The Skull Mantra (27 page)

Feng slowed and read the map. “Khartok,” he said impatiently. “They call it Khartok.”

Shan grabbed one of the files provided by Tan, glanced at it, and threw his hand toward Sergeant Feng. “Stop. Now.”

“There isn't time,” Feng protested.

“You would rather leave before dawn tomorrow and come back here?”

“It is late. They will be preparing for last assembly, lighting
the lamps soon,” Yeshe said insistently. “We can try a telephone interview.”

Feng turned, looked into Shan's eyes, and without another word turned and moved back down the valley.

Yeshe groaned and covered his eyes with his hand, as if he could not bear to see more.

It wasn't pastures he had seen in front of the buildings. It was ruins, fields of stone that began half a mile from the gompa. There was no order to the stones. Some were in piles, others scattered as though they had been thrown from the overhanging mountains. But every stone had been squared by a mason.

Closer to the gompa the foundations of several buildings had been turned into gardens. A dozen figures in red robes leaned on their hoes to gaze at the unexpected vehicle. As they eased to a stop Shan saw that new construction lay beyond the foundations. The main wall was being rebuilt and extended. Stacks of fresh lumber and pallets of cement wrapped in plastic were arrayed along the treeline.

Yeshe lay on the back seat, an arm thrown over his eyes.

“You know gompas. You know the protocols,” Shan said impatiently. “I need you.”

Feng opened the rear door. “You're not sleeping, Comrade.” He pulled on Yeshe's arm. “Hell, you're panting like a cornered cat.”

Shan ventured into the courtyard alone. The same structures he had seen at Saskya were there, but freshly painted and on a much larger scale. Not one but five chortens were arranged about the grounds, capped by suns and moons of newly worked copper. A better investment, Shan remembered. Director Wen of the Religious Affairs Bureau had said Saskya was not permitted to rebuild because the gompa in the lower valley was a better investment.

A middle-aged monk with a row of gold embroidery on his sleeve appeared on the steps of the assembly hall. He threw his arms out in a gesture of welcome and trotted down the steps. Shan watched as the other monks looked up at the newcomer. Some nodded deferentially, others quickly averted their eyes. The man was a senior lama, probably the abbot. But why, Shan wondered, didn't the man seemed surprised
to see him? The lama interrupted a young student who was raking the gravel and dispatched him into the hall, then pointed toward an herb garden in the shelter of the wall. Shan silently followed him into the garden. Wooden benches were arranged in rows between the plant beds, as though for students receiving instruction. At the end of the garden an old monk was on his knees, pulling weeds.

“We will have the plans finished soon,” the lama announced as soon as Shan sat on the front bench.

“Plans?” The young monk appeared with a tray of tea, poured it for them, and retreated with a hurried bow of his head.

“For the first restoration of the college buildings. Tell Wen Li that the plans are almost finished.” There was something odd about the lama's demeanor. Shan searched for a way to describe it. Social, he decided. Almost urbane.

“No. We are here about Dilgo Gongsha.”

The lama did not relent. “Yes, the plans are nearly complete,” he said, as though the topics were connected. “The Bei Da Union is helping, you know. We are helping each other with our reconstructions.”

“The Bei Da Union?”

The lama paused and looked at Shan as though for the first time. “Who are you, then?”

“An investigation team. From Colonel Tan's office. I am reviewing the facts of the Dilgo Gongsha matter. He was a resident here, was he not?”

The lama's eyes slowly surveyed Shan, then shifted to Feng and Yeshe, who were inching along the shadows of the walls. As the two passed a small gathering of monks, someone called out in surprise, as if in greeting. Someone else called, in a tone Shan didn't recognize at first. Anger. Yeshe moved behind Feng.

“The last time we saw Dilgo,” a gentle voice announced from behind Shan, “he was passing into that peculiar hell for souls taken by violence.” Shan's host stood and put his palms together in greeting. It was the old monk who had been tending weeds. His robe was stained from garden work, his fingernails filled with dirt. “We performed the rights of Bardo. By now he is an infant. He will grow to bless those
around him once again.” He had a twinkle in his eyes, as though the memory of Dilgo caused him joy.

“Abbot,” the lama said with a bow of his head. “Forgive me. I thought you were in your meditation cell.”

Abbot? Shan looked in confusion at the first lama.

“You have met our
chandzoe
,” the abbot offered, noticing Shan's glance. “Welcome to Khartok.”

“Chandzoe?”
It was not a term Shan had heard in any of the winter tales.

“The manager of our secular affairs,” the abbot explained.

“Secular affairs?”

“Business manager,” the first lama interjected, pouring a cup of tea for the abbot and gesturing for him to sit.

“Why would you speak of our Dilgo?” The abbot asked the question the way a child might, with wide, innocent eyes.

“He was found guilty of killing a man by stuffing his throat with pebbles. The man happened to be the Director of the Religious Affairs Bureau.”

The
chandzoe
frowned. The abbot looked into his teacup.

“In the old days it was the traditional method for killing members of the imperial family,” Shan said. “Even in battle they could only be taken and later suffocated.”

“Forgive me,” the
chandzoe
said. “I do not understand your point.” He seemed to be expressing not confusion, but disappointment with Shan.

“Only that it was a very traditional sort of murder for a senior government official.”

“And as they said at trial,” the
chandzoe
said with a hint of impatience. “Khartok is a very traditional gompa. You cannot execute Dilgo twice.” A murmur among the monks in the courtyard caught Shan's attention. He followed their stares toward Feng and Yeshe, in the shadow near the edge of the garden.

“If I were going to murder someone I would be sure not to use a method that would be associated with me or my beliefs.”

Suddenly the
chandzoe
stood. “Yeshe?” he called out. “Is it Yeshe Retang?”

Yeshe cowered a moment at the corner of the garden, then saw the enthusiasm in the
chandzoe
's face and stepped
closer. “It is, Rinpoche. I am honored you remember.”

The
chandzoe
threw out his arms again, in the expression Shan had seen when he first appeared on the stairs, and moved to pull Yeshe out of the shadow. Yeshe stood stiffly, glancing uneasily at Shan.

The
chandzoe
shifted his eyes from Shan to Yeshe, obviously confused.

“My detention has recently concluded, Rinpoche. I am on this assignment now. Temporarily.”

Yeshe cast a pleading glance at Shan, which the
chandzoe
seemed to follow with great interest. The
chandzoe
watched Shan now, waiting for Shan to speak. The Chinese in charge.

“His commitment to reform was exemplary,” Shan heard himself say. “He has unusual qualities of—he searched for a word—“dedication.”

The
chandzoe
nodded with satisfaction.

“I can get a job in Sichuan, I think,” Yeshe said uneasily.

“Why not return here?” the
chandzoe
asked.

“My record. I cannot be licensed.”

“Your reeducation is completed. I could talk to Director Wen.” He spoke as though he were somehow obligated to Yeshe.

Yeshe's eyes grew round with surprise. “But the quota.”

The
chandzoe
shrugged. “Even if it's a problem, we have no quota on workers for the reconstruction.” He pulled Yeshe's hands open and squeezed one. “Please come see the new works,” he said, and pulled Yeshe toward the assembly hall. Slowly, with tiny steps that made it seem he was fighting an invisible force, Yeshe moved toward the hall. As he did so, Shan saw another monk on the steps, facing Yeshe. His hands formed a
mudra
that seemed aimed at Yeshe.

Yeshe looked to Shan in confusion. Shan nodded, and the two men moved across the courtyard.

The abbot watched the
chandzoe
without expression, then sighed and turned to Shan. “You assume that murderers lie,” he said, as if he had not noticed the interruption. “Dilgo would not lie. It would violate his vows.”

“Did he do the killing, then?” Shan asked.

The abbot would not answer.

“Taking a life would have been a far more severe violation of his rules,” Shan pointed out.

The abbot finished his tea and dabbed his mouth with the sleeve of his robe. “They are both prohibited by the 235 rules,” he said, referring to the rules of conduct prescribed for an ordained priest.

“I am confused,” Shan said. “Those who break their vows are reincarnated as lower life forms. You have already said you believe him to have returned as a human.”

“I, too, am confused. What exactly do you want of us?”

“A simple answer. Do you believe that Dilgo killed the Director of Religious Affairs?”

“The government exercised its authority. Dilgo did not protest. The case was closed.”

Why did it surprise him, Shan thought, to find that the head of a thriving gompa was also a politician? “Did he do it?”

“Everyone has a different path to Buddhahood.”

“Did he do it?”

The abbot sighed and looked into a passing cloud. “It would have been more likely for Mt. Kailas to collapse into the earth from the weight of one bird than for Dilgo to commit such an act.”

Shan nodded heavily. “Another such bird has been set into flight.”

The abbot looked with a new sadness into Shan's eyes.

“Do you ever think about it, about where the sin lies?” Shan asked.

“I do not understand.”

“It is easy for them; it is the way they stay in power. Danger is part of power, like shadow is part of light. Sometimes, if no one threatens it, it must invent threats. It is just as easy for you, to justify what happened to Dilgo. You probably decided that it is as much the nature of things as the tidal wave of soldiers that washed over the gompas in 1959. It was his destiny, you can say, and besides, Dilgo is reincarnated in a better life. But it is not so easy for those in between.”

The abbot no longer looked into Shan's eyes.

“Did you expel Dilgo?”

“He was not expelled.”

“He was convicted of murder but you did not expel him. Instead you performed the rites of Bardo for him.”

The abbot looked into his hands.

Shan consulted his notebook. “They found his rosary at the murder scene. A very special rosary. Beads carved like tiny pine cones, made out of pink coral, with lapis marker beads. Very old. Must have been brought from India. The file said it was unique, the only one of its kind.”

“It was his rosary,” the abbot confirmed. His voice grew very still. “It was the proof against him.”

“Did he explain how it got there?”

“He could not explain it.”

“Had he lost it?”

“No. He did not miss it. In fact, he said he had it when he was arrested, when he was taken from his pallet, still sleeping. It was a miracle perhaps, that it could have been transported somewhere and returned that way. Dilgo said maybe it was a message.”

“Why did he not protest?” Shan said. “Why did he not argue his defense? If you knew he was innocent, why did you not defend him?”

“We did everything we could.”

“Everything?” Shan slowly pulled the case file from the canvas bag he was carrying and dropped it on the bench between them. Shan had read the statement prepared for the abbot. The abbot had condemned the act of violence and apologized on behalf of the gompa and the church.

The abbot stared at the file, then looked up without blinking. “Everything.”

He was wrong to expect any of them to feel guilty, Shan realized. Everyone in the drama of Dilgo, from the abbot to Prosecutor Jao, even to the accused, had played his role correctly.

The abbot rose and began to move back to his weeds.

“Then tell me this,” Shan said to his back. “Have you heard that a Buddhist demon was at the site of the murder?”

The abbot turned with a frown. “Traditions die hard.”

“So you did hear such a rumor?”

“Whenever a public figure dies there will be those who
say it was this demon or that spirit who took revenge.”

“And there was such a report that night?”

“There was a full moon that night. A herder reported that he saw the horse-headed demon on a hill above the highway, doing something like a dance. The one called Tamdin. Among the pebbles that suffocated the Director of Religious Affairs was one bead, a rosary bead in the shape of a skull. The kind that Tamdin carries.” Shan had touched such a rosary. The rosary of a demon.

“A shrine was built by the local people, on the spot, to praise their protector.”

Doing a dance on a hill by the highway. Under a full moon. As though, Shan considered, Tamdin wanted to be seen.

“Shrines were built after the other murders, too. People say a truck driver saw Tamdin when the Director of Mines was killed. As I said, there're always such rumors when an official dies. Tamdin is a favorite of the people. Very fierce, no mercy in defending the church. A very old demon, one of those they call a country god, from the old Tibetan shamans before the days of Buddhism. As the people evolved to Buddha they brought Tamdin with them.”

From the other side of the courtyard a sudden uproar of animals interrupted them. A gate had been opened and a huge pack of dogs was entering. Priests were feeding the dogs, more dogs than Shan had ever seen gathered in one place. He saw at least thirty and more were trotting through the gate.