The combat would pass. The guns would fall silent. The Chinese dead would be shipped to their home provinces, and the Tibetan dead would be given sky burial. But Lobsang Drom's bitterness would go on the remainder of his days. For he had failed in his sacred duty, as had his father, Lungten Drub, high regent for the Bunji Lama, before him.
For the Bunji Lama, reincarnation of the Buddha of the Future, had become lost in the translation between incarnations. This had never before happened. It was not known what had gone awry, for the previous Bunji Lama had rendered a great prophecy to Lobsang Drom's father, foretelling certain events.
Lungten Drub had scoured Tibet for the forty-seventh Bunji Lama but found no redheaded boys. Nor any golden joss lacking a face but possessing a sword. He was forced to venture beyond inner Tibet. Nepal was searched, as was Bhutan, Sikkim, and even both sides of the Di-Chu, Ghost River, on the border of Tibet and China. India, cradle of Buddhism, was scoured, as well, before the Worshipful Nameless Ones in the Dark Who See the Light That is Coming-of whom his father had been first among equals-were forced to give up their sacred quest.
For China had made her long-feared lunge and absorbed Tibet. The new Dalai Lama, now grown to manhood, fled into exile. The Panchen Lama remained, a servile tool of the Chinese, as Lobsang Drom's father had predicted. It was the perfect hour for the return of the Bunji Lama, who would have been a young man by that time, but the Bunji Lama remained unfindable.
It was the year of the Iron Tiger, called 1950 in the west.
Finally the day came when the regents were dragged off by the People's Liberation Army, and Lobsang Drom was left alone. At first Lobsang hid in a high lamasery that had escaped Chinese notice, where he studied to be a monk. Upon taking his vows, he was spirited to outlying towns where he could resume the great search. He was the last of the Worshipful Nameless Ones in the Dark Who See the Light That is Coming and while he greatly feared the Chinese troops, his duty was stronger than his fear.
The day at last came when hope ran out. All Tibet whispered of the missing Much Sought for Red-haired Boy who Would Save Tibet. He could not be found. Perhaps he did not wish to be found.
Broken in spirit, Lobsang Drom retired to a cave high in the mountains to meditate, subsisting on barley and bitterness.
His meditations were broken but once a year, when a trustworthy farmer climbed the narrow footpaths to leave an offering of barley and announce tidings of supreme import.
"O Most Holy," said the barley farmer one year. "The Panchen Lama is dead."
"The Panchen Lama is a tool of the Chinese, so my father told me," Lobsang Drom had replied.
"It is said that the Chinese poisoned him. The search is on for the new incarnation."
"Let them search," said Lobsang Drom. "The next one will be no less unworthy."
That was in the Fire Hog Year. By that time Lobsang Drom had lost track of the passing years. In the Earth Hare Year, the same farmer reappeared to speak tearful words.
"There is word from the West that the exiled Dalai Lama speaks of eventual surrender to fate. He mouths words that are impossible to accept, predicting that he is destined to be the last Dalai Lama, and there will be no more after him."
"The Dalai Lama has been corrupted by the West," intoned Lobsang Drom. "It is no more or less than my honorable father warned."
"There is only the Bunji Lama left. Will you not seek him out, Most Holy?"
Lobsang Drom shook his shaved head. "He does not wish to be found."
"Then Tibet is forevermore a vassal of China."
"It is the fault of Tibetan mothers, who refuse to bear flame-haired children, or surrender them if they do."
But that was the past.
It was now the Year of the Earth Dog, but Lobsang Drom had no way of knowing this. He sat in a puddle of melted snow practicing the art known as Tumo, which kept his naked body warm without benefit of sheepskin garments, listening to the thunder that was not thunder when, in a lull between peals, a snow leopard growled.
The growl was long and low and was answered by the nervous whinny of a pony. Having had no entertainment in many years, Lobsang Drom lifted his lowhanging head and cocked it to one side.
The snow leopard growled anew. Abruptly its sound was stifled. There had been no other sound. It was as if the leopard had been conquered by a magician.
Presently the soft squeaking of desultory hooves in snow approached the cave where Lobsang Drom nursed his bitterness.
"A thousandfold fruitful blessings upon you, traveler," Lobsang Drom called in greeting.
The one who approached replied only with the squeakings of his coming.
"If you are a Chinese soldier," Lobsang Drom added, "I am not afraid to die."
"If I were a Chinese soldier," a brassy voice called back, "you should not be a man unless you strangled me with your bare hands."
"I am a monk. Violence is not my way."
A thick shadow stepped into view, leading a pony by its reins.
"You are a failure, Lobsang Drom," the shadow accused.
"With those words, I have no quarrel," admitted Lobsang Drom.
The man stepped into the cave, and Lobsang saw that his face was like a flat gong of brass set on a treestump neck. Not Tibetan. A Mongol. He wore the black leather vest and quilted riding pants of a horse Mongol. A dagger hung from his waist by a silver chain. Across the wooden saddle of his war pony was slung the ghost-gray shape of a dead snow leopard, its pristine pelt unflecked by blood.
"How did you slay that?" Lobsang asked.
"I spit in his eye," laughed the Mongol. "He is only a cat and so he died. Where I come from, the suckling wolf cubs would tear him to rags in play."
But Lobsang saw the Mongol's pole lasso hanging from the pony's saddle and understood that the snow leopard had been snared and strangled in one expert cast.
"Why come you here, Mongol?" asked Lobsang Drom curiously.
"I was dispatched by Boldbator Khan to seek out your lazy bones."
"Why?" wondered Lobsang, not taking offense.
"The new Panchen Lama has been found."
Lobsang Drom spit into the snow by way of answer.
"Well, have you nothing more to say?"
"The Panchen Lama is not worth the breath required to curse his name," said Lobsang Drom.
"And you are unworthy of even living in a cave," grunted the Mongol, planting one boot on Lobsang Drom's chest and giving a hard push. Lobsang Drom was sent sprawling into his pile of barley.
Calmly the Mongol pulled the dead snow leopard off his mount and, taking his dagger from his belt, began to skin it.
"What are you doing, Mongol?" demanded Lobsang Drom, sitting up again.
"Wasting a perfectly good pelt," growled the Mongol, who then proceeded to cut the magnificent silver-gray pelt into bolts and strips of fur.
When he was done, Lobsang saw that he had fashioned a crude robe, which landed at the Tibetan's naked feet. It steamed with the dead animal's fading warmth.
"Put that on," the Mongol commanded.
"Why?"
"So that I am not offended by your nakedness during the long journey that lies before us."
"I cannot leave this cave until I have proven to the Bunji Lama by my iron will that I am worthy to be his discoverer."
The Mongol's eyes narrowed at that, and when he spoke again, there was a hint of respect in his tone.
"You cannot obtain the Bunji Lama's respect unless from his very lips. Come, I will take you to him."
Lobsang Drom blinked. "You know where he is to be found?"