Prayer of the Dragon

“Everything here is very old,” Dolma offered. “From the time before the first Buddhists arrived in Tibet.”

Hostene nodded. “That’s the reason she came here. But where does the path lead? Why is it hidden? We will find her on the path.” Pleading was in his tone now. “I must find her.”

“This place, this cave, was meant to be an ending,” Trinle said. “Here the lamas tried to convince the travelers to turn back. This was the place between the worlds. When we came here from the village we had to undergo purification rites before we could even enter. This is where the lamas prepared themselves to repair the trail each summer.”

Hostene searched Shan’s face, as if he might be able to explain the riddle of the old Tibetan’s words.

“I think,” Shan said, “we have to understand exactly what was destroyed at Drango village fifty years ago.”

Yangke leaned forward in intense anticipation as Dolma began to speak.

“The temple had been part of the oldest sect of the Bon,” she explained. “Its roots arose from a time before history. Its monks considered Drango to be more like a spiritual guardhouse than a temple.”

“Guardhouse?”

Trinle glanced around the shadows as if for eavesdroppers, then leaned forward. “It guards the entrance to the hidden home of the old gods,” he declared, “the ones from before time, led by the dragon god who protects the earth.”

The announcement seemed to release a torrent of emotion, and memory. The old man spoke quickly now, not always coherently. “Look at this! Look at this!” he said with a gesture at Hostene. Trinle touched the Navajo, pushed his sleeve up, pointing now to the tattooed figure made of lightning bolts. “The Old Ones said this is where all the lightning in the world begins. This one understands!” he said, looking at Hostene as if he had never seen him before. “This one was summoned!”

When Hostene and Shan stared uncertainly, Trinle exclaimed in a sober tone, “Your niece was called here by the first gods.”

The first gods, Trinle continued, had confided to the early Tibetans the location of a special door to their bayal, the underground paradise where gods and saints lived in lush gardens and assumed the shape of rainbows whenever they chose.

Hostene pulled out his map of the mountain. “If that is where the path goes, show it to us. It can’t be to the summit. The summit is surrounded by cliffs.”

Trinle did not seem to understand the question.

“It’s not like that,” came a dry, weary voice from behind them. Lokesh stepped into the ring of light. He poured himself a cup of Yangke’s tea, but did not touch the food. “The more you rely on such a map, the farther away you’ll be.”

“The path was never intended for the gentle Buddhist pilgrims,” Yangke said, “I know that much. It was more of a spiritual obstacle course.”

Trinle nodded. “The Bon pilgrims led a harder existence. Many had been warriors. Salvation was to be won, like victory in war. The path was an ordeal, meant to be terrifying. It wasn’t a reward, but a judgment. They hoped the pilgrims would turn away here. People died on the kora, or else they were transformed into rainbow bodies to become saints. Start as a worm, end as a god, that’s what the oldest lamas used to say. It was said there were certain reincarnates, special messengers of the deities, who would be born with the knowledge of how to find the path.” The old man said apologetically, “The only ones who knew more died in the bombing. Even they rarely used the old path. It’s been over seventy years since anyone tried.”

“Was the equipment I saw inside intended for the pilgrims?” Shan asked. He quickly explained to Hostene and Yangke what lay in the chamber deeper in the cave.

“It was to help them achieve humility,” Trinle confirmed. “To discourage them, to weaken them with doubt. Even the most devout were begged to turn back so they could see their families again.”

“What do you mean?”

“Sometimes the devout made it to the top, to the end of the trail. But none of them came back.”

Shan remembered Rapaki’s letter to his uncle, who had set out to find the gods over thirty years before.

“So,” Yangke summarized, “the ones who failed came back as corpses and the ones who succeeded were never seen on earth again. And that was before there was a murderer on the mountain.”

The words seemed to take everyone’s breath away. They ate in silence, watching the stars, stirring the embers.

“It is not the way of things,” Lokesh said. And though Lokesh was staring at the fire, Shan knew the words were meant for him.

“It is not worth it. You are simply rearranging stones in a stream.”

It was a lesson often repeated to Shan by Lokesh and Gendun and the other monks they lived with. What point was there in trying to manipulate events in the outer world, they would ask. The stream of destiny would not change. No matter how many rocks you rearranged in the stream, the water would always replace them and continue its fated course.

“We cannot simply wait below,” Shan said, also to the embers.

“You must stay below,” his friend said. “This kora is very old, almost totally unconnected to humans.” His words, even his voice, had an otherworldly quality. “It could be the last one on earth. This druk god, this dragon god, could be the only hope for our people. You can’t go up the path to chase a criminal, you can’t ascend like animals following a trail of blood or this last god will give up and abandon humans altogether.”

Despair settled over Shan. “I don’t know how to stop searching,” he said.

Without another word, Lokesh stood and hobbled away.

“There are bags here, in the chamber below,” Trinle said later. “Those who refused to turn back here were given a pilgrim’s sack, a blanket, and a staff, and told these were the things needed on the trail. Sometimes, if a lama was going on, he would ask to have a wooden collar or manacles put on as well.”

“Tell me, Trinle,” Shan said. “Is any equipment missing?”

“Some bags, though I can’t say how many. And some things kept in one of the baskets.”

“What things?”

Trinle stroked his grizzled jaw. “Ornaments for the Green Tara. A golden headdress, a green vestment, golden bracelets. Sometimes they evoked her by having a nun wear those things at the altar.”

“I don’t understand,” Yangke said. “Is Abigail accompanying a pilgrim or a killer? It must be a killer, for he always flees, always hides, always expresses himself in blood. It must be a pilgrim, for who else would be interested in the old path? But either way, why should he care if Abigail lives?”

“Because she can read the old symbols,” Hostene ventured.

“There’s another reason,” Shan said, and extracted the photo Gao had printed for him in Tashtul.

Yangke took it from him, holding a lamp over it, studying it. Then his eyes widened in surprise. “Buddha’s Breath!” he gasped. He handed the picture to Lokesh, who gazed at it a few moments, then began to nod.

Shan took the photo and explained it to the others. He pointed to Abigail’s extended leg first. “It’s called the position of royal repose, one of the customary symbols in the old paintings.” He pointed to her upswept hair, her golden earrings, the flowers in her hair, her hand resting on one knee, her green sweater.

“I don’t understand,” Hostene said. “This was taken on our afternoon off. I insisted she have some rest. We picnicked.”

Shan pointed to a tiny detail in the upper corner of the photo. “That is the back of a wild goat on the ledge above the rock she sat on. Look at the way it juts out. The goat could not have seen her. He was spooked by something on the opposite slope, someone who was watching you from above. Rapaki was up there. There is a prophesy that the Green Tara will come back to help Tibetans.”

“Abigail,” Hostene uttered in a hoarse voice. “He thinks Abigail is the Green Tara.”

“The one thing of Tara’s she doesn’t have,” Shan observed, “was the long beaded necklace Hubei was to buy in town.”

“So she is safe,” Hostene said.

“Safe from the pilgrim,” Shan said, “but not from the killer.”