"But here," the purba said. "Last night? It's impossible. They don't exist anymore."
"The ghost of a dobdob," the dropka said, not with fear, but a certain awe. "He just appeared, punished Drakte, and evaporated, the way spirit creatures do at night. He doesn't want us here. Next time," he said to the runner in a somber tone, "next time the purbas need watchers here, they can ask someone else."
"A ghost didn't slice open his abdomen," Shan said. "A ghost didn't attack him and chase him over the mountains."
"Drakte warned us, said he saw him kill," the herder whispered. "We saw the one he meant, and minutes later Drakte himself was dead."
The purba woman gazed into her bowl. "Drakte was the one who had the idea about runners," she said in a distant voice, as if she owed him a eulogy. "He arranged for me to train others. He had been in prison for leading a demonstration in Lhasa on the Dalai Lama's birthday. I met him that day, sang songs with him, saw him get dragged away by the soldiers. Later I visited him in prison, and was there the day he was released. For the first month all he did was find food and bring it to the families of each of his cellmates." She looked up from her bowl. "What will happen to him?" Her eyes brimmed with tears again.
"We are making arrangements." The dropka put a comforting hand on her shoulder. "There is a durtro on top of a mountain overlooking the sacred lake. When the time comes we will take him there."
A durtro. The herder meant a sky burial site, a charnel ground where the ragyapa, the body breakers, would cut the body up and feed it to vultures. Three days after death, when the body was properly blessed, Drakte's remains would be carried to the durtro and chopped into pieces to be returned to the circle of life. Even his bones would be pounded into a paste to be eaten by the birds.
"Don't let the Chinese get him," the purba said in an urgent, pleading voice. "Don't let them know."
The dropka nodded gravely.
The woman stared at Shan but quickly looked away as he met her eyes. "My name is Somo," she said nearly in a whisper. It was her way of apologizing, he realized, to show that despite what she thought about other Chinese, she would trust him with her name because Drakte had done so.
"I am called Shan."
She nodded. "I heard about you even when you were in prison."
"Were you with Drakte in Lhadrung?" Shan asked.
Somo shook her head. "Usually in Lhasa. He spent much of his time there, and the lands north of here, where he was born."
"When were you last in Lhasa with him?"
"Nearly three months ago, the last time," the woman said warily. It had been more than two months ago when the eye had been brought to the hermitage, and weeks before that it had been stolen in Lhasa. "Drakte said you did things in prison to help the old lamas there. There was an old official from the Fourteenth's government you got released."
Lokesh gave one of his hoarse laughs and looked at Shan with amusement.
Somo studied the two men a moment. "You?" she asked Lokesh in disbelief.
The old man nodded. "I was going to die in that prison," he said, still grinning, "but Xiao Shan found a different path for me." Xiao Shan. Little Shan. It was Chinese, but Lokesh sometimes used the term of affection from Shan's childhood, one used traditionally by an older person addressing a younger one, as Shan's long-dead uncles once had done.
Shan stared into his bowl. "I was already dead, and they brought me back to life," he said, and gazed back at the hut where Gendun still sat with Drakte. The Bardo had to be recited for twenty-four hours after the purba's death. In their lao gai prison, when an inmate died the oldest lamas took shifts of four hours each, even while breaking rocks on their road crews, reciting the words from memory. Always the oldest, because the younger monks had had their education cut short by the Chinese and did not know all the words.
"There is no one else," Lokesh said, as if reading Shan's mind. "I only know the first hour of the ritual. We have no text to recite from."
"I heard someone else, last night," Shan said. "We can't wait a day."
"There is no one else," Lokesh repeated.
Shan looked toward the death hut in confusion. It was true. He had seen no one else. Had it been some strange echo, or Drakte trying to reach out to Gendun?
"But you can't stay," Somo protested. "Whatever Drakte was trying to warn us about-" she glanced at Shan, "it's too dangerous. That's what he was telling you last night."
As if in answer, Lokesh rose and walked into the small lhakang. Shan followed him inside. Nyma was there, praying by the altar in a low, nervous voice. It sounded almost as though she were arguing with the eye, which had been pushed to the front edge of the altar toward a small wooden box, lined with a felt cloth, which lay open on the floor below.
When the nun saw Shan her eyes brightened and she rose to stand by the altar, gazing expectantly at him. When Shan did nothing she gestured at the box.
"Are you scared to touch it?" Shan asked.
"Yes," the nun said readily. "I pushed it with a chakpa to the edge," she explained, as if that was the most she could be expected to do.
Lokesh sighed and bent to pick up the box. Shan stepped forward, glancing uncertainly at the nun, and set the jagged piece of stone in the box. Lokesh folded the felt to cover it and closed the lid.
"But we have time," Shan said. "Rinpoche will not be done until late tonight."
Lokesh stepped outside without reply, still clutching the box. The Golok was near the door, tightening the saddle on his sturdy mountain horse. He was leaving, and Shan had never understood why the man had come. But then, to Shan's dismay, the Golok stepped to a brown horse that now stood beside his own, opened its saddlebag and extended his hand toward Lokesh just as Tenzin and one of the herders rounded the corner of the farthest hut, leading more horses.
"We should have left at dawn," the Golok said with an impatient gesture for Lokesh to hand him the box. "Didn't you listen? The killer is out there, he's coming for the stone, that purba said so. And you wait around like old women."
Shan looked pleadingly at Lokesh as the Golok set the box in the open saddlebag.
"I do not understand much of this," his old friend said with a despairing shrug. "But I do understand we must go."
"But Gendun," Shan protested. "He must come with us."
Lokesh shook his head sadly. "What he must do now is stay with Drakte. He will go to the durtro, then if the deities permit, he will join us." He turned and pulled something from the saddle of one of the horses, extending it to Shan. It was a broad-rimmed felt hat, Shan's traveling hat.
"I am staying with Drakte also," Somo announced, her tone strangely defiant. "I will see that your lama is safe. The herders from that camp above are making piles of yak dung in a ring around the hermitage. Tonight they will surround us with fires."