beijing regime.”

“Some people say that,” the older man interrupted, “but others believe the Dalai Lama was young and impressionable. The Beijing government brainwashed him. But, although they might have managed to influence his emotions over minor issues, they could never have made him relinquish his belief in Tibet’s independence. People may say that in the early 1950s Mao had no intention of using force in Tibet and that he knew better than to interfere with the way the Tibetans governed themselves, but would he have tolerated an independent Tibet? It is easy to understand why he sent in the army in 1958. There was unrest in the southwest of China and Chiang Kai-shek had announced that he was building up his forces in Taiwan to launch an attack on the Communists. It was essential that Mao had Tibet under his control. The only reason he had been so easy on Tibet after 1949 was because the Korean War had diverted the manpower and resources of the Liberation Army elsewhere. But by the end of the 1950s, the Liberation Army had had a few years to recover its strength and was ready to deal with Tibet. The Dalai Lama was accepting weapons from the West and giving tacit support to the Tibetan Independence Movement. Mao had no choice but to send in the army.”

The woman spoke again. “Who can know the truth? The Dalai Lama was torn in half. On the one hand, the Chinese government’s promise to allow Tibet to opt out of their reform movement was being broken. Political campaigns such as ‘Kill the rich, help the poor,’ ‘Universal equality,’ and ‘Zero tolerance of religion’ were undermining the authority of Tibet’s feudal overlords, and shaking the Dalai Lama’s trust in Beijing. On the other hand, he did not want to anger Beijing. So he tried to play both games: he took an active role in the political projects initiated by the Chinese government while turning a blind eye to the Tibetan Independence Movement’s efforts to stir up military rebellion through the Army of Defenders of the Faith. But he was like a man standing in two boats at the same time: he ended up with nothing. Beijing sent its soldiers to destroy the age-old unity of church and state in Tibet, while the Army of Defenders of the Faith, despite Western support, was unable to protect the Dalai Lama’s throne. In his haste to flee, the Dalai Lama didn’t even dare wear his own clothes. He’d been told by reliable sources that the Liberation Army in Tibet was planning to take him prisoner as punishment for trying to break with China. That was why so many Tibetans kept guard around the Potala Palace, to protect their spiritual leader-the incident that Beijing blamed as the ‘trigger’ that set off the unrest.”

The young man and woman in the group had been very silent up to this point. Now the young man asked, “But if the Dalai Lama’s flight was so sudden, why were there so many rumors about the treasure from the Potala Palace being taken out of the country one or two years before all this blew up, and how come the Dalai Lama has had all his treasure with him in exile? The late Chinese premier Zhou Enlai said that there was a godlike aspect to the Dalai Lama when he lived in the Potala Palace, but when a god leaves his temple, his air of holiness is tarnished. I think that now the Dalai Lama is no longer in Tibet, he has given up his struggle for independence.”

“I am not sure that you are right,” the older woman said. “I think he longs to return. Because of his efforts more and more people in the outside world are starting to take notice of Tibet. The government tells us that they have tried many times to hold a dialogue with the Dalai Lama, but he has always refused any contact. Many Tibetan people I talk to tell me the opposite. What should we believe?”

She turned to Wen with a sad smile.

Wen’s head was reeling. Never before had she heard a political conversation like this one. When she was young, she had been inspired by political ideals, but she and her friends had all believed the same thing. She wasn’t sure she would ever untangle all the confusing information she had just been given. The truth, she thought, would always remain elusive because humans could never recover the past as it had actually happened.

It was getting late as the group walked down the hillside. Far more important to Wen than knowing about politics was finding her husband. Before she separated from these people, she was determined to find out if they could help her. But none of them had much practical advice to offer. They themselves, they said, had difficulty receiving letters from China.

“Perhaps if you go to Lhasa,” the woman said, “the army officials there will have more information, or help you go back to China.”

Wen thanked her. Although she longed with all her heart to return to Suzhou and to fold her parents and her sister in her arms, she knew that until she had some news of Kejun and Zhuoma she could not leave Tibet. She then watched the first Chinese people she had met in many years walk away from her. For a moment, she was tempted to run after them, but she stopped herself. She did not belong with them now. Ge’er and Pad were her family.

WHEN SHE returned to her room at the guesthouse, she found a lama sitting outside the door on the ground, telling his prayer beads. When he saw her, he looked up.

“I am told you are looking for a woman named Zhuoma.”

“Yes,” said Wen with excitement. “Do you know something?”

“I too am looking for her,” said the lama. “Many years ago, I was her servant. We were separated while traveling in a storm. I wandered for days in search of her and would have died if a lama from this monastery who was gathering medicinal herbs in the mountains hadn’t found me and carried me back here. I have devoted my life to this monastery since then, but I have never ceased to ask all visitors for news of my dear mistress.”

Wen could barely speak. “You are Tiananmen,” she said.

The lama was taken aback. “Yes,” he said, “She named me Tiananmen.”

IN THE days that followed the Dharmaraja ceremony, Tiananmen would visit Wen, Ge’er, and Pad in the intervals between scripture readings in the monastery’s great hall. When he heard Zhuoma’s story, he wrung his large hands until the joints cracked. After that he seemed preoccupied. He told them that he had petitioned the abbot for a period of leave from the monastery. He wished to join them in their search for Zhuoma. Sometime later, he came to them with the good news that his petition had been granted. What was more, the abbot was willing to give a blessing to their quest, in which were joined the fates of both Tibetans and Chinese. Tiananmen led them into the presence of the head lama, who listened patiently to their petition.

“On the high plateau,” he said, “the sky may change, people may change, yaks and sheep, flowers and grasses all may change, but not the holy mountains. If you leave messages on the thirteen holy mountains, those with knowledge of Zhuoma will find them. Life starts in nature and returns to nature.”

He gave Wen half a lead pencil, which, he told her, was a modern treasure belonging to the monastery. Wen was delighted. To her, too, this pencil was priceless: writing her diary had become her main consolation and her colored stone etched out no more than faint traces on the pages of her book. That evening, she wrote in clear black lines.

Only Pad seemed sad that they were leaving the monastery. Now that Zawang’s brother had returned to the monastery with the head lama, Zawang was spending less time in her company. Whenever the lamas were released from their daily duties, Zawang would run off to talk to the brother he hadn’t seen for ten years. How would Pad survive, Wen wondered, when she had been used to such companionship? But her worries were unnecessary. The day before they were due to leave, Ge’er came to her and told her that Zawang wished to accompany them on their journey. It seemed that he, too, could not bear to be parted from Pad. Horse messengers were sent to Gela and to Zawang’s family to inform them about the discovery of Tiananmen, and of Zawang’s decision to join the quest. They had sent such messengers before, but had never received back any news of Gela’s family. Wen hoped that these messages would find their destination.

The monastery saw to their horses and their provisions. As they were climbing onto their horses, Wen noticed that Tiananmen had loaded his saddle with silk scrolls. She assumed that, as a lama, he needed to carry the scriptures with him. Once they were under way, however, Tiananmen explained that they were in fact messages asking for information about the lost Zhuoma. The monastery had taught him many things, including how to write. He told her about the scripture debates, where lamas came together to discuss interpretations of the scriptures in a formal group with a very particular set of rules. Wen felt herself growing closer to the taciturn Tiananmen with this rare glimpse into his world.

HOW MUCH time passed in that trek around the holy mountains of Qinghai? Wen lost track of the days and weeks. Her little group plodded onward, dogged in their determination to find Zhuoma, undaunted by the distances they covered and the hardship they suffered. Between each of the giant holy mountains lay other mountain ranges that they must cross. But they refused to give up: they would not stop until they had left Tiananmen’s scrolls on all thirteen mountains.

Somewhere between the first and the third mountain, Ge’er gave his consent for Pad and Zawang to be married. The silent mountains were their witness. “We live under the eyes of the spirits,” Ge’er told her. “This union is part of the divine plan.” Wen wondered if Pad, with her gift for prediction, had always known something about this marriage. Perhaps this was why she had waited so long, in clear defiance of the Tibetan custom of early marriage, to join herself to someone. Would the spirits also guide Wen along her path? She felt their presence in her life more and more.

At the fifth mountain, Pad gave birth to a daughter and named her Zhuoma.

Wen worried about the addition of a baby to their group. The constant traveling was putting an intolerable strain on Pad and it did not seem right that Pad should be jeopardizing both her life and that of the child by continuing with the quest. Wen discussed her concerns with Tiananmen and Ge’er, and it was agreed that Ge’er should accompany Pad and Zawang to a place where they could build a proper life for their family. He would then return home to Gela and Saierbao: he had been away from his brother and wife for too long and it was time that he rejoined them. Tiananmen could protect Wen. Tiananmen suggested to Ge’er that he take the young couple to the southeast. He had heard at the monastery that, in this region, Chinese and Tibetans lived together. Pad and Zawang would find work, and their daughter could go to school.

As Wen watched Ge’er’s horse recede into the distance, followed by Pad and Zawang, she wondered if she would ever see them again. The rest of her life would not give her enough time to repay all that Ge’er and his family had done for her. “Om mani padme hum,” she murmured under her breath as the figures disappeared into the mountains.

IT WAS at the ninth mountain that they found Zhuoma’s message. The mountain was covered with pile upon pile of mani stones inscribed with the mantra and passages of Buddhist scripture.

“They are the Diamond Sutra,” said Tiananmen. “There is one chapter of scripture to each cairn.”

“May I touch them?” Wen asked.

“You may,” replied Tiananmen. “When you place your fingers on the words, you will feel the presence of the spirits.”

For a while the two of them separated, walking around the cairns, reading the prayers preserved in stone. As Wen gazed at them, she tried in vain to imagine how many generations of hands had carved those holy words, piling them up on this mountain to be preserved for thousands of years. Suddenly Tiananmen called out. Wen turned. He was standing waving a white khata scarf that he had taken down from the line of prayer flags fluttering in the wind, and was shouting something indistinguishable. When she reached him, picking her way down the path, he was almost too overcome to speak. She took the scarf from his hands. On it was written a simple message: “Zhuoma is looking for Tiananmen. She awaits him at the next mountain, close to the stonecutter’s hut.”

Their hearts were in their mouths as they pushed their horses toward the neighboring mountain. How long had the message been there? Would Zhuoma have waited? It took them many days. When they arrived at the foot of the mountain, they saw in the distance a stonecutter’s hut and, standing above it, the statuesque figure of a woman. As their horses thundered toward her, she turned. It was Zhuoma.

For a long time the three of them remained silent. No words could express the intensity of the emotions they felt. Wen got down from her horse and embraced the friend she had not seen for more than twenty years. Behind her, Tiananmen greeted his old mistress with quiet tears. He had found her, but could not hold her in his arms. In Tibet a single woman could not so much as touch the hand of a man whose life was pledged to the Buddha.

IT WAS evident from Zhuoma’s silence on the subject that she did not wish to discuss what had happened to her since her kidnapping. Wen and Tiananmen would not have dreamed of undermining her dignity by asking. They learned only that she had been taken to the Chinese city of Xining, in the northeast corner of Qinghai, and had spent many years there before she found a way to leave. For two years she had searched for Gela’s family. When she finally found them, Wen had long since left.

“How had you come to think of leaving messages in the holy mountains?” asked Wen, astonished that fate should have led Zhuoma to the same course of action as herself.

“A mani stonecutter told me something that I couldn’t forget,” replied Zhuoma. “He said, ‘Tibetans always find what they have lost in the holy mountains.’ I decided that, each year, I would visit all the holy mountains and if by winter I had received no news, I would return to the first mountain in spring and begin all over again. And that is what I have done,” she said, looking sadly at Tiananmen. “I have visited each mountain many times and now the mountains have delivered to me what I had lost.”

She turned to Wen.

“Have you found your Kejun?”

Wen could only shake her head.

“Then,” said Zhuoma, “I want to help you find what you have lost. Please tell me what I should do.”

Zhuoma’s words felt to Wen like a gift from the heavens. Ever since she had met the Chinese people at Wendugongba, she had been reflecting on what she had learned about the Chinese presence in Tibet.

“I would like to go to Lhasa,” she said. “I think that there I will find members of the Chinese army. It is possible that they might have some record of what happened to my husband’s regiment.”

Zhuoma glanced inquiringly at Tiananmen.

“I will take you both to Lhasa,” he said, “but after that, I will be obliged to return to the monastery.”

Wen could barely look at Zhuoma. She was overwhelmed by the painful realization that her friend would have to face once more the loss of the man she loved.