Trying to hold back her tears, Saierbao gestured to Wen that they had all known about this problem for a long time, but didn’t know what to do.
Gela soaked a piece of felt in hot water, wrung it dry, spat a couple of mouthfuls of barley wine onto it, wrung it out again, and walked over to the statue of Buddha to pray. He then wrapped the piece of felt around Ni’s feet and spat another mouthful of barley wine over her forehead. Ni’s lips moved slightly and her eyes opened a crack. She looked toward her mother, who was turning her prayer wheel and praying in front of the altar. Gela called Saierbao over and placed their daughter’s hand in hers. Ni gave a faint smile, then closed her eyes.
Wen stepped forward and took her pulse. It was terribly weak and she was continuing to lose blood. Yet without medical equipment or medicine, there was nothing Wen could do to help her. She was torn apart by guilt and frustration.
Throughout the day, the whole family kept a silent vigil by Ni’s side; even Hum-so hungry that he was sucking his fingers-remained totally quiet. Saierbao and Gela knelt together in front of the Buddha, endlessly turning the prayer wheel while they prayed.
At dusk, the sound of galloping hooves signaled Ge’er’s return. He had a bag in his hands, which the three adults quickly opened. They mixed its powdery contents with water and fed it to Ni. Wen watched, fascinated, but had no idea what they were giving her. Ten minutes later, Wen could see some color return to Ni’s cheeks.
No one slept that night. Gela gestured at the exhausted Wen to rest. She lay down, listening to the turning of prayer wheels until daybreak.
THEY WERE unable to save the lovely, lively Ni. Her spirit had gone too far away. The day after her collapse, the young girl, who couldn’t have been more than fourteen, lost her life.
Wen was overcome with grief. She mourned for the family, but also for herself. Of all the members of Gela’s family, Ni was the one she had spent the most time with, and who had brought her the most happiness. Now she had lost both Zhuoma and Ni in quick succession. Her future stretched out before her in a hopeless abyss.
Wen was terrified that the family would give Ni a sky burial. Zhuoma had described how, after her father’s death, his corpse had been cut into pieces and left on a mountain altar for the vultures to eat. She had answered Wen’s disgust by saying that sky burial was merely another manifestation of the harmony in Tibet between heaven and earth, nature and man: there was nothing to be disgusted by. But, although Wen remembered Zhuoma’s words, she didn’t think she could bear to watch Ni’s body being fed to vultures. In any event, she was spared: the family took the corpse to the lake for a water burial.
AUTUMN BECAME winter, winter became spring. Wen found that she could no longer keep track of the passing years. She simply followed the family as they moved in search of fresh pastures and shelter from the elements. To her, each mountain, each prairie looked the same; to them, there were subtle distinctions. As often as she could, she wrote in her book-letters to Kejun that she hoped she would one day deliver to him; details of her daily life. The words piled up. Once she had filled the blank pages in the book of essays, she started writing between the lines of text. Once those spaces were filled, she wrote over the faint imprints already there. The only space in which she would not write was the inside cover. She reserved this for Kejun. When she found him, he would write an epilogue to her diary. The pages overflowed with Wen’s loneliness, her love, her will to survive.
The book became thicker and thicker.
Kejun’s photograph yellowed. His face looked worn and wrinkled.
As there was no opportunity of escape, Wen stopped thinking about escape. Her body and mind adapted to the Tibetan way of doing things; she ceased to be so aware of her needs and desires. When the family prayed, she joined them, spinning her own prayer wheel. She added to the prayers the words of Wang Liang: “Just staying alive is a victory.”
The closest Wen came to having contact with the world beyond the family tent was the festival of Weisang. In the autumn, men would gather in huge numbers from all around the region to make offerings to the ancestors. Since women were not allowed to participate, Wen, Saierbao, Pad, and Hum would watch from the hillside as hundreds of horse riders carrying brightly colored flags moved in ritual formations around the sacrificial altar. Gela would bring back jewelry for Saierbao that joined the many ornaments with which she adorned herself. At first Wen didn’t understand how this poor family could spend their money on luxuries instead of buying animals. As time went on, she realized that these ornaments were not considered to be material wealth but were in fact religious objects.
GELA, GE’ER, and Om could not attend Weisang every year but they went as often as they could. The first time Wen had seen them set off on their horses, she had been alarmed. The size of their packs indicated that they would be gone for some time and she couldn’t understand why they were leaving the women and children alone. It was Pad who had tried to explain. She had imitated her father and drawn Wen a picture in barley flour showing three suns decorated with implements for breakfast, lunch, and supper. Under the middle sun, she drew three men. By this, Wen had understood that the men would arrive at their destination at midday and were not going too far away. But she was still very confused.
Two days later, Saierbao had told her children to change into their festival robes and had found a colorful silk sash to tie around Wen’s waist. They had tethered the livestock to yak-hair ropes outside the tent, secured the door, and set out on their horses. Saierbao had issued very few instructions to her children as they prepared to leave and they had followed her without speaking. By now, Wen was familiar with this silent way of doing things and she found it less disconcerting.
After a three-hour ride, they had stopped to eat. Suddenly Hum had pointed ahead, laughing and shouting. In the distance was a sea of people and flags. The flags fluttering in the breeze mingled with the flapping of banners planted in the ground and everywhere was alive with color and movement. Smoke and the smell of burning wood from the sacred fire enveloped the scene in a shimmering haze. Wen thought she had been transported to another world. After so many months of privation and solitude, the crowds, color, and noise seemed like a vision.
As the years went by, Wen grew accustomed to such extraordinary manifestations of faith. She also grew accustomed to the lack of news of the outside world. The only change to her life that Weisang brought was a wife for Om in a marriage arranged between the two families at the festival. Om’s wife, Maola, was very similar in temperament to Saierbao: a woman of few words, serene and hardworking, and always smiling. Although Om still played his lute outside the tent every night, his music was much happier than it had been.
Not long after the wedding, Maola became pregnant. Two young sheep were separated from the flock and tethered to the tent. Wen observed them being fattened up to serve as nourishment for Maola at the time of the birth and to celebrate the arrival of a new family member. It was when she watched in amazement as Gela and Ge’er skillfully delivered a healthy baby girl into the hands of Om that she realized her identity as a doctor, and indeed as a Chinese woman, was falling away from her.
That evening, Gela led his whole family in prayers for the newborn. Saierbao and Wen had been hard at work all day preparing the feast. At the banquet, Saierbao presented Wen with one of the crisp roasted legs of lamb. For as long as Wen could remember, that part of the lamb had always been reserved for Gela and Ge’er. Saierbao’s gesture seemed to be saying to her, “You are one of us now. Share in our happiness.”