THE DAY following the opera was to be given over to horse racing, but Wen and Zhuoma were oblivious to the excitement and commotion of the preparations as they made their way toward the lake. As they approached the place where they had seen the hermit, Wen was filled with anticipation. But to her dismay the stone where the hermit had sat was empty and none of the people drawing water at the lakeside knew where he had gone. The two women rushed back to ask the crowds watching the horse races, but no one there knew anything either. They waited the whole day at the lakeside but the hermit didn’t return. The mysterious singer had vanished, taking his story with him.
Everyone they spoke to was sure he would be back: he was the guardian spirit of the lake. But for Wen, yet another hope had evaporated and the disappointment was almost too much to bear. Feeling as if she were on the verge of madness, she broke away from the others and galloped wildly around the lake, shouting the names of Kejun and Qiangba into the wind.
For several days, Wen did not speak. Zhuoma tried to console her by telling her that they were bound to find someone else who knew more about the local legend of the Chinese menba, but Wen was unable to answer. It was as if the endless succession of blows and disappointments had robbed her of all her powers of expression.
It was Tiananmen who roused her. Early one morning, he and Zhuoma saddled the horses and encouraged Wen to join them on a ride to a nearby mountainside.
“I would like to take you to see a sky burial site,” said Tiananmen quietly.
A SKY burial had just taken place when the three friends arrived on the mountaintop. White khata scarves and streamers were fluttering in the breeze; little scraps of paper money danced and turned on the ground like snowflakes. They found themselves in a large gated enclosure in the center of which was a sunken area paved with stone. There was a walkway flanked by two stone altars.
As they stood talking, a man walked up to them and introduced himself as the sky burial master. He asked if he could help. Tiananmen stepped forward and bowed.
“We would like to learn about sky burial,” he said.
Although the sky burial master looked a little surprised to be asked such a thing, he was not unwilling to grant their request.
“Humans are part of nature,” he began. “We arrive in the world naturally and we leave it naturally. Life and death are part of a wheel of reincarnation. Death is not to be feared. We look forward eagerly to our next life. When a smoking fire of mulberry branches is lit in a sky burial site, it rolls out a five-colored road between heaven and earth, which entices the spirits down to the altar. The corpse becomes an offering to the spirits and we call upon them to carry the soul up to heaven. The mulberry smoke draws down eagles, vultures, and other sacred scavengers, who feed upon the corpse. This is done in imitation of the Buddha Sakyamuni, who sacrificed himself to feed the tigers.”
Wen quietly asked the master to explain in detail how the corpse was laid out for the vultures.
“First the body is washed,” he said, “and shaved of all head and body hair. Then it is wrapped in a shroud of white cloth and placed in a sitting position with its head bowed on its knees. When an auspicious day has been chosen, the corpse is carried on the back of a special bearer to the sky burial altar. Lamas come from the local monastery to send the spirit on its way and, as they chant the scriptures that release the soul from purgatory, the sky burial master blows a horn, lights the mulberry fire to summon the vultures, and dismembers the body, smashing the bones in an order prescribed by ritual. The body is dismembered in different ways, according to the cause of death, but, whichever way is chosen, the knife work must be flawless, otherwise demons will come to steal the spirit.”
A memory of the dissection classes at her university passed before Wen’s mind, but she forced herself to continue listening.
“Do the birds ever refuse to eat a body?” she asked.
“Because the vultures prefer eating the flesh to the bones,” the sky burial master replied, “we feed the bones to the birds first. Sometimes we mix the smashed bone with yak butter. When somebody has taken a lot of herbal medicine, his body will taste strongly of that medicine and the vultures don’t like it. Butter and other additions help make it more palatable. It is essential that the whole body be eaten. Otherwise the corpse will be taken over by demons.”
Wen stood and looked at the sky burial site for some time. She heard Tiananmen ask the sky burial master whether it was true that one sky burial master had kept back the heads of all the corpses brought to him and built them into a vast wall of skulls because he had witnessed a murder when he was a child and wanted to keep the ghost of the murderer at bay. She didn’t listen to the master’s answer. She was trying to reconcile herself to the idea of allowing the sharp, ravenous beak of a vulture to break into the flesh of a loved one. In the time she had been in Tibet, she had grown to understand many of the things that had, at first, horrified and disgusted her. The Buddhist faith was now a part of her life. Why, then, was it so difficult for her to believe, as Zhuoma and Tiananmen did, that sky burial was a natural and sacred rite and not an act of barbarity? If Kejun was the Chinese menba people spoke of, would she be able to bear it?
As they were leaving, she turned to the sky burial master.
“Have you ever performed a sky burial for a Chinese?” she asked.
The master looked at her curiously. “Never,” he said. “But Old Hermit Qiangba, who sits beside Lake Zhaling, sings of such a thing.”
BACK AT Lake Zhaling, the three friends pitched their tent near the place where Qiangba used to sing so that they could ask the people who came there to collect water whether they knew what had happened to the hermit. Some people told them that Qiangba had walked away over the waves, singing as he went. Others said that his chanting had called the spirits to him and they had summoned him to heaven. But the three of them refused to believe that Qiangba had gone forever, taking their hopes with him.
On the point of despair, they decided to go and make an offering of a mani stone in the hope that it would bring them good fortune. Just as they were making preparations to go, a tall man galloped up to their tent.
“Are you the people looking for Old Hermit Qiangba?”
The three of them nodded in assent, all completely taken aback.
“Then come with me.”
Before the words were out, the man had steered his horse back around and whipped it on. With no pause for thought, Wen and the others threw down their bags, jumped onto their horses, and set off in pursuit of the stranger.
Soon they arrived at a tent. They handed their horses’ reins to a woman waiting outside and followed the man in. Next to the stove they saw someone sleeping, a thick quilt wrapped around him. Only his pale face was visible.
“Qiangba!” Wen whispered. From the sound of the hermit’s breathing, she could tell that his lungs were very weak.
The Tibetan man gestured at them to stay quiet, then took them outside. He guessed from their anxious expressions what it was they were about to ask, and he told them to sit down on the grass.
“Don’t worry, I’ll explain. One morning a week or so ago, my two daughters came back from fetching water from the lake and said that Old Hermit Qiangba was just sitting there, not singing. My wife thought this unusual and suggested I go and see for myself. So that very day, I rode with my daughters to the lakeside. As they’d said, the hermit was just sitting there in silence, his head bent right over. I walked up to him, shouting his name, but he didn’t move or respond in any way. He didn’t look well, so I tried shaking him, but he just slumped over. I saw that both of his eyes were screwed shut, and that his forehead and hands were very hot, so I carried him back here on my horse. We have tried giving him some herbal medicine, but it doesn’t seem to have had much effect. Although his fever has gone down, he just sleeps all the time and doesn’t say anything. We were thinking of sending him to the monastery nearby to be treated by the lamas.
“Today, when my daughter cam
e back from fetching water, she said she’d heard you’d been staying by the lake for several days, asking after the hermit, so I came looking for you.” He glanced inside the tent. “Although everyone around here loves and reveres Old Hermit Qiangba, no one knows where he comes from. All we know is that twenty years ago, he miraculously appeared here and began watching over the lake and singing about King Gesar, Mount Anyemaqen, and our great Tibetan spirits. Sometimes he also sings about how a Chinese menba stopped the fighting between Chinese and Tibetans in this region. People fetching water bring him food, but none of us knows where he lives. Sometimes, people see him talking to lamas from the nearby monastery. Some say that the lamas know all about his past, but I’m not sure. We only come to the Hundred Lakes for the spring and summer.”
Although Zhuoma tried to persuade the man that he should allow Wen to take a look at the hermit, the man was adamant that he wished to take him to the nearby monastery. Nor would he allow Zhuoma or Wen to accompany him, since women were not allowed in the monastery and this one had no guesthouse. After a brief discussion, Wen and Zhuoma decided that Tiananmen should go with Qiangba while they would pitch camp nearby and wait for news.
IT WAS many days before Tiananmen returned. Wen could do nothing but wait. She sat in the grass outside the tent and whispered to herself over and over again, “Om mani padme hum.” Zhuoma brought her food and helped her lay out her bedding at night. The rest of the time she allowed Wen to remain lost in her thoughts.
When at last Wen saw Tiananmen’s horse in the distance, she stood up. He rode straight to her and, without dismounting, passed her a bundle wrapped in yellowing bandages.
“For many years,” he said, “Old Hermit Qiangba has kept this safe at the monastery. All he knows about its contents is that they are to be given to a Chinese woman from Suzhou called Shu Wen. He has tried many times to find someone who would take it to Suzhou for him, but no traveler was able to help him. His lungs are a little better now. He has spoken to me about his experiences. I think the package must be for you.”
8
THE LOVE OF SKY BURIAL
In the tent, Wen sat transfixed by the bundle. She could almost feel it breathing, waiting to come alive at her command. Finally, with trembling hands, she untied the familiar bandages—the sort used by doctors across China. Inside were two notebooks. Not much was written in either book, but every stroke of every character had been written by the man who had occupied her thoughts day and night for as long as she could remember. Wen’s blood was pounding in her veins. After so many years of searching and uncertainty, finally she felt she could see, hear, and feel her husband. Slowly she leafed through the pages, hardly daring to touch them in case they crumbled in her hands. One of the notebooks contained medical notes, recording the ailments that Kejun and his comrades had encountered on entering Tibet and details of their treatment. The other was a diary. On its first page, it said that it was written for Kejun’s wife, Shu Wen, for whom Kejun longed with all his heart.
Neither Zhuoma nor Tiananmen knew what to say to Wen, who was trembling and sobbing. No words or gestures could stop the flow of tears that had been accumulating for so long.
Tiananmen lit a lamp and hung it near her. Beside her he placed a flask of oil with which to replenish it. Zhuoma added a few more dung cakes to the fire, then arranged a quilt for Wen by the blaze and guided her over to it. The two of them then silently left the tent.
Wen began reading the diary with great trepidation. In neat handwriting, which grew more erratic over the course of the entries, was recorded the story of what had happened to Kejun.
The first pages were entirely taken up by Kejun’s surprise at the resistance his unit was meeting from the Tibetans. During his training he had been led to believe that negotiations between the Chinese government and Tibetan religious leaders had been entirely successful. He had been told that their “warmhearted, honest Tibetan compatriots” welcomed the People’s Liberation Army with open arms. His classes on Tibetan customs and government policy toward minorities had done little to prepare him for the aggression he encountered. His unit was composed of young, illiterate peasants whose heads were full of Communist slogans: “Liberate the whole of China!,” “On with the Revolution to the end!” They believed that all resistance to them was “counterrevolutionary.” Kejun and the unit’s commander were the only educated soldiers. Gradually they realized that the Tibetans’ hostility stemmed from the fact that they believed the Chinese were unearthly demons sent to destroy their religion. The Tibetans’ savagery was legendary: they would not rest until they had torn these demons to pieces. The Chinese soldiers had retaliated.
For weeks Kejun’s unit made its way north on horseback, taking great care to skirt areas where Tibetans were living or keeping their flocks. Then one evening as the sun was setting, they heard cries of agony coming from the mountainside. The commander and Kejun—who could both speak a little Tibetan—went on ahead to investigate. As they got closer to the terrible sound, they saw a scene that froze them with horror. A flock of vultures was feeding upon a pile of blood-soaked bodies, one of which was alive and struggling desperately to beat off the birds of prey. Before the commander could stop him, Kejun—with his sense of responsibility toward the sick and injured—whipped out his revolver and shot one of the vultures.
There was a flurry of wings as the birds flew into the air—then an awful silence. The injured man lay twitching on the ground. Kejun was about to walk over to him when a roar of rage cut through the air like a hurricane. He looked up and saw, on the hillside above him, a group of angry Tibetans glaring at him. A shiver ran down his spine. He realized that in his haste to help a dying man, he had intruded on a funeral rite and shot dead a sacred bird. He was terrified to think about the consequences of his rash act—he was also confused as to why no one had been present at the funeral to chant the scriptures, and why a man who was still alive had been left with the corpses.
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.