‘Leave your tent at sunrise with the livestock; leave your tent at sunset with a woman.’ This line from an old herders’ song was an accurate description of men’s lives on the grasslands. For herders, the only things of value in their tents were a few pots and pans: the yaks and sheep that gave them their meat roamed out on the grassland and all the clothes they owned hung off their backs. Theft on the grassland was rare; no one would ride a day or two to another tent just to steal some old household goods. Blood was spilt frequently, however, usually when an argument became heated and knives were drawn. If it was just a minor incident, it was soon forgotten. More serious altercations were adjudicated by the elders, and often a sheep or yak would be given in compensation, to stop further revenge being taken.
Most events in the wider world had no effect on life on the plateau, where the Changtang herders carried on as they always had. But the Cultural Revolution was different. In 1966 it roared across the grassland like wildfire. People’s respect for religion seemed to disappear overnight. Buddhism lost its air of mystery and herders no longer prostrated themselves fervently before the golden statues of the bodhisattvas or gazed up at them in awe. Temples large and small fell into disrepair. Buddhist monks were stripped of their expensive robes and walked out of their temple halls in everyday clothes, forced to re-adjust to the secular life they had left behind. For those who’d joined the temple when they were young and knew only how to read the scriptures and serve the Buddha, this was a long and excruciating process. Relearning how to herd and milk and gather yak pats was easy enough, but having to put aside the Buddhist prohibition against killing and take up hunting in order to keep themselves from starving was torturous.
On the day that a group of communists brandishing copies of the Little Red Book and wearing shabby fur-lined robes stormed into Cuoe Temple, Gongzha was sheltering in a crevice higher up the mountain, counting the wild yaks in the river valley. The yak herd had arrived two days earlier and Aba had told him to keep a close eye on them and see that they didn’t run off. If he did as he was asked, Lunzhu promised he would take Gongzha with him to kill one of the yaks. The family had nearly run out of meat and would soon be going hungry.
Whenever Lunzhu took his old rifle with the forked stand out on a hunt, he always came back a day or two later with enough meat to last the family for several days. And even though Gongzha was not yet as tall as the gun, he’d been well taught by his father; he never wasted his bullets and could already take down antelopes and foxes.
Each time Aba came home from a hunt, he paid a visit to the temple, prostrated himself three times and presented the monks with some meat. Tibetan monks ate meat. Han Chinese Buddhists and Theravada Buddhists might have disapproved of this practice, but Tibetan Buddhism was rooted in the mysterious land of Tibet itself. On the cold, high plateau, yaks and sheep were essential for survival and anyone who did not eat meat would find it hard to scrape by. According to the theory of reincarnation, everything on earth had life, and that meant respecting not only animals that walked but also plants and other lifeforms. Everything had the potential to be the present incarnation of a person’s brother, sister or parents from a past life. Entering a temple and putting on the crimson robes of a monk might change a person’s status, but it did not take away his human needs. As Buddha’s representative among men, a monk’s first duty was to stay alive.
Hunting had to be done mindfully and with restraint. If an entire herd was wiped out, there would be nothing but grass for people to eat. If humans were to continue living on the plateau, then animals had also to be allowed to continue living there. Cuoe Temple’s Living Buddha Zhaduo would say this each time Lunzhu visited, and each time Lunzhu would bring his palms together in acknowledgement, nod, and exit the temple hall.
Gongzha had always wanted to go on a yak hunt with his father. Killing a wild yak was a serious challenge – they were massive, almost three times the size of domesticated yaks, and if you didn’t kill them with a single shot, they would fight for their lives and quite likely cause you an injury. For the last two nights, Lunzhu had been called to political study sessions with the rest of the production team and hadn’t been able to go hunting, which was why he’d told Gongzha to climb the mountain each day and check that the wild yaks were still there.
The herd in the valley were females. There were at least twenty of them, as well as four calves born at the beginning of the year. Male yaks were solitary creatures and only joined the herd for the mating season, during which time they burnt off all the fat they’d accumulated over the winter. Then they left the females again and began rebuilding their strength.
Gongzha suddenly heard shouts coming from the temple. Was it another group of communists looking to smash up the old way of doing things – the Four Olds, as they called them (old habits, old customs, old ideas and old culture)? Gongzha slipped excitedly out of the crevice and climbed round to a grassy viewpoint overlooking the temple. He wanted to see what was happening, but he was too young to join in.
The temple was halfway up the mountainside and from his vantage point Gongzha could see everything clearly. A group of monks were sitting in the dirt yard in front of the temple while a revolutionary held up a copy of the Little Red Book and lectured them through a megaphone. Gongzha recognised the young revolutionary: it was Luobudunzhu, from another production team. He’d gone to middle school in the same commune and had then joined the Red Guards. When he returned to the commune, he set up a Revolutionary Command Centre and was now its commander. He usually wore a soldier’s belt around his sheepskin chuba and liked to strut around self-importantly.
When Luobudunzhu finished speaking, he ordered the monks to leave the mountainside and return to their homes. From now on, he said, the temple would be the Red Guards’ headquarters. The Red Guards began yelling revolutionary slogans, hurling the bodhisattva statues to the ground and smashing them to pieces with hammers. The valley echoed with the clang of destruction and the despairing cries of the monks. In the blink of an eye, the revered Buddhas and bodhisattvas that had presided over the temple hall became nothing more than scrap metal.
The back door of the temple opened quietly and an old monk emerged carrying a yellow cloth bag. He looked as if he was in a hurry; he didn’t take the path but scrambled on his hands and knees straight up the side of the mountain. Gongzha recognised him. He was the temple’s Living Buddha Zhaduo, the most learned man of his generation. He often chatted with the hunters and was a very self-disciplined old monk.
A young man in a soldier’s cap poked his head out the door. When he saw the old monk halfway up the side of the mountain, he started to yell, ‘The cow-ghost snake-spirit is getting away. Hurry and bring him back!’
A gang of young revolutionaries brandishing the Little Red Book swarmed out of the temple and began to chase after him, shouting and yelling. The old monk kept glancing back nervously. Tucking the bag into his robes, he climbed faster towards the top.
Gongzha was worried for him; he feared Zhaduo would get caught and beaten up. The revolutionaries had subjected him to a lot of criticism at the production team’s recent political meetings, tying a wooden board around his neck announcing in Tibetan that he was a cow-ghost snake-spirit. The old man was getting frailer, and after each such struggle session, as the revolutionaries called these meetings, he was bedridden for several days. Lunzhu often sneaked over with Gongzha to see him, bringing him food and comforting him.
Zhaduo’s pursuers were closing in. The living Buddha was clearly exhausted and his leg was injured. His route up the mountain was blocked by a large boulder. He would soon be caught.
‘Quick, quick!’ Gongzha urged quietly. ‘There’s a way up to the right of that boulder.’ He didn’t dare speak loudly: if the Red Guards found out that he’d helped the cow-ghost snake-spirit, Aba and Ama would suffer for it.
In these troubled times, it was hard to distinguish between men and demons.
Zhaduo looked up and was startled to see Gongzha, but he took his advice and edged his way round the side of the boulder. With no time to lose, he stuffed the yellow cloth bag he’d been clutching into Gongzha’s leather chuba, put his palms together and said, ‘Please help the Buddha, child.’ Then he turned and went back down. He cut a noble figure against the rocky mountainside.
The revolutionaries soon caught him. They pinned his arms behind his back and walked him back down the mountain, jostling him as they went. Zhaduo staggered, and just before he re-entered the temple, he turned his head and glanced up the mountain.
Gongzha touched the bag and suddenly felt that he’d been brave in the face of danger. He waited until the revolutionaries had disappeared inside the temple, then stood up and made his way back to the other side of the mountain. He slid down the slope, returned to his hideout and squeezed into the crevice. If he bent his knees to his chest, he could just about sit down.
He pulled the cloth bag out of his robe and opened it. Inside was the statue of a Buddha as tall as his arm and so black it gleamed. When he held it in his hand it felt cool and heavy. There were also some pages from a book. Gongzha glanced through them. On the top page was written in gold ink: The Epic of King Gesar. There was another piece of paper with a snow mountain drawn on it. In the centre was a triangle, and in the centre of the triangle was the image of a bear; on the bear’s forehead was a tiny ¤ symbol.
Kaguo? Gongzha opened his eyes wide to look at the bear on the paper. How could it be Kaguo? What was the old living Buddha doing drawing Kaguo? And in a triangle? Gongzha looked at it upside down and right side up. He’d seen Kaguo enough times – in the distance when he was picking up yak pats, hunting foxes or herding. Sometimes Kaguo was hunting mice or catching rabbits, sometimes she was sunning herself or just lumbering about. They’d never actually had an encounter, but she felt as familiar as an old friend.
As he stared at the sketch on the rough paper, Gongzha felt as if a sheaf of grass had been stuffed in his brain. He thought and thought until he worried his brain would burst, but still he couldn’t imagine why Living Buddha Zhaduo would draw Kaguo. He put the piece of paper and the other things away again. He couldn’t take them home. The Red Guards came and searched the families’ tents every couple of days for the Four Olds. If he took Zhaduo’s things home and they were found, the family would be in big trouble. He would have to hide them while he worked out what to do with them. He looked around him, but there was nowhere in the rockface to hide things. So he got up, took out his meat knife and began digging in the crevice where he’d been sitting. After a while he’d excavated a hole just large enough for the cloth bag and the Buddha; he tucked them into it, covered them well and patted down the earth with his hands. Only then did he leave his hideout and descend the mountain, singing mountain songs.
That evening, Gongzha heard Bala and Ama saying that the temple’s elderly living Buddha had been arrested and there would be a meeting to criticise him that night. He was accused of having hidden the Buddha statues handed down by generations of living Buddhas, including the statue of the Medicine Buddha, the most precious of Cuoe Temple’s treasures. Nobody knew what it was made of, but it was said to be an ancient relic that had once belonged to King Gesar, and it was supposed to contain secret information about his legendary treasure. A very rare copy of The Epic of King Gesar written in gold ink had also been passed down. Luobudunzhu said that these artefacts were highly poisonous grasses that had to be rooted out and immediately handed over to the County Revolutionary Committee. But even though the Red Guards had turned the temple inside out, they hadn’t been able to find them.
Everyone on the grassland had heard of the legend of King Gesar’s treasure. It was said that there were two caches: one on Mount Chanaluo on Cuoe Grassland and the other by Tajiapu Snow Mountain in Shuanghu. Even if it was more than just a legend, even if there really was treasure up there, the herders knew that to take the story seriously would be to risk their lives. Chanaluo and Tajiapu were more like mountain ranges than individual peaks, comprising countless large and small snow mountains extending for thousands of kilometres. Up there among the peaks and ridges, at the mercy of the wind, frost, rain and snow, where the bears and wolves made their homes, how could anyone hope to find the treasure – or the corpses of those who died looking for it?
‘What does the Medicine Buddha look like, Bala?’ Gongzha was sitting in front of the stove and blowing the flames into bright tongues with the lambskin bellows.
‘I’ve only seen it once, and that was five years ago. It was during a cham performance in the temple. The living Buddha was very excited and had it brought out so we could pay our respects to it. I think it was black, or perhaps a very deep blue-black, and very shiny.’
‘Oh!’ Gongzha’s heart jumped and he opened his mouth to tell them what had happened on the mountain. But then he remembered Zhaduo’s pleading eyes as he’d thrust the Buddha into his arms with the words, ‘Please help the Buddha, child.’ The living Buddha was usually so calm and composed, no matter who he was talking to. But today he’d been so flustered that he’d asked a mere boy for help. He must have been in a great deal of trouble, otherwise why would he have given such important objects to a child to look after?
For a living Buddha to have put such trust in him was a huge honour. The last thing Gongzha wanted was to betray that trust or let Zhaduo down. So he decided not to say anything.
*
The sun rose above the mountain peak like a great ball of fire, quietly surveying Cuoe Grassland. Far below, the herders advanced slowly with their yaks and sheep. Their long shadows stretched across the plain like an animated scroll painting in black ink. Occasionally a man quickened his pace or an animal lingered and the shadows intersected, creating a new image. The lake shimmered in the distance, its clear water sparkling like diamonds beneath the sun’s rays. The snow mountain had always stood there, for a thousand years, even for ten thousand years; it seemed immutable, and yet each day it was different. There were always eagles overhead, swooping or circling, embellishing the landscape at just the right point. This ink painting had life – it had a quickness and grace.
It should have been an auspicious, tranquil scroll painting. It could have been heaven, if it weren’t for the man in the red armband patrolling up and down outside people’s homes and yelling through his megaphone: ‘Struggle session tonight! No absences! No asking to be excused!’
The sun had not yet sunk behind the snow mountain’s peak when the first of the herders began arriving at the empty yard in front of the production-team tent. Ciwang, the director of the Commune Revolutionary Committee, would be leading this struggle session himself. Although he was from Cuoe Grassland, Ciwang had never been a herder or a hunter. Instead, he’d drifted all over the grassland, turning up wherever there was a wedding or a funeral, eating and drinking his fill. Grassland elders used to single him out as an example to other lazy young men of how not to behave. But when the Cultural Revolution came, this bullyboy wastrel somehow managed, overnight, to become the Communist Party’s local representative, to lead a gang of other violent layabouts in an orgy of destruction and looting, to rise up the hierarchy and in the blink of an eye.
When the herders arrived, they found Cuoe Temple’s Living Buddha Zhaduo tied to a prayer-flag pole. His crimson robes were torn and covered in dust. Some of the herders were curious or even excited to see him like that, others were upset. Five-coloured prayer flags still fluttered from the pole, the six-syllable mantra of the bodhisattva Avalokitesvara dancing in the wind. It was a strange world. People cried out to destroy the Four Olds, to deny the existence of spirits and ghosts, but at festivals they still strung up banners petitioning for peace and prosperity.
At a table in front of the tent, three men sat on a bench: Ciwang in the middle, Luobudunzhu to his left and Team Leader Danzeng to his right. Ciwang took in the size of the gathering and saw that most people had arrived. He glanced at Danzeng. Danzeng stood up to quiet the crowd. He told them that the meeting was about to begin and that Director Ciwang would be instructing them.
Ciwang raised the Little Red Book high and led the people in the reading of a passage. Then he sat down, cleared his throat, glanced round the crowd and said, ‘We called you here today, comrades, to clear out once and for all the highly poisonous grass that we have weeded, but not weeded thoroughly, that we have burnt, but not yet burnt to the ground. We all know that Chairman Mao has had us grasslanders in mind for a long time. He wanted us serfs to liberate ourselves and become our own masters. We have yaks, we have sheep, we have food and clothing. But there is someone here who cannot stand to see us serfs living comfortably. He cannot stand to see us happy. Who is that person?’ Ciwang scanned the faces of the crowd as he shouted this last question.
Asked in that way, the crowd became agitated and countless pairs of hands pointed at the living Buddha tied to the prayer-flag pole, their strange cries echoing to the clouds.
‘It’s him! Beat him to death! Beat him to death!’
Ciwang nodded contentedly. A wisp of a smile floated around the corners of his mouth. ‘Cuoe Temple is hiding the most poisonous grass on the plateau. Not only has he refused to bring it out so it can be destroyed, but he’s hidden it, ready for the day when he can begin poisoning us with it again! You decide – can we let him do this?’
‘No!’ Another round of raised fists and savage shouts from the crowd.
Ciwang was delighted. He stood up and strolled over to the prayer-flag pole. He stooped a little and looked down at the drooping head of the former living Buddha of Cuoe Temple, now the capitalist roader Zhaduo, and laughed coldly. ‘Speak! If you tell us where those things are hidden, perhaps the people will forgive you.’
Zhaduo lifted his head and glanced at him, then said lightly, ‘The things you are looking for are not in the temple.’
‘I’m asking you: where is that black Buddha?’ Ciwang stared at him, a fierce smile pasted on his face.
Zhaduo met his gaze, his expression calm and peaceful. ‘My temple has never had the black Buddha you speak of.’
This infuriated Ciwang. No one had dared to speak to him like that before. When people saw him, they bowed respectfully and smiled ingratiatingly – without exception. He despised Zhaduo, had despised him since he was young. How had Zhaduo become a highly respected living Buddha just by putting on some monk’s clothes? Why should Ciwang have to bow his head and give Zhaduo the right of way whenever he saw him? Luckily, times had changed. Today the grassland was Ciwang’s kingdom. He raised his hand and slapped Zhaduo. ‘Do you want to eat rocks?’ he asked menacingly.
Zhaduo did not move. He didn’t even blink. He just looked steadily at Ciwang. A trickle of blood began to creep down his forehead, but on that calm, still face it seemed like a torrent.
Ciwang turned to face the crowd. ‘Even in the face of death he refuses to confess. What should we do, comrades?’
‘Beat him to death! Beat him to death!’
Perhaps it was because Zhaduo was too calm; perhaps it was because of that trickle of blood; or perhaps it was because their darker natures had been stirred up by Ciwang’s slap. The crowd began to get restless, to surge forwards, and then, flood-like, a chaotic barrage of kicks and cries crashed over the peaceable old man.
Gongzha clutched his father’s robe. Lunzhu’s hand clenched into a fist and his face twisted with pain. He and Zhaduo were the closest of friends – like father and son. To see his dear friend suffer such injustice was like a stab to the heart. It was as if each blow and kick was landing on his body too. Eventually, he could control himself no longer and forced his way into the fray of frenzied herders. But when Zhaduo saw him, his impassive face suddenly changed and he cried out loudly, ‘Fuck off, you black demon! What do you think you’re doing?’
Gongzha and Lunzhu were startled by his words. But the others surged forwards even more aggressively, piling into Zhaduo. In the chaos, someone thwacked Zhaduo’s leg with a stick. Zhaduo screamed and his leg went limp. Purplish blood streamed out from beneath his crimson monk’s robes, seeping into the sand and drenching the ground.
The scene in front of the black tent was grotesque: scarlet blood, dead grass, a monk’s robes covered in sand, a calm face, fluttering prayer flags, crazed people. It was as if the door to hell had been opened by mistake.
*
Lunzhu sat slumped on the couch, his head drooping, sighing occasionally. His woman, Dawa, was sitting by the stove, mechanically adding yak pats to the fire. Their five children were huddled naked under a rough yak-wool blanket, looking at one another, not daring to make a sound.
‘Gongzha, get up. Get dressed.’ Lunzhu had finally made up his mind. His tone did not allow for questions.
Gongzha darted out from under the blanket, put on his sheepskin chuba, pulled on his boots, and stood by his father’s side.
Lunzhu pulled a small yak-skin pouch from a basket by the door and took out a black medicine pellet that Zhaduo had given him some time ago. It was excellent for healing flesh wounds. There’d been two pellets: he’d used one when he was bitten by a wolf and there was one left.
Dawa looked anxiously at her man. ‘Are you sure about this? If even his own sister won’t look after him, why are you taking the risk?’
Lunzhu glanced at her, hesitated, and then stretched out his hand towards his son. ‘Take this to Zhaduo.’
‘Be careful! Don’t let anyone find out.’ Dawa saw that her man would not be dissuaded; she could only turn and fuss over her son.
Gongzha nodded, then turned and left.
It was very quiet outside. The dogs were all lying beside their tents, napping. When they sensed Gongzha walking by, they opened their eyes and looked at him briefly before lowering their heads and continuing to sleep.
Gongzha walked towards the field behind the tents, acting as if he was looking for a place to defecate. When he got to the small, lonely tent on the east side of the encampment, he glanced around to check there was no one nearby, then flung open the flap and hurried in.
Zhaduo was not asleep. He sat bolt upright. ‘Who is it?’
‘It’s me!’ Gongzha said quietly. He squatted by the couch and handed over the medicine. ‘Aba wanted me to bring you this.’
Zhaduo took the pellet, put it in his mouth and chewed it up without a second glance. Gongzha quickly poured a bowl of cold water for him by the weak light of the moon. Zhaduo took a couple of sips.
‘That Buddha—’ Gongzha whispered, keen to tell Zhaduo that he’d hidden the statue.
‘What Buddha? I don’t know about any Buddhas. Go home now, go quickly,’ the old man interrupted, waving him off.
Gongzha raised his head and looked at the old man on the couch. The old man looked back at him, his gaze both knowing and vacant, as if it contained everything and nothing. Gongzha kept his own gaze steady, but in his gaze there was both fear and confusion.
The old man and the young boy exchanged looks, then nodded simultaneously.
‘I’ll go and pick herbs for you tomorrow,’ Gongzha said, and slipped out of the tent.
Zhaduo smiled peacefully and lay back down.
Gongzha glanced out at the empty wilderness then to the quiet encampment. He began to whistle, then returned to his tent as if he had just finished defecating.
In the days that followed, the fire of the Cultural Revolution continued to blaze. The adults were kept busy studying Quotations from Chairman Mao Zedong. Gongzha looked after the sheep and collected yak pats just as he always had.
Late one night, Lunzhu shook Gongzha awake. He’d slung on his rifle with the forked stand. Gongzha got up with silent understanding and put on his leather chuba and fox-fur hat. Dawa fastened Lunzhu’s belt and warned him to be careful and to come back early if he couldn’t get anything. Lunzhu nodded, pushed open the tent flap and went out, Gongzha following behind. They didn’t dare ride; they took the sheepdog Duoga and walked quietly towards the river valley.
When a man went out hunting, it affected the rest of the production team, whether he was absent for just one day or whether he was away for ten days or more. The commune had issued a directive about this two days earlier: herders were no longer allowed to hunt for themselves. It disrupted the production quotas required to make the revolution a success. From now on, anyone who went hunting would be punished for being a selfish individualist and would lose their entire winter meat ration.
Directives were all very well, but they weren’t always practical. It was too early for a harvest, and last year’s meat had already been eaten. People just didn’t have enough to fill their bellies. The adults liked to say that the children didn’t care whether there was a revolution or not: when they were hungry, they cried.
Gongzha and his father walked along the river valley, the dog at their side. Save for the crunch of their footsteps, everything around them was silent.