Land of Mercy

By Fan Wen

Land of Mercy is a magical intriguing tale of love, greed, betrayal, sacrifice and spiritual quest which starts from the conflict between two prominent families living beneath the snow mountain of Eastern Tibet and ends in a journey in pursuit of personal salvation, self-worth and enlightenment.
Steeped in the magical lore of Tibetan Buddhism, the author Fan Wen brings his readers into a world of magic and mystery where there are no limits to human capability and where legend, myth and history intertwine and enthrall.
An unforgettable must read for all those who are fans of epic human struggle and who are fascinated by and especially fond of the Tibetan people, their faith and their culture.
It is Tibet encapsulated in a novel.

• Language: English
• Publisher: RINCHEN BOOKS
• Release date: May 28, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463906408

Fan Wen

Fan Wen (范稳) is a Kunming-based Catholic author of several novels based on the history of the 19th- and 20th-century interaction of foreigners, Han and several indigenous ethnic groups in the areas bordering on Yunnan, Sichuan and Tibet. They include: a trilogy, Harmonious Land (水乳大地), Pitiful Land (悲悯大地), and Canticle to the Land (大地雅歌); and more recently, Bisezhai Station (碧色寨), about the Frenchmen and the Chinese who built the railway (1904-10) linking Kunming and Haiphong, which reportedly resulted in the deaths of many thousands of railway workers. Harmonious Land tells the tale of a multi-ethnic settlement in Lancangjiang Canyon — gateway to Tibet — beset by battles between arrogant French Catholic missionaries, incompetent Han officials and their marauding troops, Naxi Dongba Shamanists, and the dominant Tibetans, not all of whom lead pacific, vegetarian lives in the local lamasery. This first volume in the trilogy has been translated into French as Terre de lait et de miel by Stéphane Lévêque. An excerpt from the third volume, Canticle to the Land, has been translated by Bruce Humes: The Creation Story.

Book preview

Book 1 Chapter 1

Among Brothers

Long ago, when men and deities lived side by side, the messengers of the gods could be seen going about their business in the Lancang River Valley, crossing the space between heaven and earth. From time to time, intriguing words could be heard from the mouths of the people who lived there:

‘Daddy, come and see! There’s a lama riding the light up to heaven!’

‘Buddha! Thank you for sending this golden barley from heaven and sowing it here.’

‘Almighty Dharma protector, come and round up these demons!’

‘Divine victory!’

Among the wild and secluded snowy peaks and canyons of Eastern Tibet, the Lancang River surged down from the Tibetan plateau like a mad tiger, spreading a deathly chill over the gullies as it plunged and twisted. The waters cut like a blade; the wind flew like arrows across the vast, strange canyons. The people who lived there were as strong and stoic as the cliffs that banked the valley and as proud as the snowy mountains.

The earth would often tremble, not with the awakening of underground demons, but because the boulders on the riverbed were frequently moved by floods and set stumbling in a headlong downstream escape. They were vast, but put up no fight against the flood, just as a powerful man or a wise monk never thinks to oppose the passage of time. When it flows through the valley, the river has no choice but to follow the surge – rolling, splashing, dropping and finally disappearing. Time is like the river – ruthless. The river is like time: constantly moving.

The people in the valley farmed what little land they had, grazing herds in the mountain pastures and working on the post road connecting the lands of Han and Tibet. In their temples, they worshipped the holy mountain Kawa Garbo with the smoke of sacred incense and surrendered their souls to endless suffering with only the slimmest hope of an evasive better afterlife.

The demons of heaven and earth had formed an alliance, while the protecting gods from the various sects (who oversaw laws and devotion) stood together. They represented the good people who fought against the demons of the air. If the gods were victorious, the earth was serene and harmonious; every valley, mountain, pasture and village would know great mercy. However, if the demons took advantage of the gods’ slumber and came to earth to wreak havoc, the land would be starved and ravaged by war.

In these simpler times, the gods of heaven rode to war against the demons in the sky. The people often saw them grazing among the white clouds as looming, elegant figures. Their battle cries could be heard in the rolling thunder. If the gods were happy as they grazed, they would drop clouds over the mountain pastures that turned into sheep. They scattered dew and sent warm fingers of sunlight to stroke the green grass and the crops. Even though the crops flourished as the seasons turned, demons would often come down to earth in the form of lightning, or hail hidden in huge, invisible pockets, along with other plagues, disasters and turns of bad luck. These evil forces were powerful enough to change the color of the earth and cause the river to flow with corpses. Sometimes they even stopped virtuous women from having children, taking away the lifeblood of the people in invisible silence.

During one particular summer, the people watched in horror as demon figures rose up in the four corners of the valley. On the West Bank of the Lancang River, the merchant Duji’s wife had been pregnant for ten months. Eventually, while she was gathering firewood in the mountains, she gave birth to a baby with a snake’s head and human body. It was a nondescript little thing with an unreadable face. Its neck was thicker and longer than its head. Its small, long–fingered hands were webbed and its legs were bound tightly below the buttocks.

The woman who gave birth to the strange snake–child was called Yongzin. She cried when her husband rushed to help her. ‘A demon has taken my child,’ she wept, ‘And left this monster in its place.’

She was lying in a clump of bushes at the side of the road. In this sort of valley, bushes grow thick and short. Their lush but leafless branches weave together to block the wind. Firewood gatherers often used them as stools to rest on. With time and use, the tops of the bushes became smooth and pliable, like green beds lining the roadside. With the blood from Yongzin’s labor and delivery, they would be even more robust the following year.

When the hardy women of this industrious Tibetan valley had children, they couldn’t give birth in their own living rooms or bedrooms because it was considered unclean. They would either stay in the corrals outside their homes, or they would go into the mountains and find a secluded place to accomplish the continuation of the family’s blood.

Yongzin was already a mother of two. Her oldest son was Alaxi, the one who had just missed out on being named as a reincarnated Tulku. When she gave birth to her second, Yudan, Yongzin left the house early in the morning, knife in hand, to search for firewood. When she came back, she had a bundle of firewood on her back and a newborn infant at her breast.

Her husband Duji was a kind, honest caravan merchant. Every year he brought his colts down to the land of the Han, passing through Lhasa and sometimes going as far as India’s Kalimpong. But even for a well–traveled man like him, the birth struck him as the most curious thing in the world, not least because it was happening to his own wife. He wasn’t ready. He looked just once at the mass of flesh on the mat skirt wrapped around his wife’s waist and did not dare to look again.

‘How could a demon steal our child?’ he muttered in anger.

Yongzin’s cries were uncontrollable. ‘A bolt of lightning flashed from behind the clouds and took my child. She was a little pink–skinned girl.’

For the past few years, it had been common for demons to steal children in the valley, wielding their lightning whips. It was not just children who were taken; even whole flocks of sheep were taken up to the heavens. Duji looked bitterly at the thick clouds in the skies above, imagining the demons unleashing their lightning. ‘Only the lamas know what really happened. Let’s go back.’

‘But how can we bring it home?’ Yongzin said, gesturing to the lump in the bushes.

‘You go on ahead.’ Duji’s eyebrows were knotted, the embarrassment on his face thicker than the dark clouds. He gritted his teeth and said, ‘Give it to me.’

Mournfully, Yongzin watched her husband carry the bundle down the gully toward the Lancang River. The wind blew the tears from her face and whipped up little clouds of dust that danced like waves of smoke. In the empty canyon, Yongzin’s helpless cries of grief rang out: ‘Buddha! What did I do wrong in my past life?’

It was an overcast day. The demons’ bad deeds blew on the winds and filled the canyon. Soon, word had spread that Duji – who was well known in the valley –had thrown a child with a snake’s head and human body into the Lancang River.

Since ancient times, the stretch of the valley below the snowy Kawa Garbo mountain had been used as a corridor. Connecting Han territory with Tibet, it was an ancient postal route that meandered through to a snow–covered plateau. The Hans used caravans of pack animals to ship goods to Dukezong county.

Han horses couldn’t usually go past this point. They were not used to Tibetan customs and were unable to climb the snowy peaks, which grew higher and higher. There were inns in Dukezong¹ for the caravan crews, where Tibetans bought the Han merchants’ wares. From there, the Khampa² caravan continued to Tibet with tea, cloth, silk, iron and any other goods they could carry. These were people who used their legs to make money. They were known as ‘horse–legged’, as many believed that their human feet were attached to the thighs of steeds. For hundreds of years, these horse–legged go–betweens had facilitated trade between the Hans and Tibetans on the postal route.

For many years, Duji had traveled stoically on his powerful feet, bringing his hard, shrewd business sense with him. He had long been known in the Lancang River Valley for the exorbitant wealth he had accumulated. The East Bank’s most spectacular house belonged to him, perched high on a ridge. It was said that Duji’s money flowed night and day, like the Lancang River. Every night, the people of the valley could hear his Tibetan coins jangling as he stored them away, a sound that was louder than the river. Duji’s pile of silver bullion was like a beacon on the mountain. Even in the daytime, the treasure–store shone with bright white light.

But now the contentment of his comfortable life was shattered. The sky had just turned dark by the time Duji got home. The chanting of the monks rang out from the Great Hall on the second floor. The horsemen, who usually bowed with respect whenever they saw Duji, now kept their distance. Their eyes were filled with a strange fear. At the main entrance, Duji reached out and grabbed Ah Dui, one of the riders who was trying to hide from him.

‘Do I smell of demons?’

Ah Dui shook his head vehemently. His face turned scarlet, as if he were being strangled. He couldn’t speak.

Someone else spoke instead.

‘Demons don’t have a smell.’

It was Yonten Temple’s Gongba Tulku, who had just come down the stairs. ‘They can only incite evil deeds.’

Duji quickly knelt and bowed. ‘Rinpoche,’ he said. ‘Please save my wife. She has provoked a demon.’

‘It is not that she has provoked a demon, but rather that a demon has enveloped her,’ Gongba Tulku said. ‘And the child?’

‘I...’ Duji’s mind churned as he remembered the wash of the Lancang River. As soon as he had thrown the child into the water, the blue swells turned red. The waves had leapt higher than a house. Duji had felt it was not the child that was swept away but his own heart.

‘Your sin is grave, Duji.’ Gongba Tulku maintained a steady tone. ‘That was a living creature. Maybe I could have recited a mantra to cast the demon out of its little body.’

Duji flinched. The anxious, shameful anger he’d felt since he saw his wife that afternoon rushed upon him again. He almost drowned in it. His eyes suddenly darkened and he fell at Gongba Tulku’s feet.

With concern in his voice, Gongba Tulku addressed Duji’s two sons – Alaxi and Yudan – who had come from the house ‘Take him to the fireplace so he can warm up and try to forget about the demon. It seems that its evil minions were moving among us here on the West Bank.’

The two sons were as young and robust as the horses of the plains. Now, just as they’d been learning to run freely, fate had sent an obstacle to trip them. They came to Duji’s side, calling his name in unison. Gongba Tulku noticed with dismay that Alaxi, now a young man, gave off an air of resentment. A kind of spirit called a ‘Demon of affliction’ loomed in the shadows around him, its sinister smile revealing a certain satisfaction, as if Alaxi was now a toy in its grasp. Gongba Tulku thought back to the time, many years ago, when Alaxi had nearly been recognized as a reincarnation of a high lama. However, fate had hidden his potential qualities from sight at the vital moment.

Gongba Tulku sighed. He reached out and touched Alaxi’s head, reciting a verse to keep the trouble demon at bay. The demon responded to the Rinpoche’s incantation like a wounded crow. With a burst of black vapour, it floated quietly away.

‘Child, the devil’s shadow is everywhere,’ Gongba Tulku said. ‘Don’t let it enter your heart and take root there, or a greater demon will grow inside you. Hurry now and take your father home.’

Alaxi did not yet fully understand the Tulku’s words, nor did he believe himself to be possessed by a demon. It is difficult for a mortal to see his own demons. Only later, after practicing Buddhism throughout his life, would he recognize the demons inside him – shadows that had always lurked in the background. Looking back on his life, he will see them everywhere.

This Alaxi, who had been once the subject of a transcendental vision, had a regular mountain upbringing and became a valiant young Khampa. His fleecy black hair flew in the wind and his posture was as sturdy as the pines on the cliffs in the biting wind. He had a voice that moved people and he was supple when he danced. He possessed all the skills that a young Khampa should have, along with wisdom and enlightenment that was yet to be uncovered. At birth, he’d had the unmistakable imprint of a past life – not like a newborn baby, but a familiar old friend. His cries were canyon–deep and undulating, mirroring the chants of the temple’s monks and leading the cows to hum along. The sound stunned the old midwife when she heard it. She recognised it as the verse she had heard earlier in the morning when she knelt in the temple. She suddenly felt as if she was holding a precious image of the Buddha and for a moment she wasn’t sure where she should put the child.

The baby suddenly spoke. ‘There’s a rainbow outside.’

The old woman looked up from the stable door. She saw a dazzling rainbow over Duji’s roof. A mild shower of rain and petals began to fall. Moved, the old woman shoved the child onto Yongzin’s breast, her knees shaking as she knelt and gave a long bow of her head. ‘You really are a Bodhisattva!’

Many other exceptional things happened to the young Alaxi. For a while, he was able to understand the language of animals, such as the muttering of the cattle as they grazed in the pasture. His ears were filled with the conversations of horses and mules in his father’s caravan for so long every day that his head swelled and ached, overwhelming him. Duji took him to see Gongba Tulku, who grew excited about the child’s abilities. He secretly suspected that they were auspicious omens to suggest Alaxi was a reincarnation of someone important. He said to Duji, ‘Some of the voices that should not be heard may herald good fortune or disaster. May Buddha watch over Alaxi and may the boy bring good fortune to the valley.’

Duji did not feel particularly lucky, because the child was always crying about his headaches. Though none of the herders had told him of their experiences, his mind was filled each day with images of what they had seen along the way – the villages they had passed through, the danger, wind and snow they faced. If Alaxi, who stayed home each day, did not get to narrate all these stories, his brain would have no room for any more tales that the mules and horses might want to share. Fortunately, with age, this strange ability to understand the animals gradually faded.

Just before dawn, as Duji was struggling out of the dark abyss brought on by his fainting, he saw his eldest son – this Alaxi – sitting by the fire looking dignified and his second son – Yudan – sleeping beside him at an odd angle. A room on the third floor had been set aside especially as a shrine to Buddha and the intermittent chants of a monk (who had been hired from the Yonten Temple to chase away the demon) could be heard, raving from the depths of sleep.

Seeing that his father had awakened, Alaxi quickly went to his side. ‘Father, are you better? Come and drink this tonic.’

He scooped out a bowl of stew from where it simmered and handed it to Duji. ‘The lama chanted over the tonic, for added power,’ Alaxi told him.

‘Ah, the lamas’ power. Sometimes it is no match for the demons.’ Duji said, but still drank the tonic. It was spicy and as it rolled down his throat he imagined its heat chasing the demons from their hiding places.

‘Father, when we have this sort of trouble at home, all we can do is have faith in the power of the lamas,’ Alaxi said.

Duji suddenly realised that his son was ready to be the pillar of the household.³ If he and Yongzin were troubled by demons, maybe his son could carry the bloodline forward peacefully.

‘Alaxi, you should think about marriage.’

The boy hesitated, pinching the hem of his tunic. ‘Father, my brother and I will obey you.’

Half a year earlier, Duji had thought carefully about the traditional practices of Tibetan marriages, as well as the practical considerations of business. He’d decided that both of his sons would marry his own steward’s daughter, Dawa Drolma. Back then, fraternal polyandry was still common in the valley. Everyone agreed that it was the best way to keep family property intact. It was the greatest form of filial respect a son could pay his father. For thousands of years, the Tibetan people had lived on limited resources in the valley. It was difficult to set up any sort of industry, so why should a father’s property be carved up for the sake of a woman? It was only people of high rank who had two or three wives. It was a divine blessing. Even though ordinary people could enjoy the right to love in a barren land, the fruit of love had a bitter aftertaste. Yet the people had grown accustomed to it, the same way they became used to the other disasters and pleasures of the earth.

Duji had already made arrangements for his two sons to live in a common household. When Dawa Drolma married into the family, she would first share a room with the elder son, Alaxi. Afterwards, Alaxi would follow the steward, Dudjom, out to carry on the caravan business. Duji had long planned to open a shop in Lhasa that would function as a transit point for caravans from India. He would send Alaxi there to work as the manager, while his younger brother, Yudan, would assume care and responsibility for Drolma – his ‘nama’, or sister–in–law – who was also his wife. When Yudan came of age, he would go to Lhasa and change places with his brother.

‘The one who stays home won’t be lonely and the one who leaves will have something to make him miss home.’ Duji explained to his sons.

‘Father, I will do as you say,’ said Alaxi.

Yudan agreed. ‘I understand what a brother’s duty is.’

Compared to the robust Alaxi, Yudan looked like the child of a completely different family. He was fair–skinned, tall and slim. The sun on the open plains hadn’t darkened his face and the oil of the barley flower never fattened his physique. Duji often thought that his younger son resembled a small ewe. Yudan had been shy, gentle and introverted since birth. Perhaps because his older brother was excessively strong, Yudan seemed like a sapling that had grown up in the shadow of a larger tree, never really thriving. Since childhood, he had always followed Alaxi to the pasture to graze the herds, allowing his older brother to solve any problems. He stayed under the protection of Alaxi’s staunch, fearless form. When wild beasts came, Alaxi drove them away; when storms came, he sheltered Yudan. Without ever having to expend any effort, Alaxi could shoulder all the risks and difficulties a shepherd might face on a snowy mountain. But his heart was delicate and his emotions rich. When he heard that he and his brother would both take Dawa Drolma as a wife, he almost wept – not in sadness but in joy. If the god of love could talk, he would say that Yudan had long been enamoured by Dawa Drolma, even before Alaxi had loved her. Soon he would prove that his love for her was even stronger than his brother’s.

Dawa Drolma, the steward Dudjom’s daughter, was the bravest and prettiest girl in the valley. She had grown up with Alaxi and Yudan in the pastures and had an affection for them that was even stronger than that of siblings. Even a snow leopard attack could not bring them any closer together. However, when the parents of the two families agreed to bind the three of them up as one family, the young trio grew shy and stiff.

The previous summer, in a pasture high on the mountain, a snow leopard had attacked Dawa Drolma’s flock and tried to take a calf. With a couple of swipes, it fixed its jaws around the calf’s neck. Although the calf was twice the size of the snow leopard, it did not have the agility, cruelty, or courage of its enemy. The calf fought desperately, struggling with all its might. Its blood covered the leopard’s head, stirring the beast’s bloodlust. Dawa Drolma was only sixteen years old at the time. Faced with this fearsome leopard, she cried out as if confronting a barbaric intruder.

‘Don’t take my family’s cattle! Please, don’t take it!’ she begged.

The leopard paid no heed. The calf lay in a heap in the grass. The girl saw that the leopard intended to drag its prey into the forest. As a last resort, she began to pull the great cat’s tail, trying to drag the calf from its mouth with her own hands. The leopard gave no attention to what was going on behind it and sank its teeth into the calf’s neck in a death grip. Tossing its tail like a whip of steel, it threw Dawa Drolma from side to side, but the brave, stubborn girl would not let go. As if the leopard’s tail had been made for her grip, it stayed firmly in her hand. She was like a butterfly fluttering above it. If it had not been for her cries, the calf’s moans and the leopard’s roars, anyone witnessing the incident from a distance might have mistaken it for a game.

Hearing the cries from the other side of the hill where he was grazing his flock, Alaxi rushed over. He had a rifle with him, but he wasn’t sure where to aim. He saw the girl, calf and leopard rolling on the grass and could not tell who had hold of whom. He shouted, ‘Let go, Drolma!’

In desperation, he howled as loud as he could, but amid the shouts, cries and roars of the struggling heap, it was no louder than a mosquito’s tiny hum. They ignored him completely. ‘Please, Drolma! Let me shoot!’

He lit the matchlock, but at the instant he prepared to fire, he saw Dawa Drolma flying this way and that on the leopard’s back, knitted so tightly to the creature that he couldn’t distinguish between them. In a panic, Alaxi raised the muzzle. The shot flew over the ears of the snow leopard and into the sky. Close to the muzzle, the sound exploded in the cat’s ears. The beast, momentarily struck dumb, stood motionless. It stared, dazed, at the calf’s rescuer and then slammed itself to the ground. If the shot had hit its flesh, it might not have been enough to subdue it – maybe even enraging it further – but as it merely broke the creature’s eardrums, it caused enough discomfort for the beast to fall bellowing to the ground. Finally, the snow leopard rolled down the hill and didn’t dare to return.

Dawa Drolma and the calf were also confused by the sudden turn of events, still trapped in the nightmare. The calf lay dying on the ground. Drolma gasped, ‘Alaxi...’ She wanted to throw herself into his arms, but the small space that lay between them took all the courage out of the girl who had just bravely faced off with a snow leopard. Her legs grew limp and she collapsed to the grass.

‘Get up, Drolma.’ Alaxi walked over to her and held out his hand.

She pulled herself up with his help, her body trembling. When she had bravely grasped the snow leopard’s tail moments earlier, she had not shown even a hint of hesitation or a trace of fear. However, the warmth of Alaxi’s hand felt more like ice. She sensed the muscles beneath his skin and was speechless.

‘The calf...’ Her teeth were chattering like hoof steps.

‘Don’t think about him. He’s done for.’ Alaxi pulled Drolma up, almost into an embrace. He noticed that her knee and elbow were bleeding. A wound had opened on her right cheek and flesh hung from it.

‘Your face is bleeding.’ Alaxi moved toward her and started to wipe her face.

She escaped from his grasp, reaching down to pull some grass from the ground. She clumsily wiped her face with it. Squatting, she covered her face and dissolved into tears.

‘Drolma, when a leopard takes a calf, it will keep it just as surely as a stone is swept away by the current if it falls into the river. No one in the valley has ever dared to take hold of a leopard’s tail.’

Alaxi carried the injured girl home. At the village gate they met a man collecting firewood. The fellow quipped, ‘Hey, Alaxi. You’re not married yet and already you’re carrying her on your back.’

Alaxi felt Drolma’s heart struggling like a fighter, beating hard against his back. He felt the heat of both their bodies. It was almost too much for him. Even more keenly, he felt two small, lotus–like breasts. Distant joy spread inside him, setting off a rash of desires.

After her encounter with the snow leopard, Drolma became an adult overnight in the eyes of the others. She was no longer the young girl who went around with Alaxi and Yudan. When she brought the cattle home each evening, she no longer walked with the brothers. When she went to collect firewood, she didn’t go with Yudan. When she met Duji or Yongzin, her face would redden as she bowed her head. She always chose another path now.

A month after Yongzin gave birth to the snake–headed beast with the body of a human, Duji set about preparing his sons’ wedding. The cloud of panic that had hung over the West Bank people was chased away by the resonant songs and whirling dance steps of the nuptials. According to valley tradition, a new bride would continue to live with her parents for a month after her wedding, partly as a final act of filial piety and partly to give her some time to prepare herself mentally for her new life.

Dawa Drolma’s father, Dudjom, was a clever and devoted steward – a caravan leader with a lively temperament. Orphaned at birth, he had been rescued from the village plague by Duji, as if picked from a pile of corpses. He had served the family loyally for decades, taking Duji’s caravan on the dangerous trip to Lhasa and India every year. He’d had several scrapes with death. The god Yama⁴ had visited on many occasions, but he used his courage and experience to prevail. In the virgin forests of Bomi,⁵ Dudjom had been abducted by a group of mysterious savages. They took him through the trees like monkeys, swinging though the dense forest as if they were on solid ground. He lived among them as a savage for three years. Later, when he was posted on a snowy peak in Tibet, Dudjom was swallowed by a python, but he used the knife Khampas always carried to escape from the snake’s belly. In a valley in Kalimpong in India, he witnessed a fight between a shaman and a six–headed, blue–black demon with thirty–two arms. Their battle raged all over the heavens and the earth, until the river valley flowed with the black blood of the demon. Dudjom once met the caravan of King Gesar’s⁶ army on the old postal road. They were staunch and imposing in their white armour, mounted on pale steeds as in the legend, shuttling above the clouds and the snow–capped peaks.

Many years of work as a caravan trader had made Dudjom more courageous than most and his vision was clearer than many people’s in the valley. So, when Duji employed a matchmaker to discuss uniting their families by marrying Dawa Drolma to his two sons, Dudjom was not surprised. He saw it as a great honour. It meant that he and his family would be integrated into the master’s family business. As the Han saying goes, he had found a tree in whose shade he could shelter. And when he asked his daughter what she thought, her answer removed the stone that had weighed on his heart. She said, ‘Father, marrying Brother Alaxi would be your daughter’s good fortune. Alaxi’s brother is my brother, another person to dote on.’

A disingenuous sigh rolled from Drolma’s heart to her lips and sadness crept into her sweet words. Of course, Dudjom noticed, but he believed that once she was married, Drolma would realise the advantages of having two husbands. It happened sooner. Once the subject of marriage had been raised, her parents were aware of subtle changes in her. It was obvious she was in love, from the way she waved her skirt and the flowers that adorned her hair.

On the day Dudjom led the horse to take his daughter to her husbands’ house, layers of cloud huddled low over the canyon, almost disappearing into the Lancang River. Dudjom didn’t see this as inauspicious. He assumed that his daughter, seated on the horse’s back, was excited and shy in equal measure. The horse, infected by her mood, tried several times to trot ahead of his master. Dudjom laughed, ‘Look! It’s more anxious than you are.’

‘Father...’ Drolma’s face was rosier than the red reflected on the snowy peaks above them. Dudjom did not need to look back to know that his daughter was happy. He thanked the Buddha for his compassion, then acknowledged the god who protected the mountain, relieved that his kind–hearted daughter had found a good match.

‘Drolma, when you’re part of the family, you’ll have to be extremely considerate. Alaxi and his brother are good men of the valley. The left cheek and the right cheek are both the same face. Do you understand?’

She understood very well. There were many women in the valley who lived as one wife to two husbands. If there was trouble between brothers when a bride entered her new home, the men would not be blamed, but the wife would be criticised for not managing her husbands. A clever girl could keep peace between two men, or even three, making sure they were all happy and the home orderly.

Jointly marrying a pretty girl created no barriers between the brothers. On the contrary, it made them cherish their fraternal bond all the more. It was like being confronted with a divine gift: neither would wish for more for himself, but would join with his brother in common worship. Neither would hurt the other for the sake of his own lust. That would be as inconceivable as taking the name of the holy snowy mountain in vain.

The day Dawa Drolma was sent over, Duji’s household held no special ceremony, because the ceremonial rites had already been carried out at the wedding reception. Now, it was time for their marriage to begin in earnest.

The brothers’ two bridal chambers were adjacent on the second floor, on the right side of the hall. Duji and his wife were housed upstairs. When the family finished dinner and sat drinking tea by the fire, Duji sensed the flames burning more strongly than usual. The thick log of chestnut wood had quickly charred to ashes. Both of his sons’ faces were flushed, the blood pulsing like the river’s current. Their hearts raced like two lost foals in search of their herd, suddenly adrift in the wide expanse of the plains. The steaming heat was visible on Yudan’s head – so hot that it could have cooked the bacon hanging above the flames.

‘From today, the three of you will live together. My sons, I want to tell you the story of a pilgrimage.’ Duji was afraid that if he did not say anything to break the silence beside the fireplace, his own tongue would be burned by its flames. Tibetans’ hearths had always been the place where myths and legends gathered. The compassionate Buddha exuded a timeless warmth here and the people relied on the firelight and the tales of the gods to drive the demons far from their hearts. King Gesar and his beautiful princess often appeared at the fireside to engage in small talk. The monsters he had defeated would sometimes turn into green smoke and float out through the chimney above, or become part of the whistling wind outside the window. At the Tibetan hearth, as the children grow, each year they gain greater understanding of the outside world and of their ancestral history.

‘One year on a pilgrimage to Lhasa, a Khampa brought his wife, children and brothers with him and began the long journey,’ Duji began at a leisurely pace. ‘They came to a place frequented by demons and found their path blocked by a local devil. The spirit wanted them to sacrifice a life before it would let them pass. The Khampa offered up his son, saying, Take the child and let my woman live, for we can have more children. As they continued their journey, another demon appeared and it too demanded a life. The Khampa offered his wife. The demon asked, Don’t you value your wife’s life more than your brother’s? The Khampa answered, If the woman is gone, I can become a monk, but I only have one brother and my parents’ blood flows in him.’

In the hall, nothing could be heard but the crackling of the fire, like an echo of the story. The minds of the three young people burned more intensely than even the hottest part of the fire. Yudan suddenly wished that this long night would pass quickly and that the new day would soon dawn; the first ray of morning sun would send him to the mountain pastures. It was not pain that filled his heart, but embarrassment at the thought of facing the wife he shared with his brother. In the first place, he had intended to go to the pastures to graze the herds and let his brother and Dawa Drolma have a month together, but Dudjom had sent his daughter over a day early, thinking this was the appointed day.

The moonlight crept, cat–like, over the windowsill. The wind outside could be heard only faintly, but the hurrying of the spirits was discernible in the sound. Yudan’s mother, Yongzin, was at the shrine in the hall, chanting and bowing in her religious duty. Ever since Gongba Tulku had said that a demon had enveloped her, the good woman had spent most of each day prostrating herself before the shrine. It held the tablets of Kawa Garbo’s guardian spirit and no matter how fiercely the demon raged, it wouldn’t dare to trouble Yongzin there – at least that was what she believed.

Eventually, Duji and Yongzin went into their own room, leaving the ambiguity and excitement of the night to the three young people. The two brothers had their own rooms, but they were only separated by a wall – not nearly enough to cut off the thoughts each harboured about the same woman.

Before Alaxi went into his chamber, he felt his younger brother’s eyes boring into his back. He turned. Yudan was sitting beside the fireplace. When the brothers’ eyes met, their gaze was like a pillar of spring water cascading into the depths of a lake. Alaxi’s eyes were the pit and Yudan’s the fount plunging into it. Alaxi’s were filled with great tenderness. Don’t worry, Little Brother. I’ll make sure Dawa Drolma also falls in love with you. What Yudan’s eyes expressed was this: Brother, my love will melt together with yours, like two springs flowing into the same chasm.

______________________

1 Dukezong meaning Duke County in Tibet.

2 Native of Kham, an old Tibet region which encompasses part of present day Tibet Autonomous Region, Sichuan, Qinghai, Gansu and Yunnan.

3 In houses of the Tibetan canyon region, there is a huge cylindrical stress beam. It is a pillar, but also a symbol of patriarchal authority.

4 Lord of Death whom everyone will meet after death.

5 An area in modern–day Western Tibet.

6 Legendary King of the Ling Kingdom whose epic tales are sung and celebrated throughout Tibet, Mongolia, Buryat, Bhutan and many middle Asian cultures.

Book 1 Chapter 2

Red Fox

In the mountains of Eastern Tibet, the spirits of the sky are especially graceful and the waters of the river flow through the canyon free and unrestricted. The animals and birds in the dense forest are wild and uninhibited as well. It is only the people who are locked in by the snowy mountains with their peaks in the clouds. They are constrained by a deep cut gully that isolates them in a harsh natural environment. Entering this microcosm, a person’s fate becomes dependent on the compassion of the earth. Those born near grazing pastures become shepherds. Those born on sloping grounds raise crops. Those born in the forest become hunters. Just like the East Bank of the Lancang River at the foot of the Kawa Garbo mountain where the terrain is relatively flat with plots of sloping fields; the villages are more densely clustered, meaning that farming is more developed. The West Bank, however, is very steep and it is difficult to find a flat plot of ground as wide as a hand span, so people on the West Bank work as wandering caravan traders.

Despite the fact that the East Bank has the clever, capable Chief Pema Gyaltsen at the head of the distinguished Langsa clan, the wealth of the canyon had belonged to the horsemen of the West Bank for several years. This troubled the chief. He often stood on the East Bank watching the caravans coming and going on the opposite side of the river. Bitterly, he would say, ‘Even the waters of the Lancang don’t run as fast as the money that flows into the coffers of that family on the West Bank.’

The Langsa family had a long history. They had allegedly descended from the royal family, but that was thousands of years ago. Like the Lancang’s waters, merciless fate had swept the ancient, noble family into the Lancang valley of Eastern Tibet. However, the inch high golden Gau box¹ decorated with a Buddha still sat on the bun atop the head of Chief Pema Gyaltsen. It symbolised the aristocratic family’s status and was still as shiny as ever. It was a mandatory task for him to polish it himself every day with an English velvet cloth when he woke up, never letting his servants do the job. He prayed in his heart as he performed the task, asking the gods to make his family prosper once again.

But Chief Pema Gyaltsen was sad to discover that the white hair on his head was growing faster than his wealth and the wrinkles on his face were deeper than the valleys sliced by the Lancang River. The energy that drained from his body was stronger than the memories blown away by the strong winds. When he – the head of the Langsa family – stood in the valley, he often felt as if the winds were drying him out; he was desiccated by the unforgiving years, withered by greed and ruined by each foul breath that came out of the demon’s mouth.

However, what he had never imagined was that a fox from the valley would suck an ancient family dry of its lifeblood.

It was an old tradition for the Langsa clan to go hunting every year in the mountain pastures, both to train the younger generation in horseback riding and shooting skills and as a show of force. In those days there were more animals running and sheltering at the base of the snowy mountain than flocks and herds in the pastures, but killing them was not an easy task. Some were fed by the spirits and others were the accomplices of devils. It was during that cold, blustery winter that the headman’s hunting team chanced upon a red fox.

It fled desperately from the pack of hunters, like a burst of flame rolling over the slopes. What was most stunning was the colour of its fur, which looked as if it was on fire. The fox fled into the gale, leaping and wiggling its plump, firm rump bewitchingly. This enflamed the hearts of the men who chased it. They couldn’t help but think of the rhythm and enchantment of women pinned underneath them at the peak of joy. Several whistled and even the headman, who had been so unhappy in recent days, laughed at the sight. All of a sudden, they were not pursuing a red fox at all, but rushing towards a coquettish woman with twitching hips, lying down waiting for a man to take her.

The people of the valley were more used to seeing yellow or brown foxes in the meadows and forests, so their first thought at the sight of the red one was that its pelt was more valuable. Any fox fur cap on the head of a brave Khampa would elevate his status, but if it were a red fox skin cap? Oh Buddha! Only the heads of noble families, would be worthy of wearing it.

The headman’s hunting band included his younger son, Dagbo Dorje, his house steward Yeshi Tsering and several servants. The sparks kicked up by the horses on the hillside spilled into the valley, lighting the shrubbery. The red fox was forced into a path under the cliff. Then, in the blink of an eye, it was gone. The men searched the area for what seemed like half a day and finally found a cave hidden in the steep rocks.

The steward said, ‘Sir, this can’t be a bottomless pit. Let’s smoke the fellow out.’

Chief Pema Gyaltsen laughed and said, ‘I hope your smoke doesn’t bleach its fur yellow.’

The wind blew bursts of thick smoke across the plain and into the cave. Soon, a faint ringing came from the hole. Two agile servants closed in on the cave’s mouth like hungry tigers in search of food. Through the smoke, one of the servants shouted, ‘I’ve got it!’

Before Chief Pema Gyaltsen could even smile, he heard the servant again. ‘Ouch! It bit me. Damn! Where did the lynx come from?’

When the smoke had cleared they saw that it was indeed a black wild cat being held to the ground. The spots on its body were like dots of spit from a demon’s mouth after a jeering laugh.

‘Son of a bitch! We planted barley, but we reaped weeds,’ Chief Pema Gyaltsen said bitterly.

However, there was a greater surprise in store than a fox that had turned into a wild cat. The sounds of a woman’s sobbing emerged from the cave – a gentle knife that cut through the hearts of even the most hardened of men. They didn’t see her tears, but they imagined them to be like the early morning dew from the sound of her crying. The sobbing didn’t seem to come from the cave, nor even from the mouth of a woman, but from heaven – a song sung by the goddesses, which could weaken a man’s bones.

The cave mouth would have been difficult even for a hunter to crawl into, not to mention a woman. In such deep mountains and secluded wildernesses, where could she have come from – this delicate, sultry woman with her beautiful, poignant songs – unless she was King Gesar’s consort?

‘I’ll go have a look.’

Being his usual impulsive self, the headman’s hot–blooded, assertive son, Dagbo Dorje, put down his matchlock and moved toward the cave. He was a curly–haired fellow. His mane exploded from his head in an announcement of defiant rebellion against the world.

Yeshi Tsering caught hold of him. ‘Young master, let Garwang go in first to have a look.’

Dagbo Dorje turned back to berate the steward. ‘I will not let others take away what should be my good fortune. If this is my own curse, none would want it?’

Behind him, Chief Pema Gyaltsen nodded in approval. This is what the son of a headman should be like. Whether facing a devil or a foe, he should display the nobility and pride of his family.

Dagbo Dorje climbed in like a hero crawling deep into a tiger’s lair. On the day when he chose to show his heroic Khampa demeanor to his father, he had never imagined he would be confronted with such a strange scene.

When Dagbo Dorje carried the woman down from the rock, the men were not so much afraid as they were aware of the cruelty of life. Their pity wasn’t for the woman who lived alone in the caves, but for their own lack of good fortune in never having met a fairy girl like her. As well as her unrivaled beauty, she was surrounded by a magical aura. No one could resist that sort of allure.

Chief Pema Gyaltsen asked bluntly, ‘Are you the red fox, transformed?’

‘Yes,’ the woman replied, equally bluntly.

He raised his bow and arrow. ‘Then you are not a woman but a she–demon.’

‘No, Father.’ Dagbo Dorje stepped in front of the woman. ‘I want to marry her. Make her my wife!’

It was a snap decision and one that caused him a lifetime of suffering. He spoke so artlessly that the whole valley was shaken by the breath of his declaration. This fellow, whom the girls in the valley called ‘Curly–haired Dorje’, had always been a romantic – ambitious and wild and a passionate lover, even though he was only eighteen years old.

‘Young master... but, but... sh–sh–she... She is a transformed fox!’ The steward Yeshi Tsering did not know what else to say.

‘We Tibetans are all descended from monkeys. Is there anything wrong with taking a fox for a wife?’ Dagbo Dorje didn’t stop to consider the difficulties a man and a fox might run into during the long years of a marriage. Things like that often happen in life; there were some women for whom, even though known to be foxes (like the woman of unknown origin hidden behind Dagbo Dorje), a man would ultimately be willing to put his life on the line.

‘There are so many beautiful women in the valley and you want to fall in love with one that has a tail?’ Chief Pema Gyaltsen muttered.

‘I don’t see a tail now, Father. I only see beautiful eyes and an alluring face,’ Dagbo Dorje replied softly.

‘Whether a fox or a beautiful woman,’ the headman said after a moment of thought. ‘Damn! How many men could resist a woman transformed from a fox? Come with us. We’ll see if a man can be cleverer than a fox’s cunning.’

That was how this shockingly beautiful woman was brought back to the honorable home of the Langsa clan, along with the captured mountain lion. The woman said her human name was Pechu. Apparently the wild cat was the reincarnation of one of her younger sisters; now, in the world of humans, she and her sister only had each other. Upon first seeing her, every man in the valley immediately forgot that she had once lived as a fox and did not belong to this world. She succeeded in persuading people that her past was not important, that the only thing that mattered was that she was beautiful enough to stir the whole valley, in the same way that winds came and brushed away clouds, floods swept clear the sediment and rainstorms came to wash away the dust.

She was efficient and resourceful at home, watching her step carefully. She was capable of dealing with everyone, quickly and effortlessly winning favor. The elders doted on her. Her little tricks made them weep with delight and caused their faces to break into laughter. Members of the younger generation were charmed by her flirtatious eyes in the firelight, moved by her laughter in the corridor and kept awake at night by the sound of her rustling skirt. Even more serious was the plight of the men in her family, besotted as they were by her bewitching air. It was deep enough to smell – a fragrance richer than the milky scent of buttered tea, mellower than the aroma of barley or wine and more sugary sweet than the fishy odor of a fox. The smell came not from her breath or her body, but from the waves of affection emanating from her eyes, like fog rolling out of the mouth of a mystical bottomless pit, lingering in every place she passed.

In the short time that Pechu had been with them, the old Langsa family had come to life. Light filled the gloomy household again until even the caravan horses began to sing. On a night when the moon and stars shone brightly, the cattle and sheep in the pen gave birth to so many lambs and calves that they broke through the fence. They crawled around on the ground like great wealth from heaven sent to earth. The servants were busy until the sun came up the next morning, when they finally managed to round up the chaos of running lambs and calves. It was an unprecedented miracle, but what was even more surprising was that one calf had an extra pair of horns growing from its back. The monks from the temple patiently explained to the headsman, their biggest benefactor: a four–horned calf showed that blessings were coming to the East Bank. When blessings were about to arrive, seedlings would emerge, flowers would open and even the cattle would grow extra horns – the natural phenomena of each season.

‘Whether you are human or not, you have brought us good luck,’ Chief Pema Gyaltsen said cheerfully to Pechu. The night before the baby animals were born, she had rolled barley dough into thumb–sized pieces in front of the whole family. She had thrown them onto the earth and prayed. ‘If the spirits can turn the clouds in the sky to a white flock, then may this dough also become a flock of pure whitish lambs.’

Later, the more observant people found that the ground where Pechu had scattered the dough was covered with lambs. From then on, no one mentioned her dubious history and Chief Pema Gyaltsen began to treat her like the clan’s very own god of prosperity.

Three months later, spring flowers bloomed in the valley and the rhododendrons reached almost to the sky, the way they would adorn a bride’s headdress. The red fox who had turned into a woman became a daughter–in–law of the Langsa family. What was most surprising was that she was not married to the headman’s second son, Dagbo Dorje – the one who carried her out of the cave and rescued her from her father’s arrow – but to the successor, the headman’s oldest son, Tashi Phunstok. The headman’s two sons only understood the simple truth of this strange marital arrangement when the rhododendrons on top of the mountain had bloomed and faded several times. The stunning creature that had transformed from a fox could not only ruin a man’s love, but could also change the fortunes of the whole clan.

At that point, the headman firmly believed that the destiny of the family lay within its own grasp. The father knew his two sons better than anyone else. They were only half brothers. The eldest, Tashi Phunstok, had been born of a woman who came from a downtrodden but aristocratic family. The son she had borne with Chief Pema Gyaltsen was like most noble offspring – sinister, cunning and calculating. The headman himself said that the horses in Tashi Phunstok’s mind ran like the wind, even though he would refuse to ride a saddled battle steed. He was a fellow more given to thought than action, so it was no wonder his mother’s family was in decline.

The mother of the second son, Dagbo Dorje, was the shepherdess who sang with the sweetest and most beautiful voice on the pasture. One night she was brought into the headman’s tent and, amid the pleasures of wine and song, a wild, rebellious seed was sown. His veins flowed with noble, aristocratic blood, but also with a shepherdess’s wildness. Dagbo Dorje came into the world not just to complete a cycle of rebirth but, more importantly, to write the most exciting and poignant chapter in the romantic legend of the Lancang River Valley.

The bustle of the Langsa clan’s wedding overshadowed even the roar of the Lancang’s current. The fact that a red fox had turned