Shan glanced back with worry at the locked door. Not only would the officials outside be livid if they knew of the ritual in the little chapel, they would violently disrupt it and arrest those leading it.
Norbu took up the chant himself now, but not as a leader. He made his way to the rear of the little hall, reached the other side of the blind man, and lowered himself to the stone flags like the rest of the devout, looking up to the blind man.
The old man Shan had helped into the chapel was more than some energetic worshiper. The abbot was paying him homage. The blind man’s vest had fallen open and Shan saw now the gau that hung from his neck. A band of maroon cloth was tied around the amulet, the sign of a former monk, or an illegal monk. As he gazed into the man’s serene face and listened to the quiet fire in his voice, Shan knew he had been more than a monk. He had been a lama, a teacher, a leader who was now healing the wounds of the monks.
Shan ventured a glance toward Norbu. He understood now the affection, the fierce loyalty, the monks felt toward their abbot. He knew the words to say to appease Public Security, but alone with his flock he dropped his pretense. He nurtured the old ways, kept alive the spark that Beijing tried so hard to extinguish. He did so, moreover, in a village that was obviously under close scrutiny by the knobs. What he did was reckless but it clearly endeared him to his flock. They would tolerate a Chinese flag and loyalty oaths in the open because they knew what happened when the chapel door was locked.
As the ritual concluded the abbot rose, hid the bell, the demon, and the flag, then led the monks outside. Shan lingered until the chamber was nearly empty, then approached the altar where Norbu’s attendant Trinle was lighting fresh butter lamps. Shan silently began to help.
“I thought I was leading the blind man,” he said after a few moments. “But now I know he was leading me.”
Trinle glanced outside before replying. “It is very brave what he does,” the monk offered. “Just coming back here was brave.”
“Back here?” Shan asked, confused.
The monk kept working as he explained. “He got ten strings for opposing the loyalty oaths. Some would have just lost their robes. But they have to make an example when it’s an abbot. They let him out early.”
Shan stared at Trinle in confusion. Ten strings. When an imprisoned monk left followers or loved ones behind they would try to send a new rosary each year. But no one got early release for opposing loyalty oaths. “How early?”
“He went blind. It was a grand day for us when Norbu first appeared, with the dragon bell in one hand and old Patrul in the other.”
“Patrul was the abbot of this gompa?”
The monk paused and nodded. “It’s not enough to just say abbot. Patrul was one of the old ones. One of the original ones,” he said, meaning the blind man had been a holy man in old Tibet, before the Chinese came. “The only one most of us have ever met.”
There was much more to Chegar gompa than met the eye.
“I am called Shan,” he said. “You are Trinle. I met you and Dakpo with Abbot Norbu at Thousand Steps.”
The monk nodded again. “I saw you sometimes with Jamyang at the old convent. Is it true he has thrown his face?”
“He died the same day as the abbess and the others.”
Trinle gave a small sigh of despair. “Truly the gods were looking elsewhere that day.”
“It was a bad day,” Shan agreed. “None of those who died were prepared. They are owed the truth about why they died.”
Trinle studied Shan a moment. He recognized the invitation in Shan’s words. “That is government business. Monks are taught to stay away from government business.”
“For a place that stays out of government business you have a lot of government visitors.”
Trinle straightened and fixed Shan with a sober expression. “The best way to deal with evil demons is to bring them among demon protectors.”
Shan returned his gaze. “The demon who killed the abbess and the others won’t come willingly. Help me find him.”
Trinle cast a worried glance toward the door. “This is a place of reverence. Why would you look here?”
“Because someone in a monk’s robe was there that day. He was the killer.”
Trinle stared in disbelief. “No. I could put on one of those grey tunics. It wouldn’t make me a knob.”
“Fake monk or real monk, all the gompas and convents will take the blame when the government discovers it. It was someone convincing, someone who looked at ease in a robe. A Tibetan with the close-cropped hair of a monk. Tell me, Trinle, has anyone left the gompa in the past year?”
The question seemed to trouble Trinle. “One went across.”
“You mean he died?”
“Across to India. He is safe now, has a job in the Dalai Lama’s government.”
Shan reminded himself that Chenmo had spoken of purbas in the valley, the resistance fighters who came from India. Chegar had a monk now in the exile government. The close scrutiny of Public Security was beginning to make more sense.
Outside, a loudspeaker interrupted the quiet of the courtyard, first with a burst of static, then with a repetitive call for a monk to report to the gatehouse. Shan recognized the name. Dakpo.
Trinle stepped to the entry and edged his head around the doorway to glance furtively into the courtyard. The voice on the speaker grew impatient as it called again for the monk. Trinle’s face clouded.
“Dakpo is missing?” Shan asked.
“He isn’t here.”
Shan considered the monk’s worried tone. “You mean he left without permission.”
As Trinle watched the activity in the courtyard he gripped the door frame as if to steady himself. Monks were hurrying into buildings. “He has duties elsewhere. If the abbot doesn’t calm them down, they will search every room.”
“And they will find contraband,” Shan asserted.
Trinle turned to Shan with challenge in his eyes. “We of Chegar gompa are true monks.”
There was something in his tone that unsettled Shan. Every gompa harbored secret, illegal photos of the Dalai Lama. Now he knew Chegar sometimes even displayed a flag of independent Tibet. Trinle seemed to be speaking of something else.
Shan looked back to where the demon protector was hidden. It was very old, very valuable. “If they come searching, put that protector deity on the altar and drape it with prayer scarves. They won’t know what they are looking at.”
Trinle considered Shan’s words a moment, then nodded. Shan stepped back out into the courtyard.
Norbu was speaking urgently with another monk near the gate. Shan slipped along the shadow of the opposite wall, keeping his head down, mingling with the handful of villagers who were paying homage, pausing as they did at the shrine stations along the wall. He heard only snippets of the abbot’s conversation. Norbu was clearly upset.
“How long?” the abbot demanded. “How long has he been missing?”
“He left two nights ago. After midnight.”
Shan ventured a glance toward the monk. He was clearly frightened. Norbu kept the gompa safe from Public Security by maintaining tight control. One errant monk could tip the balance.
Shan stepped closer.
“Perhaps he went on a pilgrim’s path, to visit the shrines,” the monk suggested.
Norbu muttered something like a prayer under his breath. “He is on a mediation retreat in the mountains,” the abbot declared more loudly, as if rehearsing the line. “When he returns he will gladly renew his loyalty oath.” Norbu straightened his robe and stepped back to the waiting knobs.
Shan kept his head down as the officers converged upon the abbot, slipping out the gate and into the village.