Keeping a wary eye on the crowd above him, Kejun made his way over to the sky burial site. The man was unconscious. Kejun dressed his wounds and then carried him to his horse. He and the commander rode back to their unit, Kejun holding the injured man in front of him.
The unit tried to keep moving that evening, looking for a suitable place to set up camp, but everywhere they turned, they found the path barricaded by Tibetans, who hurled curses at them. They feared an attack at any moment.
Kejun saw terror in the soldiers’ faces. They believed self-sacrifice for the Revolution to be an honor, but they were petrified of Tibetan religious punishments, of which they had heard horrible rumors. Morale was extremely low. They had no water for cooking, few rations, and very little firewood to help them withstand the freezing conditions of a night on the plateau.
It was at this point in the diary that Kejun’s handwriting became untidy, as if written in a great hurry. Wen was tempted to read the final entry, so desperate was she to know the truth, but she carried on. She owed it to Kejun to read the whole story.
In his diary, Kejun debated with himself about what to do. The Tibetans clearly would not let them carry on with their journey. They wanted revenge for what Kejun had done. It was only a matter of time before they attacked the unit, and who knows how many soldiers would be massacred. The unit had sent a radio signal to their command post, but had received no reply. There was no certainty that relief would be sent. If they didn’t act soon, who knew what would happen.
Kejun felt that since he was the one who had caused this situation, he should go to the Tibetans and explain his actions. Perhaps that way he would win a truce for his comrades. He laid down his pen full of uncertainty about what the next day would hold.
At first light, Kejun went to check on the Tibetan he had rescued from the savage beaks of the vultures. By then he was able to swallow food and tell Kejun his name, Qiangba. With great difficulty, and pausing for breath after every sentence, he told Kejun what had happened.
He was a young lama from a monastery in the north, he explained. He had come to this area with other lamas to gather medicines, but they had encountered fierce fighting between the Tibetans and Chinese. To make matters worse, Qiangba had fallen ill. His lungs had become very weak and he was drifting in and out of consciousness. His companions took him to stay in a nearby monastery, but while they were there, news came that the Chinese army was approaching. In a panic, the lamas forced medicine down Qiangba’s throat, hid him on a mountain ridge outside the monastery, and fled.
Qiangba didn’t know exactly what happened next but he thought that his apparently lifeless body must have been found by a group of men on their way to perform a sky burial, and added to the corpses. He imagined that the men had fled the sky burial site on hearing of the approach of the Chinese. They had not had time to cover up the corpses, whose shrouds had just been taken off in preparation for dismemberment. Qiangba had regained consciousness just as a massive bird was attacking his chest.
His story told, Qiangba knelt at Kejun’s feet and thanked him for saving his life.
Kejun stopped him. “Do you think you can stand?” he asked.
The young lama nodded.
“Then come with me,” Kejun said, leading Qiangba to where the commander was eating his meager breakfast. He explained to the commander that Qiangba was willing to take him to find water and asked for permission to leave the unit. Impressed by Kejun’s courage, the commander readily agreed.
Kejun then sat down and scribbled the last entry in his diary. At the end of it, he wrote a letter to Wen.
My darling Wen,
If I don’t return today, others will tell
you what happened to me. Please understand
and forgive me.
I love you. If I am allowed into paradise,
I’ll make sure you live a safe and peaceful
life, and wait for you there. If I go to hell
for this, I will give everything I have to pay
the debts we both incurred in life, working
to give you the right to enter heaven when
your time comes. If I become a ghost, I’ll
watch over you at night and drive away
any spirits that trouble your rest. If I have
no place to go to, I’ll dissolve into the air
and be with you at your every breath.
Thank you, my love.
Your husband, who thinks of you day and
night,
Kejun
On this day, which both of us will never
forget.
Wen turned the next page, but the rest of the diary was blank.
She felt the room spin and a dark shadow fall over her. Then she fainted.
WHEN WEN came around it was pitch-dark in the tent except for a small, flickering butter lamp. Tiananmen and Zhuoma were sitting with their prayer wheels, muttering prayers for her. She fell into a deep sleep that seemed as bottomless as Lake Zhaling. In her dreams she heard the wistful singing of Qiangba the hermit.
She didn’t know how long she slept, but she awoke to find Zhuoma sitting beside her.
“There is something you should see,” Zhuoma said, taking her hand.
Outside the tent, more khata scarves than she could count were fluttering in the breeze and a crowd of people stood waiting for her. In the middle of this crowd, she could see Old Hermit Qiangba sitting on the ground, flanked by two lamas.
“He is not a ghost,” said Zhuoma. “He has ridden here from the monastery. He has had a recurring problem with his lungs ever since he was abandoned in the mountains as a young man. But he felt sufficiently recovered to come here to see you. He wanted to meet the wife of the man who saved his life.”
The hermit rose shakily to his feet and walked over to Wen. Presenting her with a khata scarf, he bowed deeply.
“Most respected hermit,” said Wen. “I have read in my husband’s diary that he wanted to explain to the angry men surrounding his unit why he had shot a sacred vulture. He took you with him. Please, can you tell me what happened?”
Qiangba sat down on the grass and signaled to Wen to sit beside him.
“Your husband told me that he knew a way to call back the sacred vulture that he had killed. He wanted me to take him to the men he had offended so that he could make amends for having disturbed the sky burial. I believed him. I led him to where the men were, up on the mountainside. First I foolishly tried to explain to them what had happened to me, but they wouldn’t listen. They looked at me in horror. They thought that I had been transformed into a ghost because demons had interrupted my burial. They believed that because one sacred vulture had been killed, no more vultures would return to earth and the Tibetan people would be consigned to hell. They were about to set upon us with knives when your husband pulled out his gun and fired a shot into the air. There was a momentary stillness and he used the opportunity to shout to the men to let me go.
“‘I beg you to listen,’ he said in faltering Tibetan. ‘Let this man go to my friends to tell them that I must remain here to put right my insult to the messengers of the spirits. I am going to call back the sacred vulture. Otherwise, none of your vultures will ever return and you will never enter heaven.’
“Reluctantly the men parted to let me through. As I was leaving, your husband passed me a bundle tied up in bandages.
“‘If anything happens to me,’ he said, ‘make sure my wife receives this.’
“I was still very weak and it was difficult for me to move away quickly. As soon as I was at a safe distance, I stopped to rest behind a thicket. From there I watched your husband lay down his pistol and prostrate himself on the ground. He then knelt before the crowd of men and addressed them. His words drifted over to my hiding place.