MOTHER SAID, “The seeds of all plants eventually wind up in other places, so we shouldn’t be so concerned. Even if they’re not stolen, the wind will blow them or birds will carry them away. It’s just a matter of time.”
Father asked if she thought we should just do nothing and watch it happen.
The chieftain’s wife pointed out that we could use that as an excuse to attack the enemy if we wanted, but it didn’t do any good to worry. She also said we should ask for Special Emissary Huang’s support if we decided to have a war over the poppies.
For once Father did not object to her idea.
It was also the first time that a letter from the chieftain’s family was written by the mistress, and in Chinese. As she was about to seal the letter, my brother, who was going to deliver it, said, “That won’t be necessary. I can’t read the Han people’s language.”
“I wasn’t worried about you reading it,” Mother said cordially. “I just wanted to show him that the Maichi family knows its correspondence etiquette.”
Before our messenger returned, we received reliable information that a large group of shamans working for Chieftain Wangpo was gathering at the southern border to prepare curses for the Maichi family.
An extraordinary war was about to begin.
Our shamans built an altar on a small hill near the executioner’s house. Led by Monpa Lama, they dressed in colorful clothes and strange-looking hats, and brought over countless ritual vessels and numerous sacrificial items for the gods and spirits. There was every type of weapon used throughout history, from stone knives to stone axes and stone-tipped arrows, from catapults to muskets. The only items missing from the list were our machine guns and rifles. Monpa Lama told me that the spirits he invited wouldn’t know how to use new-style weapons. He kept an eye to the heavens as he spoke to me. It was a clear day, with light clouds floating in a sky as blue as the ocean. The lamas paid undivided attention to these clouds to see if they abruptly changed color. White clouds were auspicious. The shamans on the enemy side, meanwhile, were trying everything possible to infuse the clouds with booming thunder, elongated bolts of lightning, and countless hailstones.
One day, clouds just like that actually drifted over from the south.
The shamans’ battle was more heated than any waged with knives or guns.
As soon as the dark clouds appeared in the southern sky, Monpa Lama put on a gigantic warrior’s helmet and appeared as a character out of a stage play. He was carrying all sorts of triangular and round ritual flags, from which he picked out one to wave, summoning all manner of noisemakers: snakeskin tubes, drums, suonas, and bells. The hill was alive with sound. Muskets were fired into the air. The dark clouds stopped above our heads, where they roiled and raged. They were dark in the center and on the edges, colored by the curses, while thunder rumbled overhead. The darkness was finally driven off by our shamans’ incantations, by the sacrificial offerings on the altar, and by our weapons, which, though they may have looked like toys, were powerful amulets against spirits and demons. The Maichis’ poppies, the estate, and the crowds of people were once again bathed in bright sunlight. Wielding a special sword, sweat-soaked, panting Monpa Lama told Father that the hail in the clouds had turned to rain, and he was waiting for the chieftain’s order to send it earthward. The strain on his face made him look as if he were holding up the rain with his sword.
With a stern look, Chieftain Maichi said, “Go ahead, so long as you can promise it’s rain.”
Monpa Lama let out a long whistle and sheathed his sword, which immediately stopped the noise on the hill.
A wind blew over, but the dark clouds no longer roiled like a tortured stomach. Instead, they spread out across the sky before sending down a torrent of rain. We sat under the sun and watched the rain fall nearby. Monpa Lama, who had crumpled to the ground, was helped into the tent to rest after his helmet had been removed. I ran over to look at the helmet, a hefty thing that weighed about thirty pounds. I was surprised that he was strong enough to leap around in it while waving the sword to display his magic.
The chieftain went into Monpa Lama’s tent, where the young shamans and future shamans were wiping sweat off the current shaman’s face. “You deserve to sweat,” Father said. “My son had no idea your helmet was so heavy.”
Monpa Lama was still so weak that he merely said hoarsely, “I only forgot its weight when the gods I summoned arrived.”
At that moment, the sounds of Living Buddha Jeeka’s monks—those with no magic skills—reciting sutras grew louder. To me that seemed utterly useless. The hail had already turned to rain and fallen to the ground. Monpa Lama said, “I’ll bet Chieftain Wangpo’s people are also reciting sutras, thinking they have succeeded.”
The chieftain said, “We’ve won.”
The lama cautioned, “This was only the first round.” Then, in order to maintain the power of his magic, he told us not to go down the mountain and to stay away from women and other unclean things.
The second round began with our turn to send hail their way.
The magic was spectacular, but I was bored—the sky was as clear as if it had been washed, and I couldn’t see any meteorological changes. Three days later we received a report that hail the size of chicken eggs had pounded Chieftain Wangpo’s land, leveling his crops and sending a flood to wash away his orchards. As a southern chieftain, Wangpo had no pastureland; instead he prided himself on orchards filled with thousands of trees. Now his opposition to the Maichi family had cost him those orchards. But we could not know what had happened to his poppies, since none of us knew how many he’d planted or where. Maybe they had disappeared from his land altogether.
Father announced to all that we would attack Chieftain Wangpo as soon as my brother returned from the Han area.
As we were enjoying a fine meal on the hilltop, the tinkling of brass bells sounded in the wind. The chieftain told us to guess who was coming. We all tried, but with no success. Monpa Lama sighed after throwing twelve white pebbles and twelve black pebbles onto the chessboard before him. He said he didn’t know the identity of the newcomer but was sure that he was having a difficult time, since his birthstone had fallen on a bad space. When we walked out of the tent, we saw a pointy head slowly emerge from below the hill, followed by the pointy ears of a mule. It had been a long time since we’d last seen him; people said he was going mad.
He came right up to us.
He was thin and pallid. The worn edges of his sutras peeked out from his mule’s back.
The chieftain raised his hat to him.
But he returned the greeting by saying to Father, “I do not want to talk to the chieftain today, except to say that I hope he will not interfere with the internal affairs of our Buddhist faith.”
The chieftain smiled. “As you wish, Master.”
Of course, Father added, “Isn’t the master going to preach the finest religion in the world anymore?”
“No,” the young monk shook his head. “I cannot blame a savage chieftain for refusing the wise and benevolent sweet dew, because it is those in cassocks who have ruined our religion.”
After that, he walked up to Living Buddha Jeeka and, baring his right arm, placed a yellow cockscomb hat on his head. It was a gesture we knew well: an invitation to engage in a religious debate. In our religious history, many monks had gained the support of powerful people by winning such debates when they first arrived in Tibet from India. The ensuing debate lasted a very long time, until the Living Buddha’s face turned as red as cow’s liver. Even though it looked as if he’d lost, his disciples all declared the Living Buddha the victor. They also accused the arrogant newcomer of attacking the chieftain by saying that the world did not need chieftains. He said that Lhasa should be the only center for black-haired Tibetans, and there shouldn’t be any barbaric overlords who were so cozy with the eastern people.
Chieftain Maichi, who had been listening all along, spoke up. “Disaster will fall on your head, you who have come from the Holy City.”
The man looked up at the sky, his eyes brimming with tears, as if he could see the shadow of his misfortune there. He refused to respond to the chieftain. “You can kill me,” he said at last, “but I want you to know that I won the debate.”
When Wangpo Yeshi, this monk of the new sect, was bound up, Living Buddha Jeeka looked sad, but that was nothing but a tiny tremor in his conscience. Later, Father repeatedly said that he would have let Wangpo Yeshi go if the Living Buddha had spoken up on his behalf. No one knew if he meant it. But that day, Living Buddha Jeeka, who may well have felt sorry for his opponent, said nothing. That was the day I stopped liking the Living Buddha, who, as far as I was concerned, was not a true Living Buddha at all. When a Living Buddha stops being a Living Buddha, he is nothing. Monpa wasn’t really a lama but a powerful shaman who liked to have people call him one. What he said to the chieftain that day was “It’s not a good idea to kill anyone at a time like this, especially someone wearing a cassock.”
So the chieftain ordered this fellow who claimed that chieftains should be eliminated from the land thrown into the dungeon.
We stayed on the hill.
Monpa Lama performed several divinations, all of which showed that in the final round Chieftain Wangpo would attack someone in Chieftain Maichi’s family. The effect of the curse would be achieved by offering menstrual blood and other filthy things to ghosts whose evil deeds had prevented them from rebirth. Monpa Lama and Father even reached an agreement that someone in the family would have to be sacrificed if we could not withstand the attack. I thought it could only be me, since sacrificing an idiot would be the smallest price to pay. My head began to ache that night, and that prompted me to think that the other side had begun its magic work. I said to Father, who stood beside me, “They’ve found the right person, since I was the one who discovered their evil scheme. They would have focused on me even if I weren’t to be your sacrifice.”
Cradling my icy hands, Father said, “It’s a good thing your mother isn’t here, or she’d be in agony.”
Monpa Lama worked feverishly to spray clean water blessed with incantations all over me. He said it was a crystal shield to prevent the demons from entering my body. In the second half of the night, the smoky source of my splitting head finally drifted away in the moonlight.
Monpa Lama said, “I’m happy to say I did not perform my magic in vain. The young master can now get a good night’s sleep.”
But I couldn’t. As I lay in my tent, I saw a crescent moon rise higher and higher until it reached the height of the twinkling Venus. Just before dawn, I suddenly saw my own future. It wasn’t very clear, but I believed that the blurry sight heralded a good destiny for me. Then I fell asleep. By the time I woke up, I’d forgotten everything.
Rising from bed, I looked down at the estate, enveloped in the morning sunlight. I saw sparkling silver water flowing toward the gate before making a sharp turn as it reached a spot where the riverbed was composed of red rock. I also saw people who had stayed behind moving around on the verandas. Everything looked normal, but I sensed that something was about to happen.
I didn’t want to reveal that to anyone. I had been the first to discover the poppies blooming on someone else’s land, and that had nearly cost me my life. So I went back inside the tent to go to bed. I couldn’t sleep. After all that had happened, I’d grown up a bit. Light was beginning to make inroads into my muddled brain. So I got up and went back outside, where the dew on the grass soaked my feet. I saw Wangpo Yeshi’s mule grazing quietly. They were planning to kill and offer it as a sacrifice. I went over and untied the tether, then slapped it on its haunch. It walked leisurely up the mountain, stopping occasionally to graze. I announced to everyone that it was a liberated mule.
Father asked me which I liked better, the mule or its owner.
That was not an easy question to answer, so I squinted to look at the sunlit emerald green hills. If I liked the mule better, it was because it was such an obedient animal. I couldn’t think of a single reason to like that lama, who had never behaved in a likable manner. But I liked him anyway.
Father said, “If you really like the mule, and wish to spare its life, then you should get the Living Buddha to intone a sutra for it. You must also put up a piece of red cloth and drape an amulet over it before you can actually consider the animal ‘liberated.’”
“Even a mule wouldn’t want Living Buddha Jeeka to intone sutras for it, let alone the lama.” That morning I announced loudly to everyone on the hill, “Don’t you know that both the mule and its owner have little regard for Living Buddha Jeeka?”
In an unusually good mood, Father said, “If you like the lama so much, I’ll let him go.”
“He wants to read,” I said. “Give him back all his sutras.”
“No prisoner wants to read.”
“He does.”
Yes, at that moment I imagined I could see the proselytizer of the new sect sitting in a bare cell with absolutely nothing to do.
“All right,” Father said. “I’ll send someone to see if he really wants to read.”
It turned out that Wangpo Yeshi was dying for something to read. He sent a message of thanks to the young master, who he said could read his mind.
Father looked at me pensively all the rest of that day.
Monpa Lama said that our opponent had failed in the weather contest, and that if he was not prepared to surrender, we could expect him to move against us. He repeatedly cautioned us to remain clean. What he meant by that was for Father and me not to go down the mountain and have any contact with women. For us that was no problem. My brother, on the other hand, would have presented a major problem, if he’d been around. For him, the idea of avoiding women for even a few days was unthinkable. The world, for all its magnificence, would turn into a pile of dog shit to him. Fortunately, he was off in the Han area. Monpa Lama shared my view. “I can handle the weather,” he said, “but my magic isn’t up to the task of manipulating people. Luckily, First Young Master isn’t here. That makes things easier.”
But I already sensed that something was wrong, and I said so to Monpa Lama, who told me that he had similar feelings. So we walked around the area; the important people and things were fine, and so were the less important people.
I said, “Down the mountain, the estate.”
From the mountaintop, the house looked strong and impregnable, but I had a nagging fear that something bad had occurred there.
Monpa Lama made a series of strange gestures with his fingers, and was puzzled by something. He said, “Yes, something’s wrong, but I don’t know who is at the center of it. It may be the chieftain’s woman, but not your mother.”
“Wouldn’t that be Yangzom, the former wife of Headman Tratra?”
“I was waiting for you to say it,” he said. “I didn’t know what to call her.”
“You wanted me to say it because I’m an idiot, right?”
“I guess so.”
It turned out that something had indeed happened to Third Mistress, Yangzom.
Back when she discovered she was pregnant with the chieftain’s child, she’d taken over the room and told him to spend all his nights with Second Mistress. In this regard, she was a lot like barking hounds in a hunting party, delivering the prey to the hunters. I hadn’t seen her once since then, but I knew she was there because I saw servants emptying her brass chamber pot and taking up food on a silver tray each morning. Those were hard times for her, because she was convinced that someone wanted to harm her unborn child. But judging from what was delivered to and taken out of her room, I could tell that her appetite was holding up well. Maybe because her desire to protect the baby was so strong, she felt that her belly was the only safe place for it, and so it had stayed inside longer than normal. Then, during the previous night, as we slept on the mountain, Chieftain Wangpo’s shaman found a crack in our security. Yangzom lost her hold on the baby; stillborn, it was said to be black all over, as if poisoned by wolfsbane.
That was the only price the Maichi family paid in this peculiar war.
The baby died at sunrise, and nothing was left on the hilltop by that afternoon, as if it had been swept clean by a whirlwind. Since it was the chieftain’s flesh and blood, it was taken to the temple, where Living Buddha Jeeka intoned sutras for it. Three days later it was given a water burial.
Then Yangzom appeared before us, her head covered by a bright scarf.
Everyone said she was prettier than before, but no longer appeared to be walking in a dream, as when she and Father had been madly in love. Dressed in a long skirt, she went upstairs and knelt before Second Mistress. “Mistress, I’ve come to pay my respects.”
“Please, get up,” Mother said. “You’re cured now, and we sisters have plenty of time to talk.”
Yangzom banged her head on the floor. “Elder Sister.”
Helping her up, Mother repeated, “You’re cured now.”
Yangzom said, “It was just like a dream, but so much more exhausting.”
Now, finally, she was truly the chieftain’s woman. That evening, Second Mistress told the chieftain to sleep with his third wife. But he merely said, “It’s no fun anymore, now that the raging fire has died out.”
Mother later told Yangzom, “We don’t want him to start burning like that again.”
Blushing like a bride, Yangzom said nothing.
Mother added, “If he does, it won’t be for me, and it won’t be for you.”