4

RAHULA

Amling, Gyaca, Tibet

Summer in the Year of the Iron Tiger (1950)

Amling returned to its routine of living the summer to prepare for the winter quicker than it took Pema’s bruises to fade. The Chinese soldiers stayed, but, to everyone’s surprise, they were polite and courteous, respectful of monks and women alike. Hao Ping spoke often of their long march and everyone agreed they seemed to need a good rest.

Captain Xi paid for his men’s food and, when they got better used to living in that high country, he released them to help the villagers with their farming and chores. On occasion, they even gave out presents of clothing and, best of all, ta yang; silver dollars. The old merchant reassured everyone that it would always be so, that all Chinese were kind parents whose goodness would continue to rain down on Amling. However, others in the village whispered that the true reason for their invaders’ benevolence was the magic skull that Pema had found. They had all seen the sky god, Rahula, the year before. The comet, a wrathful deity, had brought with it fierce hailstorms, earthquakes, and, some said, the Chinese army itself. They heard from the nomads and the traders that such troubles continued elsewhere. Their village was the only one peaceful and plentiful because the skull, or kapala, as they called it, had put a spell on Captain Xi and his soldiers.

If Pema ever mentioned “his” find, he was told that he should forget about it, that it must stay working its magic on that captain billeted in Hao Ping’s house. If he persisted, word soon arrived to his father to beat him for the good of the town.

The only adult the boy could talk to about the skull without risk of punishment was Geshe Lhalu. Since the discovery, the old monk would send Pema’s brother to summon him up the hill to the monastery. Alone, without even Dolma in the shadows, Geshe Lhalu would then ask the young boy to describe every detail of the skull and how he had found it. Although the kapala had only been briefly in his possession and unseen since it had vanished into Hao Ping’s house, Pema found that he was able to describe it precisely because the skull haunted his dreams, each nighttime rediscovery accurate in every detail. The only difference was that as he pushed the earth from the skull’s carved face, the skull’s jawbone would pivot on its rusty iron screws to tell him that a storm of pain and suffering was coming, so much worse than anything Rahula could conjure, that only kapala stood between them all and the end of days.

Whenever Pema recounted this to Geshe Lhalu, the old monk would just stare at him in silence then turn to the many texts that stacked his tables, as if desperately seeking answers to questions the boy hadn’t asked. On the wall of his room, a small painting of Palden Lhamo, the fierce red-haired goddess the old monk had dedicated his life to, would silently watch him work.

That summer a traveling player came with the last caravan. The man was tall and somberly dressed compared to the minstrels who had come before. Alone, he carried no lute, no drum, just a long staff of wood. His lean, strong face bore no paint. His only colors were the red wool that bound back his long black hair and the gold and turquoise of the heavy earring that hung from his left ear.

The man spoke each night for a week. He would stand wearing his long cloak, holding his wooden staff, before a fire in the center of Hao Ping’s crowded courtyard, the sky above him a dome of stars, sparks from the flames rising up into that same firmament. So noisy were their crackling and spitting, everyone had to strain to hear precisely what the man was saying, for though his words were strong, he did not make his voice overly loud.

“Bow down before me, for I am Kormuzda’s son! Bow down before me for I am the servant of Buddha!”

To Pema and his friends, who had listened intently to the epic of King Gesar every year, the speaker seemed a little unfamiliar with the verses. However, told his quiet and purposeful way, the epic seemed to have a greater realism, a greater drama, as if it was the very king himself determinedly urging his people on from the flames of the fire.

“Bow down before me, you princes and tribesmen and beggars, for I will be the light of your darkness, the food for your hunger and the scourge of your evils. I wield the sword of righteousness in one hand! Let my foes beware its edges! I bear the balm of peace in the other! Let my friends savor its sweetness! The prince of warriors is come to lead you to battle!”

Pema noticed that the entire village and most of the monks from the monastery were there, crowded in tight, spellbound by the talking shadow and that wooden staff that seemed to thrust the iron words at them as if newly forged in the fire behind. Only the Chinese soldiers stayed out of earshot, huddled in their own groups as they drank and played mahjong and cards.

With the recounting of each of the great king’s adventures, the man continually reminded his audience that they must be like Gesar: proud, courageous, honor bound to protect the land of their birth, the dharma, and their true king, the Dalai Lama, still just a boy. The staff pointed directly at Pema. “Just like you.”

The day after the final show, the player came to Pema’s house in the morning to speak with his father at length. After, Pema’s father summoned him and said to take the man to the place where he had found the skull, a place forbidden to him since the discovery. Together, they took the long walk to the high pasture, following the path that led up the hill, the man questioning Pema continually about himself before changing the subject.

“Have you taken this path many times before?” he asked.

“Yes, it’s our way to reach the high pastures.”

“Have you ever followed it all the way to the holy lake?”

“No, that is forbidden.”

“Well, today we will. Do you know that this path is known as the ‘Way of Knowledge’?”

“No,” Pema replied. “Why?”

“It is because the most senior lamas of our land, the Panchen Lama and the Dalai Lama, must sometimes pass this way. The spirit of Palden Lhamo resides in your town’s monastery and in the holy lake. They come to seek her advice. The goddess is sworn to protect the lineage of the Dalai Lama, to ensure our faith’s future. In the waters of her lake much can be seen. In the texts of the monastery much can be read.”

The man continued to speak as they passed the windswept place where the skull had been found. To Pema’s surprise it was now marked with a ring of stones, many holding down silk khata scarfs and strings of brightly colored prayer flags that fluttered and snapped on the breeze.

“Is the kapala really a magic treasure?” Pema asked.

“Yes.”

“Shouldn’t we try to get it back?”

“No, not yet,” he cautioned. “There is still much to learn and much to happen. In the meantime, you must endure and have faith. There are dark days ahead.”

With that said they carried on until they had left the high pastures behind and the trail tightened to thread its way through the jagged rocks that rose up before them. Climbing ever higher and higher, they finally reached a high ridge and both looked down onto the waters below. From their vantage point, Pema clearly recognized the shape of the skull in the lake’s outline but saw only waves racing across the windswept waters like fleeing white horses. The man with him, silent and staring, seemed to be seeing much more.