last beams of burnished orange through the kitchen window, elongating Father’s shadow—he appears taller.
I look up, my feet pointed at the stove.
It’s only the first day of my new life and I’m already exhausted. For sure, I never knew sorrow and joy could coexist so close to each other, occupying the same space, living in one tender heart.
This morning my grandmother went back to her monastery, my home for so many years as a novice nun. I decided not to join her again, but to return to lay life instead—the life I was ripped away from many years ago. A gnawing ache has nestled itself deeply into the hollows of my heart. How I’ll miss them, my dearest sisters in solitude. Will I ever see them again?
I don’t want to think about it. I’ve made my choice.
I’ve decided to stay with Father at the stables, my childhood home, and with my dear Karma, who came for me this afternoon. We met only a few moons ago and our love is still budding—we have a lot to discover and explore, the two of us.
Excitement and fear collide in my chest. A strange unknowing rushes through my veins. I have no idea how to live in this mundane world just yet, but my heart has called and I’m taking the leap.
“The ngakpa has requested us,” Father says.
A sigh escapes from the depth of my chest. It’s been a long day.
My hands cap my knees, and I raise my weary body. I was looking forward to an early night, but it seems we’re heading to the village, Father and me. Dusk’s already setting in an orange haze, heralding the night. I wonder, why go so late? Father’s expression doesn’t give away the answer to my unspoken question.
“I’ll have to clean myself up.” Dust flies around as my hands brush my skirt. Sangmo and I have just finished clearing my uncle’s quarters for us to move in. I run my fingers through my unruly hair—I don’t want to show up like this at the ngakpa’s—it’s disrespectful. “I’ll be right back.”
I rush off for a quick wash.
It’s a short enough walk to the village. Father’s pace is swift and silent. My mind drifts to our last meeting with the ngakpa. It seems so long ago, but it was only a few turns of the moon. How things have changed. How I have changed.
No more an aspiring nun in my grandmother’s monastery, but the heir to my father’s stables. A female horse master. Who would have thought? Not me, that’s for sure. The ngakpa’s divination did, though. Maybe that’s why he wants us to come. I shiver, my legs stubbornly stiff as I try to keep up with Father’s solid pace.
The bitter breeze lashes unforgivingly into the fluttering prayer flags. A high-pitched whistle resonates in the billowing sky. Looks like a storm is approaching.
The ngakpa’s house if there, the first on the left, shrouded in darkness. Unlike the last time I was here, nobody welcomes us at the gate.
“Are you sure he’s home?” I halt, but Father’s already put his shoulder against the heavy door. A loud creak. The stench of stale soot hits our nostrils as we enter the dim hallway. My stomach tightens. Something’s off. It’s too quiet in here.
Father strides ahead, not bothered a bit by the suffocating atmosphere. Sheltered by his broad back, I follow.
A sudden ring drowns our hollow footsteps, and I almost jump—the ngakpa’s prayer bell. He’s home. Good. I take a deep breath to steady my speedy pulse. No need to be so nervous. All went well.
Father pauses for a moment and turns, a reassuring nod. Yes, we’ll be fine.
The scent of heavy incense oozes behind maroon drapes. As we step in, spicy white whirls sneak their way out. A sole butter lamp—a big one—casts its flicker on the small shrine in the middle. I blink as my eyes adjust to the gloomy surroundings and the tangy fume of smoldering spices and herbs.
“Please, come.” A thin voice resounds from the far-left corner of the room—the ngakpa’s in his seat. I step forwards and lower my body three times to the shrine. Father follows.
“Sit, sit,” the ngakpa’s raspy voice urges. “So sorry to have you come this late.”
He shifts in his cushioned seat. His fingertips spread lightly on the tops of our lowered heads as we take our place opposite him. A murmured blessing and a prayer, the rhythm not known to me but nevertheless comforting, smoothens the jagged edge of my nerves.
“I hear you had a fruitful journey.” A string of bone prayer beads rattles around his thin wrist. He adjusts the white scarf around his narrow chest.
“Yes, gen-la.” I look up. “Thanks to your excellent guidance.”
He folds his hands in his lap. His narrow gaze rests on me. The pile of twisted locks on the top of his head sways in sync with his body. His eyes close and he gently rocks from left to right, to left, to right.
A strained silence fills the space between us. A slight exhale breathes from his lips. He seems to sink further in his seat. Is he in meditation?
My fingers fumble with the red string around my wrist, the blessing cord that my sisters tied to remind me of the Buddhist path.
“I have a request of you both.” The ngakpa’s voice is hardly audible. His eyes are still closed, the lines around them deepen.
I lean forward. A request? I glance at Father and my eyebrows raise. What could that be?
Father frowns. A concerned look crosses his face.
“Where to begin?” A faint shadow of sorrow moves over the ngakpa’s face. “Khandro-la has left this morning.” His shoulders drop.
Khando, his wife, left? A shiver shoots up my spine, my nerves raise to a high alert. My intuition served me right—something ìs off.
“She’s not coming back.” He opens his eyes, and his distant stare meets mine. “She’s taken something with her.” He rests his long tawny fingers on the side of the small table between us and leans across. “I request your help to retrieve it back.” His eyes flash a dark plea from me to Father and back.
“Of course, gen-la.” Father nods without hesitation. “Anything we can do.” He clears his throat. The incense must bother him too.
“It’s a matter of utmost discretion.” The ngakpa’s hands draw over the table. “You are the only ones I can ask.” His eyes, like tiny black beads, pierce my gaze, and then turn to Father. “Even though I’m already in your debt, Palden-la.” His voice becomes a muffled resonance in the pearly opaque surrounding us.
“Oh no, gen-la.” Father straightens his back. His large hands open towards the ngakpa. “There’s no debt between us, and if there is, it is us who owe you.”
I raise my chin. Father’s right, the ngakpa has always served us and our village with his prayers and rituals.
“Yet I am, Palden.” The ngakpa’s face folds into a quiet, solemn look. “For it has come to me that my wife aided your brother Tennah so many years ago, causing grave misfortune to your family.”
My jaw drops. A sudden rush of blood swishes in my ears. Khandro and Uncle—together?
“Khandro-la.” He hesitates. His fingers spread on the table. “She aided Tennah with a spell that caused Lhamo’s untimely passing.” He whispers her name ever so softly. Lhamo. My Mother.
“And now she has left and taken the spell.” His hands glide over to the book in front of him, a thin pile of long, browned pothi pages. “It’s my family’s, written with the blood of my ancestors.” His fingers longingly stroke the tainted edges of the brownish paper. “So powerful.”
A spell book. I lean in. So this is the ngakpa’s ritual book then? And Khandro took a spell out of it to cause my mother’s death. Together with my uncle. I swallow hard, the heavy incense a sticky layer in the back of my throat.
“The spell does harm in their hands.” He shakes his head, and the grayish coils wave in a slow motion on the top of his head. “I… wè…need the page back.” His fingers clamp again around the edges of the small table between us, a pale blue shines translucent on his knuckles. The significance of his words slowly penetrates my mind. Khandro-la and Uncle, together, gone with the spell that killed my mother.
My sisters were right all along—and now it’s confirmed. Uncle had a hand in mother’s death with a snake spell. No wonder he left in such a hurry before I returned with a wild horse to stake my claim at the stables.
My temples throb. My thoughts swirl to clear the mist in my mind. Focus. My gaze fixes on the long pages. What now? From the corners of my eyes, Father’s robust frame is a still composition.
“Yes, this requires our utmost discretion.” Father rubs his chin. “Any idea where they might have gone to?” His quiet manner, his steady voice, it eases my panic—not all, but it certainly helps.
“Lhasa,” the ngakpa says. “West, to Lhasa.” His eyes on the book, the bone beads roll from his wrist.
Lhasa. My heart leaps. Lhasa, Land of The Gods, home of the Jowo Sakyamuni Buddha statue, the most revered object in Tibetan Buddhism. Yes, Lhasa would be the perfect place to hide. So many visitors and pilgrims, nobody would notice two strangers from the East. Lhasa. Often my grandmother told me about her pilgrimage to this magical place. Oh, how I long to visit Lhasa myself in this lifetime. If only I get the chance—the merit this pilgrimage would bring.
“Give us some time, gen-la.” Father’s steadfast voice interrupts my wandering mind. “I promise we’ll find a solution.”
With a shrill sigh, the ngakpa leans back in his seat; the bone beads an ominous rattle in his hands.
“I know you will, Palden-la.” The ngakpa closes his eyes. “You’ve never let me down.”
His whole body sags. The leathery lines on his face relax and the beads in his hands quieten. A soft murmur from his lips beckons us—time to go. Quietly, Father and I make our way to the door.
“I’ll see you soon, Nordun.” The ngakpa’s croaky voice stops me in my tracks. His eyes burn on the back of my head. I turn around, only to see I must have misheard. Still seated with his eyes closed, it’s the serenity of his posture and the soft glow on his face that gives it away—the ngakpa’s in deep meditation. I shake my head. My mind’s playing tricks on me. Or maybe it’s the tiredness of the long day taking over.
A sharp draft from the doorway dissolves the fleeting incense. The gleam of the butter lamp reveals the bloodshed images on the thangkas around me. I’ve seen them before, even so, a shiver runs up my spine and my feet haste into the hallway. Father’s way ahead of me by now.
We walk home together under an indigo sky with a lone star shining proudly. The pale light from the waning moon is just enough to guide our way. The wind has died down—it’s turned into a crisp and quiet evening. The only sound is the crunch of our footsteps on the gritty path. How I wish my mind were as calm as this vast evening sky—so many questions grind around without end. I glance at Father, walking beside me.
“Did you not know?” My heart’s pounding. I don’t want to upset Father, but my curiosity’s getting the better of me—as usual. “About Uncle?”
Father shakes his head. “There were rumors nasty ones.” Melancholy rims his voice. “I was devastated, Nordun. I missed your mother so much. I was only too relieved when my only brother showed up in that time of need, so I ignored that nasty talk.”
I nod as I remember Father from that time, the immense change he went through. Grief brings even the strongest of men to their knees.
“I was happy to see my brother, despite everything that had passed between us.” The moonlight casts a shadow on Father’s solemn face. I don’t dare to ask, but I’ve never known what happened between Father and his brother. I heard about a bad fallout, long before I was born. They made up when mother died. That’s the only thing I know. And now betrayed by his only brother? My heart sinks as I think of Father’s fate.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “About all this.” My muffled words—they’re useless. Even so, I must voice them. It’s the only way I can express myself right now.
“Me too, Nordun,” Father says. “But I’m more sorry for all the time lost.” His head bent; his voice grows thick. “For letting myself be blinded by grief, and for being so selfish that I abandoned my own blood.” The rawness of his voice rips through me. I squint.
All these years, I thought he didn’t care for me. I take in a deep breath. No use going there again. The crisp air clears the last traces of haze from my head.
I halt and turn to Father as we enter the gate to the stables. “What now?”
“We can’t let this go.” His toe kicks up loose pebbles. “We have to retrieve that page before it does more damage.” His eyes flicker, an ominous gloom as he stares over my shoulder towards the darkened courtyard.
“And Uncle?” I cringe the moment I say it. Uncle. His evil deeds weight heavy on both our minds. An iron fist clamps tightly around my heart. My ribs tighten. We both know what will be done with Uncle. I shouldn’t have brought it up.
To my relief, Father ignores my useless remark, his gaze fixed over my shoulder.
“I see word has gone around.” His chin points towards the house. “So soon.”
I turn to see the stark silhouettes of two horses in the courtyard. They’re not ours. Visitors.
The grinding of our hasty footsteps quiets my pondering thoughts. I don’t have to wonder for long. As the trees throw their lanky shadows in the moonlit courtyard, I recognize the voices without a doubt. They’re here. Grandfather’s family has arrived.