The Skull Mantra (15 page)

He studied the chalk signs again. Had the pilgrim been here? Had the pilgrim been watching the 404th? He climbed back up to the crest, hoping to catch a glimpse of the red robe, but the pilgrim was out of sight. He moved southward again along the slope, looking for signs of the pilgrim's path. There was another goat path, but no sign of humankind, no sign of a demon.

He steered toward a rock outcropping that jutted from the side of the ridge, deciding that he would return to Feng and Yeshe when he reached it. But when he arrived at the huge rock formation he heard a bleating that carried him farther. Behind the rocks, shielded from the wind, was a pool of water. A small flock of sheep lay beside the pool, basking in the warmth. They watched him as he approached, but did not shy away. Shan squatted at the water, washed his face, then lay back on a flat rock that had gathered the sun's heat.

Without the wind the sunshine was luxuriant. He watched the animals for several minutes, then, on a whim, grabbed a handful of the gravel at the bottom of the rock and began to count the stones. It was a trick his father had taught him. Place the stones in piles of six and the number left would be used as the bottom digit in the tetragram for reading the Tao Te Ching. Four stones were left after the first round, indicating a broken line of two segments. He grabbed three more handfuls, until he built a tetragram of two solid lines over a triple segment and the double segment. In the Tao ritual it meant Passage Eight.

The greatest good is like water. The value of water is that it nourishes without striving.

He spoke the words out loud, with his eyes closed.

It stays in places that others disdain and therefore is close to the way of life.

It was the way he had learned with his father. They would use stones or rice—or on special occasions the ancient lacquered
yarrow sticks that had belonged to his grandfather—then close their eyes and speak the verse.

In his mind's eye he conjured his father. They were alone, the two of them, in the secret temple in Beijing that had nourished them through so many difficult years. His heart leapt. For the first time in over two years he could hear his father's voice, echoing the verse. It was still there, not lost as he had feared, waiting in some remote corner of his mind for such a moment. He smelled the ginger that was always in his father's pocket. If he opened his eyes he would see the serene smile, made forever crooked by a Red Guard's boot. Shan lay motionless, exploring an alien feeling he suspected might be pleasure.

When he at last opened his eyes, the sheep had been spirited away. He had not heard them leave, and he could not see them on the slope. He rose with a peaceful expression, turned and froze. On a rock shelf above him sat a small figure bundled in an oversized sheepskin coat and wearing a red wool cap. He was smiling with great pleasure at Shan.

How had the man arrived so quietly? What had he done with the sheep?

“Spring sun is the best,” the figure said in a voice that was strong and calm and high-pitched. It wasn't a man—it was a boy, an adolescent.

Shan shrugged uncertainly. “Your sheep are gone.”

The youth laughed. “No. They are thinking I am gone. They will find me later. We only keep them so they will take us to high places. A meditation technique, in a way. It's always different. Today they brought me to you.”

“A meditation technique?” Shan asked, not sure he had heard properly.

“You're one of them, aren't you?” the boy asked abruptly.

Shan did not know how to answer.

“Han. Chinese.” There was no spite in the boy's words, only curiosity. “I've never seen one.”

Shan stared at the boy in confusion. They were fifteen miles from the county seat. Twenty miles from a garrison of the PLA, and the boy had never seen a Han.

“But I have studied the works of Lao Tzu,” the boy said, suddenly switching to fluent Mandarin.

So he had been there all the while. “You speak well for one who has never met a Han,” Shan said, likewise in Mandarin.

The boy swung his legs out over the ledge. “We live in a land of teachers,” he observed matter-of-factly. “Passage Seventy-one,” he said, referring to the Tao Te Ching again. “You know Seventy-one?”

“To know that you do not know is best,”
Shan recited.
“To not know of knowing is a disease.”
He considered the enigmatic boy. He spoke like a monk but was far too young. “Have you tried Twenty-four?
The way of life means continuing. Continuing means going far. Going far means returning.”

Pleasure lit the boy's face again. He repeated the passage.

“Does your family live on the mountain?”

“My sheep live on the mountain,” the boy replied.

“Who does live on the mountain?” Shan pressed.

“The sheep live on the mountain,” the boy repeated. He picked up a pebble. “Why did you come?”

“I think I am looking for Tamdin.”

The boy nodded, as though expecting the answer. “When he is awakened the unpure must fear.”

Shan noticed a rosary on his wrist, a very old rosary carved of sandalwood.

“Will you be able to turn your face toward Tamdin when you find him?” the boy asked.

Shan swallowed hard and considered the strange boy. It seemed the wisest question anyone could ask. “I don't know. What do you think?”

The serene smile returned to the boy's face. “The sound of the water is what I think,” he said, and threw the pebble into the center of the pool.

Shan watched the circles ripple the surface, then turned. The boy was gone.

Feng was asleep against the rock cairn when he returned. Yeshe was sitting at the bridge, not five feet from where Shan had left him. The rancor had left his face.

“See any ghosts?” he asked Shan.

Shan looked back over the slope. “I don't know.”

 

As Sergeant Feng cleared the last ridge and began to descend onto the plateau, he slowed the truck to consult the map. “Supposed to be a mine,” he mumbled. “Nobody said anything about a fish farm.”

Stretching below them were acres of manmade lakes, vast, neat rectangles arrayed across the high plain. Shan studied the scene in confusion. Three long, low buildings sat at the end of the road, arranged in a line in front of the lakes.

There was no activity at the mine, but a military truck was parked in front of the buildings. Tan had sent his engineers. A dozen men in green uniforms were clustered around the entrance to the center structure, listening to someone who sat on the step.

Shan and Yeshe were ignored as they ventured from the truck. But the moment Sergeant Feng emerged, the soldiers looked up. They quickly dispersed, studiously avoiding eye contact with their visitors. The figure sitting on the step was revealed, holding a clipboard. It was the American mine manager, Rebecca Fowler. Why, Shan suddenly wondered, would Tan send his engineers if the Ministry of Geology had suspended the mine's operating permit?

The American's only greeting was a frown. “The colonel's office called. Said you want to speak to us.” She rose, holding the clipboard to her chest with folded arms as she spoke in slow, precise Mandarin. “But I don't know how to explain you to my team. He used the word
unofficial
.”

“Theoretically this is an investigation for the Ministry of Justice.”

“But you're not from the Ministry.”

“In China,” suggested Shan, “dealing with the government is something of an art form.”

“He said it was about Jao. But he'd like to keep that secret. A theoretical investigation. Theoretical and secret,” she said with challenge in her eyes.

“A monk has been arrested. It is no longer much of a secret.”

“Then the matter is resolved.”

“There is the matter of developing evidence.”

“A monk was arrested without evidence? You mean he confessed?”

“Not exactly.”

The American woman threw her arms up in exasperation. “Like getting my working papers. I applied from California. They said no working papers could be authorized because I wasn't here working. I said I would come here and apply. They said I couldn't travel here without working papers.”

“You should have told them the capital for your project would not be transferred unless you were here to verify receipt.”

Fowler flashed him a grimace that may have been part grin. “I did better. After sending faxes for three months I bought a ticket with a Japanese tour group to Lhasa. Hitched a ride to Jao's office in a truck and asked him to arrest me. Because I was about to start managing the county's only foreign investment without my working papers.”

“That's how you met him?”

She nodded. “He thought about it for a few minutes and burst out laughing. Had the papers for me in two hours.” She gestured toward the door and led them inside, into a large open room filled with desks arranged in two large squares. A few were occupied by Tibetans wearing white shirts. Most of them left the room as soon as they saw their visitors.

Fowler waited for them at the door to a conference room adjacent to the front door. But Shan moved to one of the desks. It was covered with strange maps of brilliant colors and no demarcation lines. He had never seen such a map before.

Fowler stepped to his side and threw a newspaper over the maps. An office worker called out that tea was ready in the conference room. Yeshe and Sergeant Feng followed him in.

Shan lingered at the desks. He spotted photographs of Buddhist artifacts, small statues of deities, prayer wheels, ceremonial horns, small
thankga
paintings on scrolled silk, all extended like trophies by anonymous arms. No faces
were shown. “I am confused. Are you a geologist or an archaeologist?”

“The United Nations makes inventories of antiquities deserving preservation. They are part of the heritage of mankind. They do not belong to political parties.”

“But you don't work for the United Nations.”

“Don't you believe there are things that are common to all mankind?” she asked.

“I'm afraid so.”

Rebecca Fowler stared at Shan uncertainly, then went for tea. Shan roamed around the square of desks. On the perimeter, behind walls of glass panels, there were two offices, labeled
PROJECT MANAGER
and
CHIEF ENGINEER
. Fowler's office was cluttered with files and more of the peculiar maps. The walls of the second office were hung with photos of Tibetans—candid, artful photos of children and ruined temples and windswept prayer flags. A shelf along one wall was filled with books about Tibet, in English.

A group photograph of a dozen exuberant men and women hung on the wall outside Fowler's office. Shan recognized Fowler, the blond American with wire-rimmed glasses, Assistant Prosecutor Li, and Chief Prosecutor Jao.

“The dedication of this building,” Fowler explained as she handed him a mug of tea. “When we opened the facility officially.”

Shan pointed to an attractive young Chinese woman with a brilliant smile. “Miss Lihua,” Fowler said. “Jao's secretary.”

“Why were Prosecutor Jao and the assistant prosecutor both involved in your operation?”

Fowler shrugged. “Jao was more the broad overseer. He delegated the supervisory committee issues to Li.”

“You have telephones,” Shan observed with a gesture toward the desks. “But I didn't see any wires.”

“A satellite system,” she explained. “We have to talk to our labs in Hong Kong. Twice a week we call our offices in California.”

“And the UN office in Lhasa?”

“No. It's an internal system. Only authorized for designated receiving stations inside our company.”

“Not even Lhadrung?”

Fowler shook her head. “I can contact California in sixty seconds. A message to Lhadrung means forty-five minutes' drive. Your country,” she said without smiling. “It overflows with paradox.”

“Like putting American saccharine in buttered tea,” Shan said, watching a Tibetan woman in a white office smock pour pink packets into a bowl of the traditional milky brew.

There were bulletin boards with safety procedures in Chinese and English, and notices about staff meetings. At the back of the room a red door was closed, with a sign that restricted entry to authorized personnel.

“Has the American staff been here long, Miss Fowler?” Shan asked.

“It's only me and Tyler Kincaid. Eighteen months.”

“Kincaid?”

“My chief engineer. Sort of second-in-command.” She gave Shan a pregnant glance, which he took to mean that he had seen Kincaid with her at the cave. The lighthearted American who had played “Home on the Range” to spite Colonel Tan; the man in the building-dedication photo.

“No other Westerners? How about visitors from your company?”

“None. Too damned far. Only Jansen from the United Nations office in Lhasa. Week after next it all changes.”

“You mean the American tourists.”

“Right. Supposed to spend two hours here. After that, we're a regular stop on the tourist circuit. Guess we'll show them empty offices and empty tanks, give them a lecture on Chinese bureaucracy.”

Shan refused the bait. “The UN Antiquities Commission. How are you involved?”

“Sometimes they ask to borrow a truck. Or some ropes.”

“Ropes?”

“They explore caves. They climb mountains.”

“Do they take artifacts?”

Fowler stiffened. “They record artifacts,” she said with a stern look. “I guess you could say I am a member of the local committee.”

“There's a committee?”

Fowler did not respond.

“What of the conflicts? Without government support you could not operate. Your mining license.”

“Please don't remind me.”

“And a permit to operate a satellite system, that is extraordinary. But you are opposing the government—”