In his uncanny way, Lokesh had seemed to expect Shan. A pot of soup sat at the edge of the small brazier by the door. He did not ask about Shan’s imprisonment, did not offer an account of his travails since escaping out of the death pit, but simply handed Shan an old wooden bowl and poured in the soup. The old Tibetan laid another blanket over Cora, then lit a stick of incense in the brazier and stuck it in the stones of the wall above her before sitting beside Shan.
“I know a cave,” he said after a long silence.
Shan’s chest tightened. It was a conversation they had had before. Lokesh wanted him to leave everything, to go on a meditation retreat.
“I will go with you. We could take the American. Just two or three weeks. You walk too close.”
Too close to the edge, Lokesh meant. Other friends might speak of the physical dangers Shan faced, the torment he had endured as Liang’s prisoner, but not Lokesh, never Lokesh. He meant Shan was perilously close to tumbling from the true path, the enlightened path, the Buddhist path. Lokesh believed in finding the truth but also fervently believed Shan went too far when he interfered in events, when he became an actor in an unfolding mystery. Rescuing a lamb showed respect for lower animal spirits. Manipulating events and deceiving the government showed disrespect for his own spirit.
“Jamyang told us his story,” Lokesh continued. “It is but for us to understand it. He left us the sutra of his life. We simply need to learn how to read it.”
“It is what I am doing, old friend, in the only way I know how.”
“No. You ride with police. You speak with those who raid our farms. You attack statues. You invite Public Security to beat you. You have learned other ways, Shan. From where you stand if you lose your footing you lose all chance of being human again.”
The words tore at Shan’s heart. They were the words of a gentle Tibetan father to a son who had become so wayward he was in danger of losing his family. They were perhaps the harshest thing Lokesh had ever said to him. Human existence was a precious thing, won only after thousands of incarnations in lower forms, and those who abused it, for whatever reason, would sink to the bottom of that cycle.
Shan had no reply. He only stared into his now empty bowl.
After a long silence Lokesh gestured outside. “There will be meteors,” the old Tibetan said and, seeming to sense Shan’s weakness, extended a hand to help him up.
It was a rare evening, with a gentle breeze stirring the fragrant junipers, the stars shimmering in a cloudless sky. Shan lay back on the blanket Lokesh had stretched over the grass for him, longing for a chance to at least share another meteor shower with his friend, but unable to resist the fatigue that wracked his body. As his eyes fluttered closed he heard the faint murmur of a new mantra. He seemed to hover in the warm suspension just before sleep and a sad smile settled onto his face. This time, he knew, Lokesh was praying for him.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Lung Tso was strangely subdued when Shan arrived the next day to ask his favor. His question had come not from resentment but confusion.
“Why in hell would you want one of my men to drive along the valley in your truck?”
“Drive, and stop at places I mark on the map, playing with a shovel in the ditches for a while then driving on.”
“And where will you be?”
“He is going to drop me off at dawn behind the monk’s compound at the end of the valley. With one of your motorbikes. Bring the truck back to the stable in town at the end of the day.”
“You’re going to spy on monks.”
“There’s more than meets the eye at that gompa.” Shan stared at the smuggler with challenge in his eye. Lung still had not explained what business he conducted with the monks.
“We have a rule we try to follow. Only have one enemy at a time. That way you can keep an eye on him, make sure he is not creeping up behind you. But you, Shan, you just piss off everyone. You have no instinct for self-preservation. Who’s following your truck?”
Shan kept staring at him.
“That monk Jamyang. You said he is dead.”
“He died the same day as your brother. He convinced your brother to go the convent. He had me stop on the high ridge above there to confirm that your brother’s truck was there. Then we went to his shrine and he shot himself in the head as he sat an arm’s length from me.”
Lung grimaced. “Monks don’t kill themselves.”
“Monks don’t kill themselves,” Shan repeated. He gazed steadily at Lung as he extracted the folded paper from his pocket. There were two dates that were yet to arrive when Jamyang gave this paper to your brother. One was last week. What happened when you took your truck to the border last week?”
“Not a thing.”
“They have to examine papers, open a few cartons to verify contents.”
“They stamped the papers and waved the shipment through.”
“Because you bribed them.”
Lung said nothing.
“I need to know what you do for the monks, Lung.”
“Same thing we always do.”
Shan leaned closer. “What exactly are they smuggling?”
“Boxes. Not good business to look inside a customer’s goods.”
“What size? What did the monks tell you?”
“The monks come to meetings but they don’t do the talking. It’s those Tibetans from the other side.”
“Purbas?”
Lung shrugged. “I don’t know the Tibetan name for outlaws. They usually go across the high mountain passes but the army has heavy surveillance there now. They wanted a test run on a new route. That’s what happened last week.”
“Test run?”
“A couple big boxes.”
“How long?”
“Big enough for a cabinet. I figure they have altars and such they want to protect from Beijing.”
“The next shipment. Did they say to expect the same kind of shipment?”
“The same, sure.”
Shan slowly nodded. “Like I said. I need a favor.”
The leader of the Jade Crows frowned then disappeared into one of the farm buildings. As Genghis appeared, pushing a motorbike, Lung returned and stood by Shan, silently looking out over the abandoned barley fields, not turning when he spoke again. “If you don’t find the bastard who killed my brother then the Jade Crows will. We’ll go through the damned monastery monk by monk. We won’t be so subtle.”
* * *
Chegar gompa was a small, nervous shadow of its former self. It had been built for at least two hundred monks but as he watched from the rocks above Shan estimated it currently held no more than thirty. Half its buildings lay in ruin, still bearing the powder marks from the artillery shells that had destroyed them decades earlier. The little village at its front gate also bore signs of shelling, its structures showing a patchwork of repairs.
The wall that had once enclosed the compound like a fortress was in rubble on the north and east sides, giving Shan a clear view into the courtyard. A chorten, its white surface weathered to grey, sat at the rear center of the yard, allowing room for assemblies of monks and the ritual galas of festival days. But now that space held a new creation, a raised pedestal nearly as high as the base of the stupa, bearing a tall pole with the flag of the People’s Republic.