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Part I

BIRTH

The Story

First Beginning

It was the time when domesticated horses separated from their wild counterparts, and when the deities went up to live in Heaven while the demons stayed in this world.

It saddened the deities to see the humans struggle with the demons, although their sympathy never went beyond sending down one of their number to help. In fact, they often made matters worse. Their visits became rare. Yet once the deities stopped meddling, the demons seemed also to disappear. Perhaps they had plagued humans simply to taunt the deities, and lost interest when only the feckless humans remained. But it has been said that the demons never left this world, that instead they transformed themselves, perhaps into a beautiful girl or into a tree trunk that gave off the sweet smell of rot.

Then the demons began to wonder why they had changed only into wicked figures. Why not assume human form? So they did, and then there was no telling them from the real thing. For centuries humans and deities pursued them relentlessly, until they found the perfect hiding-place: the human heart.

Let us go to the place where the story begins.

It was called Gling, which is present-day Khampapa. To be more precise, the Gling of the past is now part of the immense land named Khampapa. Its grasslands are in the shape of an enormous drum, the plateau encircling a slight rise in the middle. Sometimes you can almost hear surging drumbeats or a pounding heart inside. Snowcapped mountains circle the grasslands, like fierce beasts galloping at the edge of the sky.

In those days, people felt that the earth was big enough to contain many different worlds. Not different countries, different worlds. We speak now of the earth as a village, but back then people looked towards the sky’s edge and wondered if there might be more worlds beyond the horizon – wickeder than theirs, perhaps, or more prosperous.

Gling was a small world, its people divided into clans. By the time the newly enlightened inhabitants of Gling began to separate domesticated horses from wild ones, other worlds had long since left behind the age of barbarism. Those peoples cultivated the seeds of many plants; they smelted gold, silver, copper, iron, featherweight mercury and heavy lead. They erected statues; they wove hemp and silk; they became civilised. They believed they had destroyed all of the demons – or, at least, if there were still demons, they were hidden in human hearts, scurrying around in human blood, laughing like hyenas.

But in Gling the curtain was about to rise on a battle between humans, deities and demons.

The people of Gling began to pursue wealth – pastures, palaces, treasure and, for the men, beautiful women. Tyrants fought one another for power, and life in Gling became a struggle between the noble and the lowly, the powerful and the powerless. An unlucky shadow shrouded their eyes as desire burned in their hearts, just as rivers, wishing to flow beyond their beds, are muddied as they rush against their banks. The people of Gling believed that an evil wind had blown the demons into their world to destroy Gling’s peace and quiet.

Who could have blown the evil wind their way? They were not expected to ask – if they did, the sages might look foolish. They could ask: Where did the demons come from? And the answer would be: They came with the evil wind. Once the evil wind began to blow, dark clouds covered the bright sky. The grass of the pastures yellowed. Worst of all, the kindly were revealed as wicked, and it became impossible for the people of Gling to live in harmony. War horns echoed over the grasslands and among the snowcapped mountains.

It was to these grasslands, riven with the cries of battle, that King Gesar descended from Heaven.

The Story Second Beginning

One morning, the deities went on an excursion. As they floated into the great void, they saw clouds of sorrow rising above Gling. Their mounts – lions, tigers, dragons and horses – flared their nostrils at the scent of misery in the air. One of the deities sighed. ‘There are so many ways to rout demons yet these humans do nothing.’

The Supreme Deity joined in: ‘I thought they would fight back, but they do not.’ In Heaven the deities had physical forms, all but the Supreme Deity, who was, in a way, the final cause of every effect. He was formless but for his breath.

‘Then let us help them.’

‘We will wait,’ the Supreme Deity said. ‘They have no solution to rid themselves of the demons because they do not want one.’

‘Why—’

‘Let me finish. It is because they hope I will send someone to save them. If we wait, they may find their own way.’

He pushed aside a cloud to watch a celebrated monk preaching to an anxious audience. The monk had travelled thousands of miles, crossed mountain ranges and traversed roaring rivers to spread his faith in the demon-infested land. He spoke: ‘If we purify our hearts, the demons will vanish.’

How could he expect the common folk to believe that such fierce demons had been released into the world from human hearts to bring such harm? A black cyclone followed the demons when they appeared: how could that wild energy have come from themselves? The crowd, which had arrived full of hope, left disappointed.

Another deity, watching from above, said, ‘You are right. They wish us to destroy the demons.’

The Supreme Deity sighed. ‘We must send someone familiar with demon containment to evaluate the situation.’

So there came another monk, this one with powerful magic. The first, who had preferred contemplation to magic, had walked all the way, and it had taken three long years. But Master Lotus was different. He could catch a ray of light as though he were scooping up water, wave it as though it were a willow branch and fly on the light’s back. When he arrived on the majestic plateau, he fell in love with the view before him: the undulating ranges, like running lions, seemed to stretch for ever, the rivers roared with clear water and lakes dotted the plain, like a chess-board, their quiet waters glittering, like gemstones. It was strange that in such a beautiful place the people were so unhappy.

Master Lotus inspected Gling’s four rivers and six hills. The wearying number and power of the demons far exceeded what he had imagined, and it was no longer possible to distinguish them from humans. In some parts a king had been lured into the demons’ Tao; in others the demons had infiltrated the palaces to become powerful officials. Master Lotus could fight demons one at a time, but he could not battle a countryful of them. Luckily he had been sent only to inspect, not to eradicate, them.

The people said to each other that Heaven would come to their aid, but a resentful old woman sobbed: ‘Damn them! They have forgotten us.’

‘Whom do you curse?’

‘Certainly not my husband, who has become a foot soldier for the demons. I curse the deities who have forgotten the suffering in our world.’

‘You must not be disrespectful of deities!’

‘Then why do they not come to save us?’

They all began to wail.

*

Meanwhile, the demons howled with laughter as they feasted at a banquet of human flesh. First to be eaten were those who had spread rumours. Their tongues were cut out, then their blood was poured into jars and placed on the altar as an offering to evil deities. The demons consumed some of these poor souls, but there were more than they could eat, so the rest were left without their tongues, weeping in remorse and pain. Their wailing streamed past people’s hearts, like a dark river of grief.

Above, the sky was a vacant blue that imbued sorrow and despair with beauty. Some who had heard the wailing sang in praise of the colour, but they could not be sure if they sang of the blue or of the despair in their hearts. It seemed that as they sang their sorrow became bearable, and their despair lessened. But the demons would not allow them to sing for long: they feared the sound would reach the heavens. They released vaporous incantations of an invisible grey that suffused the air, entering the noses and throats of the singers. Those who inhaled them were cursed, their vocal cords paralysed, and they could make but one sound, that of a meek lamb.

Baa!

Baa, baa!

Oblivious, they continued to sing. Bleating, they roamed the land like sleepwalkers. When they grew exhausted, they chewed poisonous grasses that even sheep knew to avoid. Then, coughing up grey-green bubbles, they died by the river and the roadside. In that way the demons showed their power.

The people of Gling sank into indifference, their usually lively faces blank. They no longer looked into the sky – what could they expect to see? No deity had come. Rumour spread that one had arrived, but no one would admit to having seen it. True, they had not seen a demon either, but that was different: anyone who had seen a demon had been devoured by it.

In those sad days, wise men let their hair grow long and meditated in caves. They decided that there must be past and future lives, more and larger worlds than the one in which they lived. They wondered what those worlds looked like and whether soaring mountains or vast oceans separated them. And they gave a name to the terror, suffering and despair that the demons brought: they called it Fate.

It was under such circumstances that Master Lotus set off on his return journey to Heaven, intending to report the results of his inspection. Along the way he met farmers, carpenters and potters, all hurrying past him. From their stiff smiles and marionette gait, he knew they had been summoned by the demons. He took them by the shoulders and shook them, imploring them to return home, but no one heeded him. Although he might once have waged a battle against the demons, he knew he could not vanquish them all. Besides, his warnings had not brought the people to their senses, and he comforted himself with a phrase that we still hear now, a thousand years later: ‘What I cannot see cannot trouble me.’

Actually, what he said to himself was: ‘What I cannot see does not trouble me, so I must avoid the main roads.’

He pushed through bramble patches to reach hidden paths. In his weariness he forgot that a simple spell could protect him, and now his arms were torn by thorns, which angered him. The force of his rage made the bramble bushes bow down at his feet.

The paths were little better, for the shepherds, who had abandoned their flocks in the meadows, and the shamans, who had been collecting medicinal herbs in the hedgerows, were rushing to the beckoning demons, jostling him as they hastened past. He wondered what magic could be so powerful. His fatigue dropped away, and he followed them to a mountain pass where the rocky surface had been stripped of moss by the wind. He saw a clear blue lake in the hollow below, and remembered that he had passed this spot before and had vanquished three demons there, demons that could move in and out of the earth, like dragons that soar above water yet are at home in it. He’d used his magic powers to pick up lakeside boulders and drop them one by one at the base of the mountains: the impact had exposed the demons – one had died underground, the other two were buried beneath a colossal rock. Even now, the meandering banks of the lake are dotted with these boulders; once pitch black, they have been turned a dark, lustreless purple by the elements.

Master Lotus realised that he had spent a long time in Gling. A year? Two? Perhaps longer. At the place where he had once vanquished the three demons, a new demon had appeared, a giant snake that hid its body beneath the water, while its long tongue showed as a peninsula rich with enticing red flowers. Above it floated an alluring woman, a sorceress, cupping her breasts in her hands. She sang, and the humans were enchanted. If they retained a trace of free will, it was simply to walk towards her along the demon’s tongue and into its mouth.

Master Lotus flew to the top of a boulder and commanded the people to be deaf to the demon’s summons. But no one paused, not even for as long as it takes a grain of sand to drop through an hourglass, and the naked sorceress made her voice even more beguiling. Then she lifted her snake’s tail from under the lake and waved it provocatively, sending a gust of putrid wind towards him. Enraged, he flew to alight in the snake’s mouth, now transformed into the entrance to a dragon palace. He settled his mind, steadied his feet, and recited an incantation that filled his body with air. Bigger and bigger he grew in the serpent’s mouth, until the writhing creature stirred vast waves in the lake. The flowers and the lush grass vanished. The snake’s long tongue flipped the people into the water and its head split around Master Lotus’s giant body. He flung the snake’s body onto the lakeshore, where it was transformed into a range of rolling hills. But the lake had swallowed the people.

‘Rise!’ he cried. The drowned rose out of the water and were flung onto the shore.

Master Lotus’s strong magic restored many to life. As they got slowly to their feet, they knew they must flee, but their legs failed them. They lay down and wept, their tears falling, like hail, into the lake, made foul by the snake demon. The salt in their tears cleansed the filth, and a blue mist of sadness spread, soaking up the cruelty that had inhabited the water.

Then Master Lotus summoned sweetly chirping birds to gather in the trees, which cheered the people, who stood, stretched and set off for home, to their pastures and villages where barley and cabbage grew. Potters returned to their kilns, stone masons to their quarries; tanners gathered mirabilite crystals from the roadside to soften their leather. Master Lotus knew they might encounter bandits or evil spirits, and never find their homes, but he bestowed on them his blessing with auspicious words.

Master Lotus was not a deity, but he was a future deity. He had earned his power through his devotions and asceticism, and carried magic objects that guaranteed victory over the demons. His head was filled with powerful incantations. Although he could not travel freely into Heaven, he could fly up to the gate, where the Guanyin Bodhisattva, saviour of all those who suffer, would be waiting for his report on what he had witnessed during his journeys through Gling. The Bodhisattva would tell his story to those above.

He flew from Gling to Heaven on the back of a roc, holding on to its feathers to steady himself. Dizzy, fearful of falling into the great void, he recalled that he could soar aloft on a ray of sunlight. Why, then, was he afraid? The people he had saved must have shaken his inner tranquillity.

He sat on the roc’s back, his long hair flowing behind him, the wind howling past his ears. Reaching out, he squeezed the water from the drifting clouds, twisting them into auspicious knots, then tossing them to the ground. Later, when he had become a deity, sacred signs appeared where the knots had landed.

A voice full of laughter spoke: ‘After that, people will think of you wherever they are.’

He reined in the roc and, eyes downcast, hands at his sides, sat up straight. ‘It was the whim of a humble monk . . .’

Above him, all was quiet.

‘I shall go down to retrieve the knots.’

‘There is no need,’ the voice said. ‘I am happy that you have returned from the human world in such high spirits.’

Master Lotus breathed a sigh of relief.

The Bodhisattva said, ‘Dismount and we shall talk.’

How could he dismount in the void?

‘Just climb down from the roc’s back.’ The Bodhisattva smiled and waved, turning the void into rippling blue water, from which emerged enormous water lilies, one after another, until they formed a path at the monk’s feet. Master Lotus stepped forward, overwhelmed by their powerful scent. He felt as though the flowers were carrying him up to the Bodhisattva.

‘You have had a difficult time,’ the Bodhisattva said gently. ‘The evil spirits were a match for you.’

‘Bodhisattva, I should not have tired so easily.’

The Bodhisattva laughed. ‘That was because the ignorant mortals could not tell good from evil.’

So everything was visible from up here, he thought. Why, then, did they send me there?

The Bodhisattva waved a plump, soft hand and said, ‘Do not try to guess at celestial intentions. You will understand when you live here.’

‘I see. I must gather enough karmic merits.’

On that point, the Bodhisattva was clear: ‘Indeed. A human must acquire sufficient experience to become a deity.’ Then the Bodhisattva added, ‘There is no need for you to describe what you heard and saw in Gling. We see everything clearly from here, not only that which has already happened but that which is to come.’

‘Then why do you not alleviate the suffering down there?’ Master Lotus asked.

A stern look appeared on the Bodhisattva’s face. ‘All we can do is give help and guidance.’

‘Then please allow me to return and fight.’

‘You have accomplished your mission, and your karmic merits now allow you to be freed from samsara, the wheel of reincarnation. You will become a deity and take your place in the heavenly court. From now on, you will use your magic to protect the black-haired common folk who live amid the snowcapped mountains. You will never again appear in person to fight demons.’

The Bodhisattva turned and passed through the celestial gate on a pink, auspicious cloud. Master Lotus waited for a long time, long enough to burn several sticks of incense, but the Bodhisattva did not reappear. He did not know whether he could now enter the heavenly court, so he grew anxious and restless. Had he been his impatient, pre-transformation self, he would have hopped back onto the roc and returned to the mountains where he had undergone his training as a monk.

The Storyteller The Shepherd’s Dream

Yes, restless and anxious.

Those drifting, floating clouds. Anxious and restless.

The shepherd had had the same dream many times. And it always ended at the moment when the most revered Bodhisattva entered the celestial gate. Even in the dream he felt restless, that it was not the man pacing outside the gate but he himself who was anxious because he wanted to know what would happen next.

In his dream he had looked deep into the celestial court and seen a sparkling jade staircase. The steps closest to him looked sturdy, those further away soft, but the end of the staircase did not disappear into the cloud. Instead, as though unable to bear its own weight, it tipped at the top . . . but he could see no further. Once, at the edge of a summer pasture, he had climbed a five-thousand-metre sacred mountain that wore a helmet of snow and ice. There, too, the mountain had seemed to tip into the clouds that roiled beneath its cliffs. Beyond lay another world, but what that world looked like he would never know, not in this lifetime.

He dreamed that the other world would crack open before him, like a cave – those words appeared in his head. Although he was an illiterate shepherd, in his dreams he had become wiser. Strange how such a literary phrase popped into his mind just when he was waiting anxiously to see what would happen next. He heard a roar, like torrents of water sluicing down the rocky surface of steep hills when frozen rivers melted on a summer day. The noise woke him. He opened his eyes to find that he had been sleeping on a hill sheltered from the wind by Siberian cypresses. The sheep were scattered across the grassy floodplain, cropping tender grass, flaring their nostrils to capture the scents on the breeze. When they saw him, they raised their sad faces and called out to him.

Baa.

Half dreaming, compassion rose inside him: he was reminded of the people who had been manipulated by the demons.

He gazed into the sky, and the roar he had heard in his dream burst forth again, like thousands of mounted riders galloping towards him. Above him a great crevasse had opened under the thick layer of snow on the slopes of the sacred mountain, between the ice and the steel-grey rock. With a muffled rumble, the snow slid slowly down until it reached the fractured ridge where it became an avalanche, ice powder rising into the air. Wind buffeted his face, the chill purity of the air driving out the last remnant of sleep. He had been expecting an avalanche, a clear sign that summer had arrived. Purple gentians bloomed around him on the grassland, and giant buds formed on the fuzzy stalks of snow lotuses.

But he paid little attention to the flowers: he was thinking only of how tomorrow he would take his sheep closer to the foothills now that the grass was lush and green and the danger of avalanche had passed. The noise had startled the sheep, and cleared the last vestiges of his dream from his mind, but his agitation remained, like a dark cloud on the horizon. But then his dream came back to him clearly, and he saw the story that had played out on this very land. For thousands of years, bards had told the tale, on the grassland and in farming villages. He himself had heard it many times, the story of a hero, King Gesar, but from poor storytellers who could remember only fragments. Now, as he revisited his dream, he realised that he had seen the beginning of the story.

Silence reigned, yet he could hear thunderclaps in the mountains. He shuddered, as if struck by lightning, and sweat poured from his body. What power had let him witness the opening scenes that had eluded so many? Without knowing the beginning, others could not tell the whole story – the beginning, the middle and the end.

The shepherd’s uncle was one of those bards. He was a farmer in a village two hundred li from the shepherd’s home, and in his spare time, he carved sutra printing blocks from pear wood. He would sit in the lotus position under the shade of a plum tree in the middle of the yard and send wood shavings curling down between his fingers. Lines were etched ever more deeply into his face. Sometimes he would sip strong drink and sing fragments of King Gesar’s tale. His song had no beginning or end, for he knew only how to describe the hero’s mount, the weapons he wielded, the warlike helmet he wore and the powerful magic that enabled him to kill people like flies.

‘What happens next?’ the shepherd had asked his uncle many times.

‘That is all my master told me.’

‘Who taught your master?’

‘No one. He saw it in a dream. He was sick with a high fever, and babbling when he dreamed it.’

‘Could he not have dreamed the rest?’

‘Jigmed, my dear nephew, did you come all this way, nearly crippling the little donkey, only to ask me foolish questions?’

Jigmed just smiled.

In the courtyard of the farming village, with its several plum trees, he watched as his uncle placed a length of pear wood on his knees and began to carve words, reciting as he worked. Jigmed had not wanted to stay inside with his cousins. The younger one, who went to school, had told him that the gamy odour he’d brought with him from the fields was offensive. He was puzzled: he did not smell bad when he was on the pasture, but in this hot village he reeked of sheep and cows.

‘Don’t worry about the smell, Jigmed. It will be gone in a few days,’ his uncle said.

‘I want to go home.’

‘You must be disappointed by my story. But that is my master’s fault. He said he had dreamed it all but could not remember much when he awoke. He told me he could not even retell half of what he had dreamed.’

Jigmed wanted to tell his uncle that he had had a similar dream, more than once: he, too, had always forgotten it upon waking, but this time, startled by the avalanche, he could recall it all. The hero had yet to appear, so he knew he had seen the beginning of a long tale. His need to know what happened next had impelled him to travel the two hundred li with a gift-laden donkey to visit his uncle.

‘Something is worrying you, Jigmed,’ Uncle said.

Jigmed held his tongue: he felt that he must keep the dream a secret, that it had been a divine revelation.

Uncle moved aside to give him half of the shade cast by the plum tree. ‘Come, sit here.’

He sat down and Uncle placed the wood on his knees. ‘Hold the knife like this. No, too straight, tilt it a little. Now carve . . . with more force. Good . . . very good. Keep going . . . more. See? Like this, and a syllable appears.’

Jigmed knew the syllable: it was the first on the list of combinations, one that even the unlettered knew. People said it was the origin of human consciousness, the mother of all poetry, like the first wind that blew over the world, the first drop of water from the melting river ice, a fable for all prophecies and, of course, the prophecy of all fables.

‘My dear nephew, with so many people in the world, the gods cannot take care of us all, and that is why you feel out of sorts. When that happens, think of this syllable.’

‘I don’t know how to carve.’

‘Then treat your heart as if it were the best pear wood. Imagine yourself holding a knife, carving this syllable one letter at a time. As you think about it and say it, only this syllable will flicker in your consciousness. It will bring you tranquillity.’

On his way home, Jigmed said to the donkey, ‘I’m thinking of the syllable.’

It was pronounced Om. When that sound is made, water wheels, windmills, spinning wheels and prayer wheels begin to whirl. And when everything is whirling, the world turns.

The donkey did not understand but it ambled along, with its head lowered and its eyes cast downward. There was a sharp bend in the road by a sparse grove of pine trees. Swaying its narrow hips, the donkey disappeared from Jigmed’s view as it made the turn. He raised his voice and spoke to two parrots perched on a wild cherry tree: ‘Think of the syllable.’

Startled, the birds fluttered up, clamouring, ‘Syllable! Syllable! Syllable!’ and flew away.

He quickened his steps and found his donkey waiting for him by the side of the road. It gave him a dispassionate look, then set off again, the bell on its neck jingling as it plodded ahead.

For a long time after that, Jigmed spoke to all manner of living things that appeared along the way, telling them, in a half-serious, half-mocking manner, of how he was focusing on the syllable – serious, because he hoped it would help him return to his dream world and not forget it upon waking, and mocking, to help him prepare for the inevitable disappointment. Deep down he hoped it would work magic.

He said it to a lizard sunning itself on a rock as they crossed a valley.

He said it to a marmot that held its front paws together and stood up on its hind legs in a mountain pasture, gazing into the distance.

He said it to a stag that seemed proud of its wide antlers.

But they all ignored him, or scurried off, as though fearful of his muttering.

He spent that night in a mountain cave, while his donkey grazed near the opening. Moonbeams flowed like water on the ground; in the distance they were like a mist. It felt like a night made for dreams. He recited the syllable before he fell asleep, but knew as soon as he awakened that the dream had not come.

As the road rose higher, the sky grew brighter. He had planned to spend the second night in a town, at a hotel, but there was no stable for his donkey. The manager led him out to the yard behind the building, where cars, large and small, were parked on the tarmac.

The manager appeared puzzled. ‘You seem to have travelled a long distance, but people usually take the bus. We have a bus stop in the town. I can show you how to get there.’

He shook his head. ‘There are no seats for my donkey.’

He searched for a spot on a hill outside the town where he could spend the night. It was barren land, so he slept beneath a steel tower whose base sheltered him from the wind. He built a fire against the chill night air, made tea and roasted a little meat, wishing he had bought some strong drink in the town. He did not plan to dream here, for it did not look like a place for dreaming. From the dreary hill he could see the flickering brightness of the town below, and when the wind blew, the steel tower hummed – Om, om.

Curled up under a woollen blanket, he gazed at the tower rising into the starry sky. With it, the people in the small town could listen to the radio and watch television. They could make phone calls at the post office, with its many small rooms in which they could sit with a handset, flailing their arms as if dancing, talking animatedly, though they could not see the person to whom they were speaking. As he listened to the incessant Om from the tower, the noise became like the congregation of voices, the words jumbled together into a hum that made him dizzy. He tried to recite the syllable, the first of all sounds, but it merged into the Om from the tower. He pulled the blanket over his head, blocking out the starlight and the sound.

To his astonishment, he found his dream again, but this time it was unfamiliar. He saw a mysterious, crystal-clear light at the tip of the tower. It grew stronger.

It was not the steel tower. It was a crystal tower in the celestial court.

He was still restless and anxious.

But this time he was anxious not to be startled awake.

The Story The Wish of the Deities’ Son

The Bodhisattva, who had been gone for what seemed like eternity, emerged from behind the crystal tower and arrived at the gate of Heaven. ‘Where has he gone?’

But the Bodhisattva was, after all, the Bodhisattva, and understood everything, with no exceptions. Her surprised and puzzled look changed to a smile that spread from her mouth outwards. ‘He was so impatient. Too impatient even to wait. He has missed an opportunity to meet the Supreme Deity. Well, perhaps it is not yet time.’

The Bodhisattva returned to the Supreme Deity, who simply smiled. ‘I once thought to let him become a leader in the human world. He would help to destroy the demons and bring peace to the world. Perhaps the humans would then have been able to build their own Heaven on Earth. But it seems now that that was wishful thinking.’

The Bodhisattva suggested that it should not be the Supreme Deity who was disappointed, but the demon-infested place called Gling. With the myriad sins committed during previous lives, the inhabitants of Gling had lost their chance to build a Heaven on Earth. And, besides, the world below was boundless, so there must be another place where the Supreme Deity could carry out a similar experiment.

Om! The sound of all praise and condemnation emerged from the Supreme Deity’s mouth and sent a profound shock through the Bodhisattva’s mind.

It was a summons. Instantly the gods in the celestial court gathered around the Supreme Deity. Ripples in the air confirmed the Supreme Deity’s existence, and the auspicious clouds beneath the deities’ feet floated away. Below them more clouds roiled, turning a cheerless grey and a sorrowful black. The Supreme Deity shifted again to reveal the world below: landmasses large and small, the Earth’s continents, appeared in all four directions. On one continent, tens of thousands of people in battle formation were killing each other; on another, people were being whipped as they dug a canal. On yet another, skilful artisans had gathered to build a colossal mausoleum for their still living emperor. Around the construction site, the graves of artisans who had died from hunger or illness took up great swathes of fertile land. In a deep forest on another continent, one group of humans was chasing another, and those who lagged behind were roasted and eaten. The leftover flesh was dried as food for those who continued the chase. And still others appeared to have attempted to escape from their continent, but their ships had capsized in storms. Fish even bigger than the ships leaped out of the water and gobbled up the humans as they struggled to stay afloat.

The Supreme Deity said, ‘One nation after another has been created. See how they war against each other and how they treat their own.’

‘Supreme Deity, will it be like this in the land of Gling?’

‘Perhaps that is what the people there are striving for, but they have no real nation yet. I may give them a chance to try to establish a different kind of nation.’ The Supreme Deity paused. ‘It seems to me that humans have but one kind of history and cannot follow a different path. When demons reign, humans need our protection and assistance, but once they are rid of the demons and have established their nation, they go to war again.’

The Supreme Deity shifted once more, to show them what was happening in Gling; the misery and chaos there elicited heavy sighs. Reproach appeared on the Supreme Deity’s face. ‘I do not believe that you need me to show you what is happening.’

In response to his mild reprimand, expressions of extraordinary compassion appeared on their faces. But one young deity seemed indignant. The Supreme Deity called him forward and, turning to the other gods, said, ‘Your compassion for the suffering masses below is not as genuine as his.’

The young deity’s parents and older sister ran to the jade steps to shield their son and brother. ‘This foolish youth lacks self-control and wears his feelings on his face.’

The Supreme Deity’s face darkened. ‘Move back!’ he said. And then his expression changed. ‘Come here, young man,’ he said.

The young deity stepped around his parents and approached the Supreme Deity.

‘I, Thosba Gawa, am the Supreme Deity’s servant.’

‘The suffering down below . . .’

‘Your humble servant’s heart goes out to the people.’

‘Your heart goes out to them. Well said. Now, if I were to send you down to rid the people of their demons and save them from suffering, would you go?’

Thosba Gawa did not reply, but the determination on his face spoke for him.

‘Good. But you must consider it carefully. If you go, you will no longer be a deity. You will be a mortal who suffers misery and hardship from the moment you are born. Are you afraid?’

‘No, I am not.’

‘You may lose your divine qualities and sink into evil ways, as mortals do. Then you will never be able to return to the celestial world.’

The young man’s mother and older sister wept.

‘And you will lose all memories of your life here.’

The young man dried the tears on his mother’s face and put his arms around his sister. He whispered to her, ‘Do not be afraid.’

His father embraced him. ‘My son, I have never been so proud, but you have plunged a knife of sorrow into my heart.’

‘Father, pray for the suffering mortals in the bitter sea of Gling.’

‘I shall pray for your future subjects. I shall employ all my powers to help you accomplish your task. And if you find trouble and wish to leave Gling, I shall help you return to the celestial court.’

The steward of the celestial court spoke: ‘After Thosba Gawa leaves for the human world, all the deities will, on his behalf, beseech the Supreme Deity to grant his father another son as brave as he.’

With his wife at his side, his father replied, ‘No. We vow not to use more energy and vitality to create another life, so that our son may return to our heavenly court.’

The Storyteller Light in the Blind Eye

In his dream Jigmed the shepherd was moved to tears.

He awoke to see frost sparkling, like glinting needles, on the dying grass around him. Near his cheek, gleaming beads of ice had formed on his woollen blanket. He put one into his mouth. His teeth did not feel the cold of the ice, but his tongue tasted the salt.

As he recalled his dream he realised that the beads were his tears. He placed another on his tongue, its taste like that of water held in rocks or in the soil. His sheep often nosed up against cracks in the rock to lick the salt crystals. Each year, people travelled to northern lakes in search of the shimmering crystals, whose taste, once it entered their bodies, filled them with strength.

The morning air on the plateau was always chilly, and as he shivered, he thought of the village shaman. Whenever someone had a problem, whether they had lost a cow or lost their own soul and did not know if it would ever return, they would invite the shaman to their home. Once he had eaten, he would dim the light and recite an incantation, after which he would tremble all over. That was the sign that an all-knowing deity had possessed him, and would give the mortal helpful guidance through the shaman’s mouth. His rigid body swaying, he would speak in a muffled voice that seemed to come from another world: ‘The cow will not return because it has been devoured by three wolves’; ‘The person lost his soul because he offended an evil spirit when walking by a river, but he can regain his vitality if he sends offerings and speaks admiring words.’ Once the deity had left his body, the shaman would fall to the floor, like a log.

But this was a different type of possession. On the grassland, those who learn of heroic deeds are called divine messengers, for it is the deities who tell them stories in their dreams. In Jigmed’s youth, a blind storyteller had once visited his village. The storyteller had dreamed that Gesar, a deity dressed in gold, had opened his belly with a dagger and stuffed rolls of written scripts inside. The blind storyteller could not recall if the deity had sewn his belly back together, and when he awoke, at the sound of a turning waterwheel, there was no scar. He knew he could not read a single word on the written scripts, but his head buzzed, as if a herd of horses galloped inside him.

Jigmed wanted to return to the dream world, thinking that perhaps the god who had given him this story would appear. But the donkey was now nuzzling at his blanket, pulling it away from his face. It brayed, and Jigmed muttered, ‘Let me sleep a little longer.’

The donkey brayed again.

‘I don’t want to get up yet. Do you understand, my friend?’

The donkey would not stop braying.

‘What an awful noise! The deities will not like it.’

The donkey tugged at the blanket until it slid off entirely.

‘All right, all right.’

Jigmed and his donkey walked back along the road to the village. He could not see out of his left eye, the one that always watered in the wind. The donkey, the road and the mountains disappeared when he covered his right eye, and he could see nothing but streams of light coming towards him from the direction of the sun. When he uncovered his right eye, everything was clear as day.

After his journey, he took his sheep to the mountain every day. The snow line on the mountain rose as the ice on the lower reaches melted to feed the expanding lake below. Yet the door to the dream world refused to open. He would close his right eye and recite the syllable his uncle had taught him, the sound of all sounds, and greet the light that burst forth from the east with his blind left eye. Staring into the dazzling colours, he would recite, Om. He directed his consciousness to trace the outline of the syllable in his heart: Om. But no divine images emerged from the swirling rays of light.

He had to content himself with tending his sheep. At night, when he came down from the mountain into his village, he walked along a little-used road that passed a shop where beer and spirits were sold. On early summer evenings men from the village would gather on the grass in front of the shop to drink until they broke into song, mostly popular tunes they’d learned from the radio. But some sang fragments of the hero’s story.

‘Lu-ah-la-la mu-ah-la,

Lu-ta-la-la mu-ta-la!

In the early summer of the Ding-you year,

In the early morning of the eighth day of a crescent moon,

An auspicious sign will appear in Gling;

Those of the phoenix, the eldest, the noble class,

Those of the dragon, the second, the famous class,

Those of the hawk, eagle and lion, the younger class,

From the noblest of the noble,

To the commonest of the common,

All will come together to await the good news,

That an auspicious sign will appear in Gling!’

The Story The Deities’ Son Descending

Regret had begun to eat at Master Lotus. It was not that the demons of Gling had frightened him, but that the barbaric people had exhausted him. Returning to his home from the gate of the celestial court, he heard of Thosba Gawa’s descent to the human world. It was clear to him that he had lost his chance to return to Gling and do something remarkable. On the other hand, people were still talking about his great deeds, which, he knew, was their way of showing remorse for not adequately following his instructions and for not trying hard enough to keep him there when he had told them he was leaving.

‘I’ve formed an indissoluble bond with Gling,’ he said aloud.

A voice asked, ‘What do you mean, indissoluble?’

He smiled. He could see a hundred years into the future, see the towering temples erected on the shores of the indigo lakes at the base of Gling’s snowcapped mountains. Gilded clay images of himself stood in the central halls, laden with sumptuous offerings. But he did not respond immediately. The person who had asked the question was Master Thangtong Gyalpo, who was engaged in his own spiritual quest beside him. At last Master Lotus replied, ‘It seems that I must ask you to tell the people of Gling that the son of the deities will soon be born into their world.’

‘Why will you not tell them yourself?’

‘Because I regret having returned here.’

With a smile, Thangtong Gyalpo agreed to his friend’s request.

Thangtong Gyalpo’s body remained motionless but his thoughts travelled to Gling, and the people sensed his arrival.

The leader of one of the many tribes of Gling was an old steward, Rongtsa Khragan, who enjoyed high prestige and the confidence of his people. Though he was not considered the most outstanding leader, his tribe knew that he was tirelessly concerned about them. That day, he had gone to bed just after sunset and was unable to sleep although he was weary. Battles among the tribes and power struggles among his family spurred in him a new will to fight. His regret at the departure of the powerful Master Lotus prevented him losing himself in drink. Lately he had been asking himself, Will Gling be condemned for ever to suffering, to karmic retribution, never to enjoy the rays of celestial light?

As the sun sank behind the mists on the broad horizon, he allowed himself to fall asleep. Moments later he awoke to a blinding light. The sun, which had barely set, rose in the east in radiant magnificence, as if a golden wheel spun in the sky. A thunderbolt sprang from within the wheel and struck Mount Jijiedari, at the heart of Gling. The sun was high, yet the moon rose in the centre of the sky, like a silver platter. Surrounded by stars, it reflected the glow of the sun, and the bright light intensified in the sky. The steward’s younger brother, Senglon, appeared in his dream, holding a vast umbrella whose shadow covered a territory much larger than Gling, east to Mount Zhanting on the border with China, west to Mount Banghe near Dashi, south to the north of India, and north to the southern banks of the salt lakes in the country of Hor. Then a cloud drifted over, upon which rested Supreme Master Thangtong Gyalpo. He spoke to the old steward, ‘Awake! If you wish the sun to shine on Gling, listen to the tale I am about to tell you.’ Before the old steward could speak, the Supreme Master had settled on the sacred Mount Machen Bomra at the edge of the grassland to the east.

Rongtsa Khragan woke from his dream refreshed, apprehension swept away. He gave orders to welcome the Supreme Master Thangtong Gyalpo at the sacred mountain.

‘But, Steward, the Supreme Master practises Buddhism in the west.’

He had no choice but to relate what had happened: ‘I had a dream, one that has been unthinkable for three generations of Gling ancestors, and impossible for three future generations. I am not sure if we black-haired Tibetans can appreciate it. The Supreme Master appeared in my dream. We must invite him here to make it come true.’

‘Is the Supreme Master really coming?’

‘He is already here! He settled on Mount Machen Bomra. Take the finest horses and the most comfortable palanquin to greet him. Hurry!’

Then the old steward dispatched a flock of messengers to the senior, middle and junior tribes, requiring their presence at his castle on the fifteenth day of the month, when the sun and the moon appear together in the sky and the snowcapped mountains wear a golden crown.

In the meantime, Thangtong Gyalpo arrived at the steward’s castle holding a rattan cane. He began to sing. But as the fine horses and palanquins sped past him towards the mountain, he was covered with the dust they kicked up. By the time it had settled, the procession was far off in the distance, so he began to sing again, drawing the attention of the old steward.

The old steward noticed the man’s unusual appearance and saw that his rattan cane had come from a magical mountain. He went up to ask if he was Thangtong Gyalpo, the wise Supreme Master.

The Supreme Master got to his feet and turned his back to the castle, as if preparing to leave.

Instead of following him, the old steward recited an ancient song of praise:

‘The sun is an uninvited guest.

What is the point of turning if it cannot warm the lives below?

The sweet rain is an uninvited guest.

What is the point of travelling on clouds if it does not nurture the broad fields?’

The Supreme Master turned to face the old steward, who stood at the stately entrance. He laughed. ‘The time has come.’ His voice, though not loud, travelled up to the celestial court, and the Supreme Deity knew that Thosba Gawa’s destiny was upon him. He gathered the deities to give him a final blessing, which travelled into the ears of Master Lotus, who sat down to pray for Gling’s future.

In those days, the celestial court had many ways of helping mortals. The Supreme Deity said, ‘Since the Lotus sect of Buddhism has formed a karmic bond with the people of Gling, why not let Buddhism become their permanent belief?’ He called upon all the deities who held Buddhist beliefs.

Meanwhile, in the human world below, the old steward invited Thangtong Gyalpo into the castle where, in the meeting hall, he knelt reverently. ‘The Supreme Master passed through my dream world last night,’ he said, ‘so today I would ask the Supreme Master to interpret the dream for me and the suffering masses of Gling.’

Thangtong Gyalpo laughed. ‘Very well. Who is to blame for my carelessness in passing through your dream world but I? Yet, though I have some magical powers, I cannot interpret your dream when I am thirsty and my mouth is dry.’

The old steward slapped his head. ‘Bring water,’ he commanded.

Cold, pure spring water was carried to him.

‘No, milk!’ He waved his hand.

The Supreme Master sipped the sweet spring water, then gulped a bowl of milk. ‘I have journeyed far, and although I did not walk one step, my belly is empty.’

‘Another bowl of milk?’

‘No. Let us talk about your dream.’

The old steward sat at the feet of the Supreme Master and bowed his head. ‘Your humble and ignorant servant asks for enlightenment.’

The Supreme Master began:

‘Om! There is no life or death in the Dharma realm.

Ah! But I pity the masses who suffer the consequences of life and death!

Hum! I have come to interpret your wondrous dream,

So, old steward, please listen carefully!’

The sun rising above the eastern mountain in the old steward’s dream was a sign that the light of compassion and wisdom would shine brightly in Gling; the thunderbolt represented a warrior who would descend from Heaven to be born in the area under the old steward’s jurisdiction. The warrior would found a powerful country called Gling. Senglon had appeared in the dream with a vast umbrella: he would sire the warrior from Heaven. The ground shaded by the umbrella would be the territory his son would claim.

After he had listened to the Supreme Master’s interpretation, brightness replaced the cloud before the old steward’s eyes.

As they had been speaking, the leaders of all the Gling tribes and their retinues were gathering at the old steward’s castle, which rose up in the crook of a mountain range shaped like a bow. The waters of the Yarlung river surged from the north-west, then turned and passed by the crook, straight as a taut bowstring. Between the bow and the bowstring, a grassy plain was covered with flowers, and it was on this plain that the tribespeople were gathered, their horses whinnying, surrounded by pennants fluttering from tents. The people were dressed in their best. Their tents faced the river in a wide semicircle with a meeting tent in the middle that soared like the glistening peak of a snowcapped mountain, its golden dome as bright as the morning sun. Gold and silver seats were arrayed inside, the warriors’ seats draped with tiger or leopard skins.

One of the tribesmen climbed to the top of the castle and blew a conch to summon the leaders to a meeting. They took their seats in the tent. The elders, who enjoyed high prestige and commanded great respect, sat in the seats of honour, while the young and brave were below them. As the saying goes, humans have heads, necks and shoulders; oxen have horns, backs and tails; the earth has mountains, rivers and valleys.

Once they were seated, the steward began to recount for them the auspicious signs in his dream and the interpretation of the Supreme Master, Thangtong Gyalpo. The good news spread, like a bolt of lightning, from the tent to the people of Glingkar, as they sometimes referred to their homeland, and they cheered with joy.

As his bright eyes swept over the faces of those in the tent, the old steward grew sober. ‘You have all heard that people beyond Glingkar, to the north, the south, the east and the west, have founded their own nations, with magnificent palaces and an orderly life, where sages spread the seeds of their meditation to scholars, where abundant fruit and vegetables grow in the fields and where milk flows across the pastures in eternal sweet springs. But here in Glingkar the people eat the raw flesh of animals and drink their blood. We struggle under the evil spells of demons, and we suffer because our deeds do not deserve the attention of the deities. Today the people of Glingkar, especially those of us seated here, must examine ourselves carefully.’

All present nodded before bowing their heads to begin their contemplation. But some, such as Khrothung of the Tagrong tribe, disagreed. ‘Then the leader of the leaders must bear primary responsibility,’ he muttered. ‘If I were the steward of Glingkar . . .’

‘Hush!’ the others hissed.

‘Do not speak to me thus. I am not a beast of burden.’

‘No, you are human, so you should follow the old steward’s advice and reflect upon yourself.’

The members of the tribes, unaware of the surging debate inside the tent, cheered at the news that the deities would help them at last to end the chaos and suffering in their lives. The chorus of wild cheers from tens of thousands of people was heard even in the celestial court, blowing open the cloud curtains at the entrance.

The Supreme Deity said, ‘It is time for Thosba Gawa to go down.’ He sent a messenger to fetch him so he could witness the celebration in Glingkar. ‘Young son of the deities, the suffering below aroused your compassion. You shall soon be born into their midst and become their king.’

Thosba Gawa was moved to tears as he gazed down. ‘I see it.’

The Supreme Deity’s face became grave. ‘Perhaps you see only the outside, not the inside.’

‘Inside? Does the Supreme Deity mean the evil spirits and demons hiding in shadows and caves?’

‘Not only those. There are more demons inside the meeting tent, in the leaders’ hearts.’

Thosba Gawa had never felt the weight of his own body as he floated in the celestial world. His sorrow was born of seeing the suffering of another world, and now the Supreme Deity’s words had planted the seeds of doubt in his heart.

‘Perhaps I should not have told you. I should simply ask those with greater powers to bless you so that you will be ready to face the tests of the human world. My son, when there is a plague in the human world, the medicinal plants have no right to be idle. Sit still, close your eyes and do not look down. Imagine yourself as a container into which magical powers are poured.’

Before he closed his eyes, Thosba Gawa saw that all the Buddhas of the west were gathered round him.

A light from Vairocana’s forehead shone down on all corners of the world, transforming the origin of all thoughts – Om – into an eight-spoke golden wheel that spun above Thosba Gawa, then entered his body through his forehead. With this blessing, no matter how filthy or ugly his surroundings, he would remain pure in mind and body. That was essential for any deity descending to the human world.

The Joyful Buddha stepped forward now, a bright light shining from his bare chest. For a moment the light remained suspended in mid-air, then turned into a thunderbolt that pierced the chest of the son of the deities. Sprites flew up to wash his body with celestial dew, to protect him from contamination by the evil in the world below.

Then the Buddha of Blessings and Dignified Treasures, light pouring from his navel, cast blessings into the navel of the son of the deities; they would lead him to hidden treasures in the human world and endow him with the power to use them to build a prosperous nation in which the people would live in peace. It was exactly what he would need as the future king.

Amitabha, the Buddha of Infinite Qualities, shone a light from his throat that could transform the energy of all languages into a red lily. Any who accepted the light gained the right to use the world’s sixty musical tones. Then he placed a thunderbolt that held all the deities’ promises for the future in the right hand of the son of the deities. ‘Take this, my dear young man, for it represents your vow that you will not forget to save the suffering masses.’

‘How could I forget?’

‘Once you are below . . .’

Then Amoghasiddhi, the Buddha of Unerring Performances, came to him and said, ‘If this young man remembers his vow and does great deeds, then some of the frivolous and ambitious members of the masses will envy you.’ The deity, an odd-looking figure, sent a light from his loins that entered the same spot on the son of the deities. ‘This, my son, is a power that will shield you from the fire of jealousy, and will inspire your work.’

Om! Now the body of the son of the deities had accumulated all kinds of blessings, virtues and magical powers. He stood up, expecting to feel heavy with all that had been poured into him, but instead he felt light and springy, and his feet nearly flew off the jade step. He could not help a tinge of regret that he had received blessings from the Buddhists only when the celestial court was filled with immortals of innumerable abilities and beliefs. But, glancing at the Supreme Deity, he swallowed what he was about to say. The Supreme Deity smiled. ‘Even deities have their rightful domains. Glingkar is predestined to bathe in the light of Buddhism.’

‘It is only that . . .’

‘Tell me.’

The son of the deities spoke in a low voice. ‘I thought the other deities might offer more fun.’

The Supreme Deity laughed as he turned to the Buddhas, who were resting on the jade steps. ‘He said that you are too serious.’

The Buddhas brought their palms together and, without moving their lips, uttered in a deep voice, Om –

The Supreme Deity said, ‘Now return to your parents and elder sister. This will be a long separation, and we still have work to do. We must find a good family in Glingkar for you.’

‘Perhaps we should ask Master Lotus,’ one of the Buddhas said.

The idea was immediately transmitted to the mountain cave where Master Lotus was meditating. He walked out of his cave, sat cross-legged on a rock and gazed into the distance. Closing his eyes, he focused his mind and joined two fingers to form a bond, bringing before his eyes the whole of Glingkar. He picked a birthplace for Thosba Gawa, where the sky was like an eight-panel canopy and the land like eight auspicious lilies. Waves from the river lapped at the rocky banks, sounding as if the precious six syllables were recited day and night.

Then the Master searched his mind for a family. He considered the six oldest clans, but quickly rejected them. Then he ran through the nine most famous clans in the land and discovered that one, the Mu family, lived in Glingkar. They had three daughters, the youngest of whom, Rkayngmusar, was married and had a son named Senglon. Senglon was kind and generous, suitable to become the father of the son of the deities. Using his fingers to aid his deliberation, Master Lotus saw that if the father was from the Mu clan, then the mother must be from the noble Dragon clan.

Metog Lhartse, the youngest and favourite daughter of the Dragon King, lived in the Dragon Palace, and for the Dragon daughter to leave the palace was comparable to the son of the deities descending to the human world. For the sake of the people of Glingkar, the Dragon King gave his favourite daughter to Senglon, with an ample dowry.

Everything was now in readiness. Thosba Gawa ended his life in the celestial realm and prepared to descend to the human world, a land of misery and suffering.

The Story The First Sign of Magic

In the sixth month, when all the flowers were in bloom, the Dragon daughter, Metog Lhartse, was married to Senglon.

On her way to Glingkar, Metog Lhartse saw a white cloud in the south-west, on which sat Master Lotus. ‘Virtuous and blessed woman,’ Master Lotus said. ‘Heaven would like to borrow your noble body that you may give birth to a hero who will save Glingkar. No matter what hardship you encounter in the future, you must hold fast and believe that your son will be the king of Glingkar. He may be a stern deity to the demons, but to the black-haired Tibetans, he will be their brave and wise king.’

The Dragon daughter said fearfully, ‘Master, if my son will descend from the celestial realm and is destined to be the king, why do you speak of hardship?’

Master Lotus lowered his eyes. After a pause he replied, ‘Because some of those demons live in human hearts.’

The Dragon daughter, who had lived a sheltered life, wept bitterly at this, and when she looked up again, he had drifted away on his cloud.

After the wedding, she enjoyed Senglon’s love and the respect of the people, and it seemed impossible that any hardship could befall them when her son was born. She often looked up at the clouds with a smile, sure that Master Lotus had joked with her. But still she was visited by a nameless dread.

Senglon had a first wife, a consort from the distant Han tribe, and they had a son called Gyatsa Zhakar, who was a few years older than Metog Lhartse. He was a bright, brave young man, an indispensable member of the old steward’s retinue. He treated Metog Lhartse with the respect due to his own mother. Sometimes his uncle, Khrothung, would tease him, saying, ‘My good nephew, a hero should be paired with a beautiful woman. If I were you, I would fall in love with my young mother.’

Gyatsa Zhakar would pretend he hadn’t heard him. But when his uncle would not desist, the young warrior, mortified, would stuff a ball of new grass into the older man’s mouth. Often his eyes reflected a sorrow so deep that even a hawk would lose its powerful wings if it fell into such a light.

At this, Metog Lhartse would feel a tender, motherly love for him. ‘Gyatsa Zhakar, why do you always look so sad?’

‘My young mother, it is because I am reminded of how my birth mother misses her homeland.’

‘And you?’

‘Glingkar is my homeland. But though I have vanquished many powerful enemies, I cannot help my mother’s endless suffering.’ His words brought tears to her eyes, and he added, ‘But do not let me make you sad.’

‘If I give you a younger brother, will you let him suffer an ill fate?’

Gyatsa Zhakar laughed. ‘How could Mother worry about that? I swear on my life . . .’

And Metog Lhartse laughed, too.

In the middle of the fortress there was a spring with sweet water that froze in the winter. On the eighth day of the third month, an auspicious sign appeared. Flowers bloomed amid the melting snow, and the spring gushed forth again, pushing through the layers of ice, nourishing and refreshing the pungent air. Clouds heavy with summer rain gathered in the sky where thunder rolled. It sounded to Metog Lhartse like the dragon songs in her father’s palace.

During the winter, Gyatsa Zhakar had led his soldiers in battle against the invading God tribe. Every fast steed that appeared at the fortress brought news of victories, and that day was no different. Glingkar’s troops had occupied all of the God tribe’s mountain castles. The shamans who had helped the enemy had been beheaded, and the God tribe’s land, livestock, people and treasure were now under the control of the Gling tribe. The conquering troops would return in a few days.

That night the wild celebrations kept Senglon and Metog Lhartse awake. Turning to her husband, Metog Lhartse said, ‘I hope our son will be as righteous and courageous as the elder son.’

When sleep finally came, she saw a deity in gold armour hovering at her side, while above her a crack in the clouds revealed a glimpse of the celestial court. A flaming thunderbolt sped downwards, bursting through her head and penetrating deep inside her. When she awoke in the morning, she felt calm and light, and a thought touched her heart. Shyly, she told her husband that their son had been conceived.

Husband and wife walked out onto the balcony. In the early-morning sun, round the bend in the river, the victorious soldiers appeared in a cloud of dust, with flags and pennants, the light glinting from their weapons and helmets.

Under the protection of Heaven, nine months and eight days passed quickly, and it was now the fifteenth day of the twelfth month. Metog Lhartse’s body felt as soft as fine wool, and her mind as clear as the finest jade. Of course, she had heard talk about the pain of childbirth and had seen many women die in the process. She whispered to herself, ‘I’m afraid.’

But she felt no pain when her son was born, and her heart filled with joy. More wondrous: the baby was the height and weight of a three-year-old. Although it was winter, thunder rolled in the sky, sending down a shower of blossoms. Clouds of many colours surrounded the birthing tent.

Supreme Master Thangtong Gyalpo came to congratulate the Mu clan and gave the child a name: Conquering Hero and Precious Pearl Gesar.

At the banquet, everyone begged Metog Lhartse to show them her extraordinary baby. Gyatsa Zhakar held up the child, who gazed at his elder brother with shining eyes. Deeply moved, Gyatsa Zhakar pressed his cheek against his younger brother’s, and at this Supreme Master Thangtong Gyalpo cried, ‘The joining of two fine steeds is the basis for vanquishing the enemy. Close ties between two brothers are a sign of prosperity.’

Gyatsa Zhakar wanted to call out his brother’s name but could not. ‘The name given by the Supreme Master is too complex.’

‘Then let us call him Gesar.’ The Supreme Master turned to the steward. ‘You must nurture him with milk, cheese and honey.’

Metog Lhartse was filled with joy at the sight of her son’s full mouth, bright eyes and well-set brows. But she said, ‘He is ugly. We shall call him Joru.’ So Joru became his childhood name.

Only Khrothung, head of the Tagrong tribe, kept apart from the festivities. In his view, the Glingkar Mu clan had come from one ancestor but had later divided into three branches, the senior, the middle and the junior, though for a long time there was no distinction among them. After Senglon had married his Han wife, who had given birth to Gyatsa Zhakar, a son praised by everyone in Glingkar, the junior branch was in the ascendancy. The old steward had been born into the junior branch, so the wealthy Tagrong tribe came under his rule. In theory, when the old steward stepped aside, Khrothung should take over from him. Who could have predicted that Senglon would marry a Dragon daughter who would give birth to such an unusual son?

At that thought, an evil plan grew in Khrothung’s mind, and he knew he must act fast, so he set out for home. At the crest of the hill he looked back down at the crowd gathered at the river, and his heart felt as if it were crawling with poisonous insects. Loneliness overcame him, and he knew that his vile plan against the newborn baby was that of a coward. As a young man, he had always been ready to fight, and fight hard. Frightened by his fearlessness, his mother had sought the secret to making a man more timid: the shaman had told her that he must drink the blood of a fox, a shy, cowering animal. She had followed the instruction, but the shaman had not told her that whoever drank the blood would also inherit the fox’s devious and cunning nature.

Sitting on his horse at the crest of the hill, Khrothung recalled the magnanimity he had seen in the eyes of the newborn baby and those of Gyatsa Zhakar, and was reminded of his own eyes. He knew they were now the sly eyes of a fox, and he was suddenly ashamed. He, too, had been great-hearted, until Fate had intervened.

Within three days Khrothung reappeared, smiling, bringing with him cheese and honey. ‘My newborn nephew is already as big as a three-year-old. He will surely grow even faster when he eats the food I offer.’ His words were sweet as honey, but the food was laced with a poison powerful enough to kill a yak. Taking the baby in his arms, Khrothung began to feed his nephew.

Joru looked up at him with clear eyes and smiled, then held up his hands to show wisps of dark smoke rising from between his fingers. The powers given to him by Heaven had expelled the poison from his body. In his confusion, Khrothung licked a fragment of fresh cheese stuck to his fingertip. In an instant, he felt as if lightning bolts were lashing him, that his intestines were being tied in knots, and knew he had been poisoned. His burning tongue would not allow him to utter a clear sound. All anyone heard as he tore out of the tent was a wolfish howl.

Khrothung stumbled to the river, where he pressed his tongue to the ice for a long time. When at last he could speak, he uttered an incantation to summon his friend Mgonpo Redag, a warlock, half human, half demon, who could snatch a living soul and take control of the body. Soon a great raven appeared, whose wings cast a wide shadow on the ground. It tossed the poison’s antidote to Khrothung, who stumbled to his feet as the raven flew off.

In the time it had taken for his uncle to run to the river, Joru had begun to talk.

‘What ails your uncle?’ his mother asked.

‘He went to the riverside to cool his tongue,’ Joru said, not answering his mother’s question.

‘But he is not beside the river.’

Joru told his mother, ‘Uncle has sent a black wind in our direction, so let this black-wind demon be the first I vanquish.’

Though his human body was sitting beside his mother, his celestial body was already flying towards the black wind. Mgonpo Redag flew past three mountain passes before he met Joru’s celestial body, standing tall between Heaven and Earth, with nine hundred celestial soldiers in silvery armour waiting to carry out his commands. Joru remained motionless, waiting for the warlock to show his magic. The black-wind demon saw that this was not Joru’s real body, so he flew around the soldiers towards the next mountain pass. Again he met Joru, blocking Heaven and Earth, this time surrounded by nine hundred celestial soldiers in gold.

Twice more he met Joru, the soldiers dressed in steel and then in leather. Then he saw Joru’s human form sitting in front of a tent. Joru flicked his hand and tossed four colored pebbles into the air, summoning the celestial soldiers to surround him like an iron wall. The warlock Mgonpo Redag quickly sent up a column of black smoke and vanished, but Joru pursued the black-wind demon to his cave and sealed the entrance with a giant rock. Mgonpo Redag summoned all his magical powers to blast a tiny opening in the rock, but the crevice he opened let in a bolt of lightning sent by Joru, which blew him to pieces.

Now the good Joru transformed himself into the warlock’s shape and went to see Khrothung, telling him he had defeated Joru’s celestial soldiers and killed the infant, for which he wanted Khrothung’s walking stick as payment. Now, this was no ordinary stick, but a treasure given to Khrothung by the black-wind warlock. With this stick, a person could walk through the air as if on wings. The disguised Joru threatened to tell the old steward and Gyatsa Zhakar how Khrothung had plotted to murder him unless Khrothung gave up his treasure, and with reluctance, he did so.

Joru flapped his cloak and flew off, but instead of a black wind the light of a rainbow trailed him. Suspicious, Khrothung flew to the warlock’s cave, where he found the giant boulder blocking the entrance. Peering through a hole in it, he saw what was left of Mgonpo Redag: the disembodied head. The warlock’s hand, also detached from his body, appeared to clutch the stick, and Khrothung, unmoved by his friend’s death, transformed himself into a mouse small enough to squeeze through the hole. Squeaking, he wriggled into the cave, but when he scampered up to the demon, the stick was gone. When he realised he could not see clearly through his beady mouse eyes, he tried to return to human form, uttering the incantation. He remained a mouse. Terrified, he repeated the incantation, and this time something happened. His head regained its human shape and size, but his body remained that of a mouse. He struggled to the cave opening where, to his horror, he found that his head was too big to pass through the tiny hole.

Joru appeared at the entrance, and, feigning surprise, said, ‘What is this monstrosity? I should kill it. It must be a demonic transformation.’

Khrothung shouted, ‘Nephew, I am your uncle, and I have fallen under the spell of demons.’

Joru slapped his forehead, confused. ‘It seems he has suffered from his own magic, so why does he say he was affected by another’s evil spell?’ While he was thus questioning himself, Joru’s magic power diminished, giving Khrothung an opportunity to transform fully and squirm his way outside. Seeing bewilderment in the child’s face, he dusted himself off and said, ‘Little boys should not play so far from home.’ Then he swaggered round the mountain pass, out of Joru’s sight, and flew away.

After returning to his house, many miles away, Khrothung wondered if Joru really had come from the celestial realm, since the child had so easily foiled his evil plans. If so, then he, resourceful Khrothung, would remain merely the head of the Tagrong tribe, with no greater future. The thought made him so gloomy he could neither eat nor drink for a day, and rumbles of hunger joined his sighs.

The Storyteller Teacher

That morning, the dew lay heavy on the grass. Too much wet grass made the sheep ill, so Jigmed set out late. The sun was high when he took his flock up the hill. Thrushes, tired from singing, were resting, and lizards, after warming their cold blood in the sun, were searching for insects.

From far down the road, behind a cascade of brilliant light created by the sun, came a storyteller. First Jigmed saw a banner held high, then a hunchbacked old man on the horizon, moving towards him.

After greeting Jigmed, the old man smiled. ‘Why am I thirsty even before I begin to sing?’

Jigmed poured a cup of tea from his heated bottle. ‘There is a passage that confuses me. Will you sing for me?’

‘Does the young man want to learn how to sing?’

‘I have dreams, but what I see in my dreams is never complete.’

‘Which passage do you wish to hear?’

‘About the family into which the son of the deities was born. It is a story as tangled as a skein of wool, or as the branches in a grove of old azaleas.’

The old man sat down and gazed at the sheep on the grassy plain. But instead of singing, he talked. He told Jigmed that this might help him with the difficult part.

‘Then you are my teacher.’

‘I will be your teacher.’ And with that, the old man began.

The Story What Came Before

Since Gling was part of Tibet, let us talk about the land of Tibet.

The oldest six clans in Tibet were: Jure of Drikung, Gasi of Taglung, Khon of Sakya, Chos gyalpo Lang, Gya of Khyungpo and Lha of Nedong. But these old clans were unable to maintain their vitality, so in time nine newly risen clans came to dominate Tibet. Though fearful at first, eventually the old clans let the names of the respected nine clans gush out like spring water: Ga, Dro, Tong from one line; Se, Mu, Dong from a second; and Ban, Tag, Dra from a third.

The many tribes of Tibet were scattered across the plateau, and looking down from Heaven, it appeared that snowcapped mountains, rocky cliffs and sparkling light surrounded the Pureng, Guge and Mangyul in the Ngaraus area of Taziks to the west. At the centre, there were the four Wetsang tribes: Yulru, Weru, Yasru and Yonru. Next to them were the six hill tribes of Dokham, which were governed by six magic mountains, named Marza, Pobor, Tsawa, Selmo, Markham and Minyag. The Yellow, Jinsha, Nu and Lancang rivers lingered at the foot of the mountains, bordered by pastures and farmland, and the many villages dotted among the hills and rivers fell under the authority of towering castles.

‘Dispersed to all corners like pearls from a broken strand, Blown by the wind throughout the land like grass seeds.’

The story isn’t finished yet. Om!

The wise old man had an adage: How can you see a towering tree just by looking at the trunk? You must remove your boots and climb it, touching every twig. Om . . .

I’ll put on my storyteller’s hat. Om! Let me tell you about that hat. It looks like a mountain with gold and silver threads . . . Oh, very well. I’ll talk about my hat tomorrow. What are you saying? That I’ve digressed from heredity to geography? Ah, people today have no patience!

Now we will speak of the noble Mu clan, who commanded all the tribes of Glingkar. The Mu family had enjoyed a prominent position in Glingkar for more than a hundred years when Qupan Nabu became its leader. The father of the old steward Rongtsa Khragan had three consorts, one of whom was Rongtsa Khragan’s mother, Consort Rong. Consort Ge’s son was called Yukye, a warrior who fell into the hands of the Hor during a battle in the north. Consort Mu’s son was Senglon, chosen to be father of the son of the deities. Rongtsa Khragan had long been married with children – three sons and a daughter by his wife, Metog Lhartse. Before following the will of Heaven to marry the Dragon daughter, Metog Lhartse, Senglon had married a Han woman from China to the east. They had a son named Gyatsa Zhakar. Gyatsa Zhakar also had an uncle, Khrothung, the head of the Tagrong tribe, who was adept at magic and transformation. It was said that Gyatsa Zhakar was born with the brave and righteous appearance of a heroic figure, taller at the age of one month than a grassland one-year-old.

Ah! Young man, now that you understand, the story can begin.

The Storyteller Chance

The old man said, ‘Young man, look at the river bend. The water laps against the stony banks but does not produce a hollow sound. Our meeting here must be seen as extraordinary. So let me help you work through the important lineage of our hero, Gesar.’

‘What shall I do next?’

‘I don’t know. Perhaps you should think back to every time you have encountered this great story.’

‘Encountered? I saw it in my dreams.’

The old man smiled faintly. ‘Dreams are encounters.’ He plucked the strings of his lute, and the crisp sound of vibrating metal made the shepherd feel as if the land were spinning at his feet, the clouds were rushing past in the sky and the entrance to Heaven was about to open for the deities to descend. But when the old man’s fingers left the strings, everything returned to normal, as if a heavy curtain had blocked out the bright light of understanding.

Dreamily, Jigmed murmured, ‘The sound of the lute, where did it go?’

The old man slid the instrument into its bag. ‘If this is your village, I’ll spend one night here. I’ll sing for the people by the entrance to the village, where the branches on the old cypress tree have formed the shape of dragon claws.’

Jigmed knew that the old man would not receive enough money for his singing in such a small village, so he decided to kill a sheep for him. The old man said, ‘A good shepherd never kills his ewes in the spring. All you need do to sing of heroes is listen to this old man sing with his lute.’

Jigmed lay down at the bottom of a hill dotted with azalea blossoms and gazed up at the snowcapped mountain, waiting for revelation. He quickly fell asleep in the warm sunlight, but did not dream of anything, although the familiar sense of agitation assailed him. So he rose and made his way to the lake below. As he walked, he spotted a tent near the shore. The style and fabric belonged to a distant past; it was the kind of tent used when the world had just begun. Then the boy appeared before him.

‘You are . . .’

‘No, I’m not.’

He was going to say, ‘You are the son of the deities,’ and the boy’s quick response had proved that he was. How else could he utter a denial before the question was out? Yet the boy’s face was filthy, and the gem-like sparkle in his eyes of supernatural intelligence was dimmed, replaced by a fierce glare. The boy turned to chase a fox that had emerged from its den. The fox conjured up more foxes, which in turn prompted the boy to conjure the same number of himself, each chasing a fox. All Jigmed could see now was a hill overrun with foxes and Jorus. When all the foxes were under the feet of the Jorus, the hill streamed with blood as the Jorus tore apart their foxes, flinging away limbs, organs, flesh. But one Joru, with a fox beneath his foot, stood still on the hilltop. That was Joru’s true self. He seemed stunned as he watched his other selves engaged in a bloody slaughter.

‘Son of the deities!’ Jigmed shouted. The boy seemed to have heard the cry, and Jigmed saw him look up into the sky, perplexed. Then, gazing once again at the bloody entrails scattered across the hill, compassion appeared on the boy’s face, and in an instant the Jorus and the foxes disappeared, as did the boy, who was dragging the dead fox behind him.

The dream world has its own logic and freedom, so when the son of the deities disappeared, Jigmed turned towards the squat tent by the water, where a woman, worry written on her features, stood at the opening and gazed into the distance. She was Joru’s mother, the Dragon daughter, Metog Lhartse. But her husband, Senglon, was not by her side.

Why was she not in her husband’s palace? Why was she worried?

Jigmed spoke these questions aloud in his dream, but the woman, a thousand years distant, did not hear him. Dreams are full of trickery, and suddenly a tree appeared, from which a thrush chirped incessantly. Jigmed realised that it wasn’t the bird but the woman lamenting: her son had forgotten his celestial origins and, in using his magic to kill animals, had angered the people.

Jigmed tried to defiend the son: ‘But weren’t the animals really demons and evil spirits?’

‘That is what he said, but nobody believed him.’

‘That fox must have been a demon in disguise – but are you sure that all the creatures he killed were evil spirits?’

The thrush darted from the branch, saying, ‘Are you asking me to speak evil about that poor boy?’

‘I feel sad for his mother.’

‘Oh . . .’ The thrush fluttered its wings. ‘You are not as stupid as people think.’ It let out a shrill cry, and flew off.

Joru had come to the tent, carrying the bodies of the foxes. He flung the bloody flesh, the fouled entrails and shattered brains to the ground, then wove the green intestines into intricate knots and hung them on branches, even at the opening of the tent. The stench of blood was overwhelming. Birds in the sky, animals on the ground, even many mice in underground caves fled from it. Joru, who had lost nearly all of his celestial qualities, bared his teeth at Jigmed – Jigmed, who would one day sing of his great feats but now was so frightened he wanted to escape from his dream.

And so he ran, crossing one hill after another, but the hills came in waves. He tried to call for help, but struggled in vain to make a sound. Suddenly the old steward, Rongtsa Khragan, appeared before him. With his white beard quivering, the old man said, ‘Stop running, and don’t be afraid.’ At these words, Jigmed felt the grey clouds of sorrow and the mist of misery that were following him break apart, revealing a clear sky with downy white clouds. Yet worry knitted the old steward’s brow. ‘Did he frighten you?’

Jigmed nodded, and then questions erupted: ‘How did he become like that? Why don’t he and his mother live in the palace?’

The old man gave him a long stare and shook his head. ‘I had a dream that told me you could receive news from the celestial realm. It said you could tell me why.’

‘My dream isn’t finished yet. I reached the gate but did not see the faces of the deities.’

‘That is what I thought. I saw no celestial light in your eyes.’

With those words, the old man vanished, and Jigmed awoke. To his surprise, there before him was precisely what he had seen in his dream: the hills, the lake and the river. At dusk, as he took his flock back to the village, he was still puzzling over the dream. Why was it different from what he’d heard in the old stories?

That evening by the fire, after a simple dinner, he was dozing when the crisp sounds of a lute woke him, reminding him of the storyteller he’d met that morning. The old man had no sooner donned a long satin robe of the kind worn by actors than the people sitting below urged him to begin. But he kept his head lowered, running his fingers over the strings. It was only when Jigmed appeared that he jumped to his feet and began to sing in a loud, clear voice.

‘Lu-ah-la-la mu-ah-la, lu-ta-la-la mu-ta-la!

The fated one has come.

Ignorant shepherd, which part do you wish to hear?’

Jigmed answered anxiously, ‘The son of the deities is not yet five years old, but he has lost his celestial nature.’

The people, who were familiar with the story, heard these words and raised a loud protest. Waving his hand, the old man quieted them.

In the silence, there was the sound of the lute, like moonlight brightening the ground.

The Story Exile

Shortly after the son of the deities was born, he went to live on the Ashug grassland between the Yalong and Jinsha rivers, where a sparkling glacier ran down to the edge of a lake.

The people had witnessed Joru’s magical powers; they had also seen how he had used the powers bestowed on him by Heaven in a frenzy of senseless killing. But they failed to understand that most of the lives he took were those of demons and apparitions. And they could not have seen him vanquish the many shapeless demons and evil spirits on the land between the water and the mountains. His uncle, Khrothung, was the only one who could have seen Joru’s good deeds, but his heart had been occupied by demons so he kept quiet when the people voiced their disappointment in the boy who was rumoured to be the son of the deities. ‘Is it possible that Heaven is merely toying with us?’ they wondered.

Only the son of the deities knew what was going to happen: Master Lotus had told him in his dream that the long, narrow strip of land currently occupied by the Gling tribe was too small. For the nation to be strong, it must expand to the west and north from the Jinsha river to occupy the far broader grassland on the upper reaches of the Yellow river. They had to go all the way north until they reached a land that oozed salt, where, in the dry weather, sparks flew off camels’ hoofs when they ran. The future flocks of Gling needed all the tender grass they could find, and the warriors of Gling needed vast stretches of land on which to gallop their warhorses.

Joru, who was only five years old at the time, was already as tall as a twenty-year-old and enjoyed stealing glances at the prettiest girl of the Gling tribe, Brugmo, who chose to play with warriors of her own age; she liked to etch a subtle pain into men’s hearts.

When he uttered her name in his sleep, his mother was concerned.

‘My son, the girl for you may just have arrived in this world.’

The moonlight flickered on the lake. The night was cold, like water, and the constellations revolved slowly in the sky. Joru’s mother, she of noble birth, could not stop crying. She wanted to wake her son, to sob against his chest, but Master Lotus, who had entered Joru’s dream, blew a puff of air on her, and she curled up under her blankets and sank into a dreamless sleep, her breath turning to frost at the edge of the coverlet.

Above the rocky levees along the river there was a soaring fortress, lights ablaze. Glingkar had been bathed in the light of peace since the birth of the son of the deities: the finest grain was turned into spirits; the finest milk made into cheese. Gone from the wind were the inauspicious sounds made by the dark cloaks of demons on their nocturnal journeys. Now, in the evening light, poets savoured rhymes, and artisans fine-tuned their skills. Hardly anyone thought of offering sacrifices for the fire that turned clay into pottery, or rocks into copper and iron. Even Senglon forgot his son, and his wife of noble Dragon lineage, who lived, cold and hungry, on the grassy plain. At that moment, his body was aflame with drink and women. With a wave of his arm, he ordered his servants to sing louder.

Only Gyatsa Zhakar missed his beloved younger brother. When his longing for the boy became unbearable, he leaped onto his horse and rode out of the fortress to see him, but when his cloak began to flap in the night wind, Master Lotus, who had entered Joru’s dream, felt the vibration in the air. ‘Tonight does not belong to you two brothers,’ he said, and threw up an invisible black wall. It gave way when Gyatsa Zhakar attacked it with his sword, but quietly closed again. He was left with no choice but to turn his horse and go back. He met the old steward on the hilltop, looking to where the land dipped on the far side of the river bend until not even moonlight reached it.

‘I miss my brother,’ Gyatsa Zhakar said.

‘I fear for Glingkar,’ the old steward said, ‘but your brother has made it impossible to see what Heaven has in store for us.’

Joru slept on. In his dream he asked Master Lotus, ‘Shall I be king?’

The Master shook his head. ‘Not yet – you must suffer more.’

‘If I am not to be king, I wish to return to Heaven.’

The Master sighed. ‘I may still be here when you return to Heaven.’

‘You are not a deity?’

‘I am a future deity.’

‘Then leave my tent.’

The Master stood up and smiled. ‘Son of the deities, I am leaving your dream.’

When Joru awoke, the rising sun had already melted the frost on the grass. He mounted the magic walking stick he had taken from his uncle, and told his mother, who was weaving, that he wished to go back to the fortress. She begged him to promise that he would stop his killing – and avoid making the people angry. Believing that he had eliminated the demons, and recalling, with a pang of loneliness, how his powerful brother, Gyatsa Zhakar, had effortlessly pulled him up onto the back of his horse and how the eyes of the old steward, filled with expectation, always lingered on him, he promised.

‘Go back and apologise to your father and the old steward,’ his mother said. ‘Tell them what you have told me. They will forgive you.’

Meanwhile, the stick beneath him began to make a grating noise, which meant that demons were nearby. He abandoned it, and continued on his way towards the fortress. Two figures, gazing in his direction, were visible at the top – the old steward and his brother, Gyatsa Zhakar. They wanted him to return obedient and cleansed, which would allow the people to forgive him. He kept walking.

This time, though, there was something in the water. Two monsters, half dragon, half snake, crawled onto the bank. They were dripping wet, yet flames shot from their mouths. With a heavy sigh, he cast a quick glance at the fortress, went back to retrieve his stick, and rushed at the water monsters, which appeared to everyone else in Gling, including his mother, as two pretty girls out walking by the crystal gate of the Dragon Palace.

They fought with him on the shore, then dived into a pool where the Yalong river merged with a roiling tributary, and where every eddy seemed to carry enough power to suck the world dry. The bottom of the eddy was like the waist of an hourglass. He slipped through the tiny opening to see another world appear before his eyes. Moving freely, the monsters flew out of the water into the clouds when they saw that he was stuck in an eddy. The sound of their laughter cleared Joru’s head. Holding the stick sideways, he stopped the flow of water in the eddy.

The monsters and Joru battled their way to the glacier, the rivers’ source. Their final resort was an old trick: they conjured up many lovely living things, all running towards him, all of which died under his stick. To everyone in Glingkar he seemed cruel beyond words. When he struck down the water monsters’ illusions, the corpses dammed the clear water upstream, and the smell of blood was so strong that even the flowers on the riverbanks closed and spun around to show the backs of their calyxes to the river. Yet when he struck down the monsters, their corpses floated, polluting only a small area of water. The instant the demons were killed, the piles of bodies disappeared and the river returned to its pristine state. The flowers bloomed again.

Though he had proved to the people that he had battled the demons’ transforming magic, they refused to forgive him. Indeed, one clever person said that the magic had created an illusion, but that the malevolence and cruelty were no less real. Furthermore, he said, when the people had given him a chance to repent, the boy had shown no inclination to do so. That man’s words brought cheers from the yet unschooled people of Glingkar. Even the brave and intelligent Gyatsa Zhakar could not find the right words to refute this view, although he knew it traduced his brother. Neither could the old steward. Who had spoken those words? It was Joru’s uncle, Khrothung.

As the crowd watched, a section of ice sheared off the glacier with a thunderous crack and Joru’s body was swallowed up in white sleet. The crowd cheered even louder.

But Joru’s mother, Metog Lhartse, who had been sewing a fur robe in the opening of the tent, doubled over and clapped a hand over her heart as if it had been pierced.

When the clouds dispersed and the sun shone bright and clear, Joru rose up from the scattered shards of ice and landed in front of the crowd. The glacier had cracked into pieces when it met the magic that protected him. He told the people that the demons that had been trapped underground had opened a passageway in the water, but that he had sealed it beneath the glacier.

Khrothung spat at him. ‘Liar.’

Other voices chorused, ‘Liar! Liar! Liar! Liar! Liar!’

‘My dear nephew,’ Khrothung sneered, ‘do not try to deceive us with your illusions.’

From the hills to the valleys, the people cried in perfect unison, ‘Illusions! Illusions!’

The angry shouts were invincible, and the handsome face of the son of the deities turned ugly. Even his imposing stature diminished, until Joru was a wretched creature at the mercy of the crowd: they had won, they had forced an impostor to show his true colours. Now they shouted, ‘Truth! Truth!’

This marked the sixth year after the son of the deities had descended to the human world.

Joru’s mother, Metog Lhartse, looked into the hollow blue of the sky, beneath which emerald green hills extended to the horizon. She wanted to call out, but the sound rose up from her belly and stuck in her throat. It was not a sound she coughed out, but a blood clot. She dug into the ground, pushing the grass away, and buried it deep under the turf. She did not want anyone, not even Heaven, to see a mother’s grief for her son.

The people were now shouting, ‘Killer! Killer!’

‘So what shall we do with him?’ Khrothung wished to kill him, but he knew that no one could do so. In the awkward silence of the crowd, he spoke: ‘He is just a child, so we must teach him to repent by banishing him to a barbaric and barren place.’

Banishment. Exile.

The boy would live or die alone in the wilderness. That way, no one would bear responsibility for his death. Greatly relieved, the people shouted again, and this time the word that brought the sky low in sadness was: ‘Banish!’

‘Banish?’ Gyatsa Zhakar asked.

The wise old steward repeated his question: ‘Banish?’

Echoes bounced off the rocky cliffs: ‘Banish!’

All the old steward could do was summon the Glingkar noblemen to seek divination from Heaven. Gathered at his fortress, the noblemen listened eagerly to the prediction.

The precious pearl on the head of the poisonous snake is now in the hands of the poor, but how will they recognise its value if the right moment has not yet arrived?

Heaven had asked the people of Glingkar a question that most had not considered and were unwilling to do so.

‘Does that mean Glingkar does not deserve the son of the deities?’ The old steward was not sure what to do.

Khrothung had an answer: ‘Send him north along the Yellow river, alone. Then we will see what magic the boy can manifest.’

The noblemen nodded their agreement, so the steward stayed silent.

‘I should like to go into exile with my brother,’ Gyatsa Zhakar said.

‘What nonsense is that? You are the commander of Glingkar warriors. What would happen to Glingkar and its people if the demons rose up again or an enemy attacked?’

Gyatsa Zhakar sighed. ‘Then I will inform him of the decision.’

But Danma, one of the Glingkar warriors, was sad that Gyatsa Zhakar must bid his younger brother a final farewell. ‘Noble Gyatsa Zhakar, please stay in your golden seat. I will do that for you.’ He spurred his horse and galloped towards Joru’s camp.

Banned by his mother from returning to his father’s fortress after his terrible battle with the demons, Joru in his anger had pitched a tent made of human skin. Intestines, set straight and rigid, served as the supporting poles, and human bones formed a gruesome fence. More bones were piled high beyond it. Disgusted as he was, Danma understood that Joru could never have collected so many bones, even if he had killed every human in Glingkar. The boy must have conjured them up in a childish rage, he thought, and in an instant the skin and bones vanished, leaving a simple tent.

Taking off his hat, Danma entered the tent, where the air was filled with a heavy fragrance, though not a flower was in sight. Joru did not speak; he just smiled. Enlightened by the will of Heaven, Danma fell to his knees, pledging eternal fealty to the boy. Thus Danma became King Gesar’s first vassal, many years before Joru became king.

‘The barbarians will come to their senses,’ Joru said. ‘In order that they will come to believe in their future enlightenment, we must make them regret what they did to me today.’ He waved Danma forward and whispered to him what he must do.

Danma returned to the steward’s fortress. Following Joru’s instructions, he told everyone that the boy was a yaksha incarnate, a nature-spirit.

Khrothung directed the troops of his tribe to force the boy into exile.

‘There is no need to use force,’ the old steward said. ‘Just send a hundred women, each with two handfuls of ashes, reciting incantations and spreading the ashes. The boy will have to go to the place of exile.’

Gyatsa Zhakar, knowing that this was a vile and very strong curse, pleaded for his brother: ‘Joru is a descendant of my tribe, the grandson of the Dragon tribe. Please use a hundred handfuls of fried flour instead of the ashes.’

Joru and his mother had readied themselves. Wearing the hideous leather robe that his mother had made, Joru sat on his stick, like a simpleton, leering at the pretty Brugmo. She threw grey-white fried flour over his face. In contrast with her son’s ugliness, Metog Lhartse was exceptionally beautiful that day. She put every other girl to shame. Jewels from the Dragon fortress seemed even more radiant beside her. Sitting upright on her snowy horse, she glowed like the early-morning sun.

The people marvelled at her beauty, as if they had discovered it for the first time, and the sight of her sweet face sent hot tears to their eyes. ‘Glingkar is so vast and yet there is no place for this mother and son,’ they lamented. ‘How pitiful they look!’ And they blamed others for the boy’s fate.

Gyatsa Zhakar had returned home for provisions, which he loaded onto his horse. Taking his younger brother by the hand, he said, ‘Let us go.’ Mother and son mounted their horses.

The sighs over their fate faded before they had taken a hundred steps, and the women again spread the flour and spat such curses at the three travellers that deities flew out of Heaven to block them. Eventually, Joru told his brother to turn back. He wept as he watched him retreat.

Joru felt truly alone. Deities and the local mountain gods had been ordered to protect him, but he could not see them.

The Story Tea Leaves

Joru and his mother rode until they reached the broad banks of the winding Yellow river, where nothing grew except a profusion of reeds on the flood plain, so tall that only the powerful shoulders and alert ears of their horses were visible. Joru told his mother that this should be where they built their new home. When she complained that the place had no name, the mountain god responded with a roar of thunder that it had once been called Yulung Kulha Sumdo, but the demons had released moles that burrowed underground, criss-crossing the land with tunnels. When the pasture grass reached down with its roots, it grasped nothing but black emptiness. That autumn, as the moles destroyed the link between the earth and the vegetation, the surviving clumps of grass decided not to grow the following year. They entrusted what few seeds they had to the wind, which would take them to a far-off place where they could put down roots.

So, the autumn wind took the seeds of fescue, wild green onion, sow-thistle and wild lilies, with the promise that one day it would bring back seeds.

The grass had left, followed by the people.

By the time Joru and his mother arrived, the moles had built a kingdom of their own, with two kings and nearly a hundred officials. When Joru decided to destroy the kingdom, his mother was worried. ‘Since it is only the two of us, the people of Glingkar cannot condemn you for killing again but, my son, the gods in Heaven see everything.’

Gazing up at the sky, Joru mused that if Heaven could see everything, the people of Glingkar would not have mistreated him, and his mother would not have suffered because he was her son. So he said, ‘Mother, I have long tasted the bitterness of wandering. Now I want to help those who were banished by the mole demons to return to their land.’

His words hung in the air as he transformed himself into a hawk and flew up into the blue sky. Below him lay a vast, open valley and a river with enough swirling water to make a beautiful bend. A dozen or so towering peaks gathered at the valley, which, as Master Lotus had predicted, was the place where the Gling tribe would rise to form a nation.

As the hawk rose, panic tore through the mole kingdom. The kings sent for their ministers and counsellors to form a strategic plan. One of the counsellors had already discovered that the hawk was Joru, banished from Glingkar. ‘He has magical powers, but was exiled here because he killed in a frenzy,’ the counsellor said.

‘It matters not how he got here,’ one of the kings said impatiently. ‘All that matters is how we shall avoid calamity.’

‘The king must order all the moles back from their tunnels. There are tens of thousands of us, occupying every hill around the underground palace, and I am sure he would not dare kill us all.’

But the hawk heard their words, and, pulling its wings back, it changed into a giant warrior, who picked up a hill and dropped it onto the palace, crushing the kings and officials to powder and burying the moles in their underground tunnels.

Then the wind blew back the grass seeds, the seeds of azaleas, giant cypress and birch. And there were seeds of rosemary, too, with its dusty blue flowers. It took only a single night and a fine drizzle for the seeds to sprout, and on the third day, before the palisade around the tent was finished, flowers were blooming across the grassland. People who had left but had not yet settled elsewhere returned with their cattle and sheep from all points of the compass.

To these people Joru was a king, but he wanted them to feel it in their hearts, not to call him king or make ceremonial bows. ‘I am less a king than a favour from Heaven,’ he told them. ‘And I want to bestow upon you more favours on Heaven’s behalf.’

He thought he sounded like a king.

The people looked up at him and said, ‘Great King, what could be greater than that which you have already given us?’

‘Yulung Kulha Sumdo will become the centre of a world, and the roads that are closed will link with all other places in the world.’

An elder raised a question that was on everyone’s mind: ‘Great King, why is it the centre of a world and not the centre of all the worlds?’

He wanted to tell them that the place where the black-haired Tibetans lived was indeed not the only world, that there were other worlds under Heaven. But he did not want to confuse them, so he turned away to explore the lands to the east, the west, the north and the south, quickly identifying the paths that would lead other worlds to his. The snow-capped peaks in the south were too close together, so he summoned the mountain gods and asked them to move their roots, to open a wide pass between them.

One by one, merchants following the trade winds took the road. Rain came with the warm winds from the south, bringing life to the wild fields. Lakes formed in low-lying areas, providing water for untended oxen and sheep. Tigers, leopards, jackals and wolves mingled among them, so the timid deer had to keep one eye open even when they slept. To the east, torrents roared down riverbeds, keeping men and horses from crossing. Only the monkeys and apes were able to travel freely on vines that reached from one bank to the other. Joru led a group of people to the riverbank, where monkeys swung across the river to the far bank. Instead of flinging back the vines, he tied them to a solid rock. That was how his people learned to make a vine bridge, which opened the way for caravans from the east, sent by the emperor of a distant land.

The foreigners used copper to make coins and exquisite urns, and came west to collect the source of lightning, the ore beneath the ground, and the dreamscape of snow lotus herbs. They believed that these ingredients could be mixed with others from the Eastern Sea to make an immortality potion for their emperor.

They wore delicately carved pendants of a fine stone they called jade, and when they landed they waved them at the western barbarians, asking, ‘Have you this stone?’ When they saw the magnificent steeds the barbarians rode, they said, ‘We wish to buy many of your fine horses.’

They needed many things, so more bridges were built, each one wider than the last. Rafts and boats appeared on the broad river. Little by little, Yulung Kulha Sumdo became a centre, bringing lines of caravans from as far as Persia to the west and India to the south. The Indians were uncommunicative, but the Persians, at certain times of day, would dismount and spread out richly coloured rugs on which to pray in the direction whence they came.

Yet they all shared a fear of the north, where the Hor tribe lived. The Hor people were skilled horsemen and archers; the finest bowman among them could simply pluck his bowstring to make a whistling sound, and the terrified merchants would fall off their horses, dead. So, since the merchants were afraid to journey north, the Hor tribe came south. They set up tents at the mountain pass near Yulung Kulha Sumdo, where they robbed the caravans from Persia, India and the Eastern Empire.

Joru knew it was time to open a northern route.

He rode, alone, to the well-guarded Hor camp, where he passed through nine checkpoints and beheaded eighteen guards. The leader of the bandits looked down at him from the watchtower. He was the archer who could kill with only the whistling sound of his bow.

‘I will kill you first,’ Joru called to him.

The man roared with laughter, for Joru had no weapon but the stick on which he rode. More importantly, the archer was a handsome man with an impressive figure, while Joru, though not ugly, was comical, with his misshapen stick, shabby robe and a pair of crooked antlers on his hood.

But the laughing face of the archer froze when he saw Joru point to the sky to call down lightning, which he took in his hand and transformed into a bow. The crackle sent the man tumbling off his tower, dead when he hit the ground. His followers stampeded northward, fleeing for their lives.

The men of the caravans offered rare treasures to Joru, to thank him for saving them. But Joru refused them.

‘We must do something for you,’ they said. Though the merchants spoke different languages, Joru understood.

‘If you wish to help, load rocks onto your pack animals and each of you carry a rock to pile at the bend in the Yellow river.’

‘Dear warrior, you have such powerful magic, what could you need the rocks for?’

‘I wish to build a magnificent fortress.’

‘But you have the power to move an entire mountain – why do you need us?’

‘Your work will be the tax you pay for the profits you have made here.’

The merchants were beside themselves with joy. They had been to many countries, but this was the first time they had been asked to pay taxes by moving a few rocks to the bend in a river. And so strange legends spread about the tiny nation with a very young king who had great powers but acted in unusual ways. Ambitious kings sent messengers and caravans to search for the nation of gold and jade and for potions that conferred immortality.

When Rongtsa Khragan, the old Glingkar steward, heard the tales, he realised that Joru might truly be a son of the deities, using extraordinary means to demonstrate his powers.

‘I feel tremendous guilt when I listen to these stories,’ he confessed to Gyatsa Zhakar.

Gyatsa Zhakar dreamed often of his brother, and in each dream he had spoken to Joru: ‘Gling is your country and the people of Glingkar will one day be your subjects. Do not forsake them because they exiled you.’

*

Soon it was autumn, with its frequent winds and shorter days; snow fell. Gazing at the desolate landscape, Joru’s mother said she missed Glingkar, and her words aroused a strange malady in Joru. He had been told that he came from a celestial kingdom, but could not remember what it looked like; when he longed for his homeland, the sights of Glingkar appeared before him.

In a dream that night his brother seemed troubled.

‘Brother, why are you distressed?’ Joru asked.

‘My aged mother is ill.’

‘Have the doctors given her medicines? Have the warlocks used their magic?’

Gyatsa Zhakar shook his head. ‘Mother yearns for her homeland, but it is ten thousand snowcapped mountains and hundreds of rivers distant.’

‘Is there nothing that can ease her suffering?’

‘Yes, but it has not helped.’

‘What is it?’

‘Metog Lhartse, your mother, knows.’

When Joru awoke the following morning, he told his mother about his dream. Metog Lhartse recalled how, at Senglon’s fortress, a bird no one had seen before flew over one day and landed at the window of Gyatsa Zhakar’s mother’s sickroom. She cried, because she heard the accent of her homeland in the bird’s chirping. The bird left a branch on the windowsill before it flew away. It had many emerald green leaves. The Han doctor told her servant to pick a leaf and cook it in water. Within an hour, the woman had left her bed to stand on the highest point of the fortress to look east, the direction of her homeland. The medicine, the green branch with emerald leaves, which had come from her country, was called ‘cha’.

‘Cha?’ Joru said.

‘Yes.’

‘What a strange sound!’ He laughed.

‘You would consider it pleasing to the ear if you knew how to use it,’ Metog Lhartse said.

‘Oh?’

‘Many sick people recover after steeping it in water, then drinking it. Your brother probably sent you the message in a dream because the Han consort has used all her cha leaves.’

‘I’ll find some cha for the Han consort,’ Joru said, and summoned a peregrine falcon. All the bird brought back was a leafless branch. He showed it to a caravan from the east. ‘Bring me as much of this as you can find.’

‘Tea?’ They used the foreign word.

‘Cha!’ He used the local word.

The leader of the caravan said, ‘News will travel to my country even before I get there. When I am ready to return, the tea leaves will be on their way here. The first shipment will be a gift for you, but after that, when your people cannot live without it, you will have to pay for it with the good things from your land.’

‘What do you need?’

‘If you could tame them . . .’ The leader pointed to wild horses galloping on the grassland.

‘Of course.’

Then the leader turned to gaze at the torrential mountain streams, under which precious gold was buried in silt.

‘Gold.’

The leader now looked towards the rare flowers and herbs on the grassland, all useful medicines for illness.

Joru was displeased. ‘Enough! I asked for only one thing, but you are greedy.’

The merchant laughed. ‘Everyone says that of us, but as time goes by, the people in the world find it harder to live without us. So you may refuse our demands, but if you do, we will not give you what we have.’

‘I want what you have.’

‘The road you opened did not attract only the greedy. Many destitute and homeless people have also come to be your subjects, Great King.’

‘I am not a king.’

‘One day you will be the king of a nation, unless you seal the passes between the snowcapped mountains, then burn the vine bridges and ferry boats on the river.’ Joru knew he could not do that now, and felt regret. When he had opened the roads, he had brought peace and wealth to a deserted, barbaric land. He had been powerful. But now he felt that he was under the control of something even more powerful, not demons, nothing he could see or kill, yet it drew closer and closer.

‘Have some tea.’ The merchant handed him a jade cup filled with a clear brown liquid.

‘Isn’t it a leaf?’ Joru asked.

‘This liquid is brewed from the magical leaves.’

He took a sip and found it bitter, but then his mouth filled with a lingering aroma. He was suddenly refreshed. The merchant gave him a bag of dried leaves from the magical tree, and Joru sent the roaming peregrine with the bag to Glingkar.

Now, Khrothung had lately fashioned a vulture out of a light wood and daily rode it haughtily across the sky, to demonstrate his powers to all of Glingkar. When he saw the soaring peregrine, he yelled, ‘Dog of the sky, where are you going?’

‘I am following Joru’s command to fly to his elder brother, Gyatsa Zhakar,’ the peregrine replied.

‘What is that in your bill? Let me see.’

‘You are not Gyatsa Zhakar,’ the peregrine said.

Khrothung recited a spell to incite his vulture to snatch the bag. But Gyatsa Zhakar had witnessed this scene: he fitted arrow to bow to shoot down his uncle’s wooden vulture. The peregrine landed on his shoulder and cried, ‘Tea! Tea!’ then flapped its wings and flew away.

Gyatsa Zhakar looked into the bag. It was not fresh cha from a green branch, so he said nothing when he returned to the fortress. Yet when the Han consort smelt the wondrous aroma her headache all but vanished. ‘How lucky I am to smell the fragrance of cha!’

Gyatsa Zhakar was overjoyed: he had the right leaf after all. He presented the bag to his mother.

After the old steward had tasted the cha his wife brewed for him, he announced, ‘From now on, my mind will be clear and my eyes bright. I will never again be deceived by illusions and my heart will always face in the right direction.’

The people began to murmur to each other: ‘Joru is thousands of miles away, but he has changed leaves into medicine to send to Glingkar, whose people cruelly banished him.’ And the good name of the son of the deities began to spread again among the people of Glingkar.

That evening a canker sore erupted on Khrothung’s mouth and kept him awake. General Danma said, ‘That is his punishment for spreading rumours.’ Khrothung sent someone to the Han consort for some cha. But when her maid brought him a pot of the aromatic brew, he was suspicious: ‘This may be a trick of Joru’s. If he can change a leaf into medicine, he can change this bowl of cha into a magic potion to steal my powers.’ So his maidservants shared the drink instead, and soon an exotic fragrance oozed from their pores. Grinding his teeth, Khrothung snarled, ‘I could kill you all!’

Gyatsa Zhakar dreamed that same night of a world of white, covered with snow. Cows and sheep could not find grass to eat, shivering people could not find kindling and travellers could not find their way. When he awoke, he led a group of people to the mountaintop to pray at an altar made of nine layers of stone. They sacrificed an animal, but the shamans said they saw no sign from Heaven.

The Storyteller Fate

His listeners looked up to the heavens.

Nothing except flickering cold stars showed in a sky that people had been gazing at for thousands of years. They felt someone should have been there to announce a miracle, so long had they been waiting for one. True, miracles did occur sometimes, but only for a handful of people.

It took the old storyteller a long time to look up, as though he were slowly awakening from his own story. People quietly approached and placed gifts on the blanket before him: coins, dried meat, flour cakes, dried apples, cheese, salt and snuff. Then they walked away, their shadows elongated in the moonlight.

Jigmed was the only one still sitting there; his shadow and his body remained together, a solid dark shape. He watched the old man put away his lute, pick up the money and tuck it away. Then, breathing hard, the old man rolled his blanket into a bundle so he could take the other gifts with him.

‘Are you leaving now?’ Jigmed asked desperately. ‘I thought you’d come with me. What you sang was different from what I saw in my dream.’

A bright light seemed to burn in the old man’s eyes. ‘Maybe Heaven wanted to change the story and let you see that in your dream. So, tell me, young man, how are they different?’

‘They’re different from the beginning. The son of the deities didn’t let himself be exiled. The people banished him because they didn’t know who he was.’

‘In your dream, who told you this?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Then tell me what he looked like.’

‘It wasn’t a person who told me. It was like seeing something in a film.’

‘Tell me exactly how they differ.’

‘I told you. They were different at the beginning.’

‘Was everything the same after that?’

‘After that . . . I haven’t dreamed what happened after that. You sang so much in one night that you’re already far ahead of me.’

The old man slung the rolled blanket over his shoulder and cradled his lute. ‘The story will sprout new branches, young man. I’ll return to hear your version if I don’t starve or freeze to death on the road.’ With that, he hobbled off into the moonlight, and just before his shadow disappeared, Jigmed heard him say, ‘Why doesn’t this story end? Then ill-fated people like me would not have to spread it for ever.’

His shadow splintered and vanished.

The old man’s words pierced Jigmed’s heart, like a gust of cold air. Why has someone like him been chosen as a narrator for such a story? The wind began to blow, and he began to shiver. Storyteller. The word rose in his head and startled him. Was he really going to be like that old man, wandering the land burdened with the ancient story of a warrior from Heaven?

When he got home, he looked at the moon through his window.

‘Storyteller.’

I’m a fool. The deities made a mistake in choosing me, and now that they know how stupid I am they’ll never let me see the extraordinary things in my dream again.

He looked at the moon, trying to stay awake. But as he did, it changed, and the shards of light became more solid than moonbeams and whiter than snow, drifting and settling from the deepest recesses of the sky. And then he heard a voice: ‘The story, its main direction, has been settled, but there will be differences.’

‘Why?’

Roaring laughter sent the snowflakes swirling, as if disturbed by wind. ‘People always see things differently.’

The Story Snowstorm

The son of the deities also dreamed about the snow. It was not the first time.

He put on a robe and walked out of his tent. There was no snow on the ground – it was summertime, and moonlight flowed like milk. He wondered if that was a manifestation of the will of the deities, a sign that one day this would be a blessed place, a place where livestock would thrive.

But what about the swirling snow in his dream? He received no response from the heavens. The celestial soldiers who were secretly protecting him ducked into the grey clouds with the moon, fearful of answering such a question.

Noisy migrating birds landed in the marshes at a bend in the Yellow river, on their way north. The wind did not change direction, but the south-easterly winds, usually warm and moist, brought the chill of the north-westerlies. Hearing the startled birdcalls, his mother put on her robe and came out to stand behind him. Joru was beginning to understand.

‘Heaven is going to punish Glingkar,’ he said.

‘Will that incur more anger towards my son?’ his mother asked, with a sigh.

‘No, Mother.’

‘Who made me come to this world to give birth to you and make you suffer so grievously?’

‘Dear Mother, I no longer see it so. And I do love you.’

‘That, it seems, is the only blessing Heaven has bestowed on me.’

Now he saw clearly. ‘Mother, it is snowing in Gling,’ he said sadly. ‘We must prepare to receive refugees from Glingkar’s disaster, it seems.’

It was indeed snowing in Gling. Danma went to tell Gyatsa Zhakar, who then went to the old steward.

‘Snow in summer, an extraordinary sign,’ the old man said. ‘I know this is for the crime of banishing the son of the deities, a crime committed by all the people of Glingkar.’

They came out onto an open field where snow swirled in the air, turning the green summer grass yellow. In the evening, the blizzard died down a little, as a faint sunset appeared in the western sky. ‘The snow is stopping,’ the people said.

But the old steward knitted his brow. ‘Yes, the snow is stopping. But even so, ignorant people, we must reflect upon our crime. This is a warning sign from Heaven.’

‘Old Steward, don’t frown like that. You will frighten the people.’ Khrothung had appeared, and as he dismounted he spoke loudly: ‘Fear not, citizens of Gling. When you get up tomorrow, you will see that the insects that fight for grass with cows and sheep have frozen to death. I sent the heavy snow with my magic.’

‘I do not believe that your magic is adequate to such a performance. In any case, we will treat the snow as a special favour from Heaven,’ snapped the old steward.

‘What, then, is the reason for bestowing such a blessing on us?’ asked Gyatsa Zhakar.

Unable to answer, the old steward walked back into the fortress with his hands clasped behind his back.

‘The snow has stopped falling!’ Khrothung shouted. It had indeed, and a great rent had opened in the thick clouds to the west, freeing the dying sun to send down its brightest light. With his hands raised, Khrothung went on, ‘The snow has stopped falling. Now do you see my powers? The snow killed the insects, which can no longer take grass from the cows and sheep.’ The herders cheered. To them, this man was better suited to lead Glingkar than the fretful old steward.

The farmers, though, were worried. ‘Our crops froze with the insects.’

‘They will come back to life tomorrow.’

When the people of Glingkar saw how composed and resolute Khrothung was, they said, ‘We have heard that Heaven is going to send us a king. Perhaps he is the one.’

But the crack in the west closed, and thick clouds darkened in the sky above them. Khrothung fled back to his own tribe on his flying horse. He knew that the people could turn away from him in an instant. As the saying goes, ‘Good people believe that kind seeds are sown in people’s hearts, while bad ones see only evil sprouts.’ To a man like Khrothung, the people were sheep one moment and wolves the next.

A new snowfall began, and lasted nine days and nine nights.

Then the sky cleared once more.

The old steward said to Gyatsa Zhakar, ‘I want to offer a reverential prayer at the mountaintop altar, for I believe that Heaven is going to send us a sign. But the heavy snow has covered the roads, and for horses it would be like falling into an abyss.’

Gyatsa Zhakar extracted an arrow from his quiver, drew his bow and shot. The arrow cleaved the snow on the ground, pushing it aside. He did it again and again, sending the snow rolling back in giant waves to clear a path. The old steward took a group of priests up to the altar. ‘Deities in Heaven, I should have brought a human sacrifice, but my people have suffered too much. I shall be happy to offer you my old body. You may open up my chest with a sharp knife. Some people in Gling call me king, but I know that I am not a king. Please dispatch me and give them a king who will lead them out of the abyss of misery.’

The reflection from the snow was so blindingly bright that the people below could not see what was happening.

The deities sent a Buddha down with the bright light; it was Avalokitesvara, the Buddha of Mercy and Compassion. ‘Heaven sent you a king, and he was among you, but you betrayed and deserted him. Now all of Gling must leave this place to follow him.’ The Buddha and the light disappeared.

‘May I tell the people?’ the old steward shouted into the sky.

‘The people must come to their senses for themselves. They must wake up.’

It was a loud, booming voice, audible only to the old steward. Even Gyatsa Zhakar, who was close by and saw the Buddha, did not hear a word, let alone the priests, who neither saw nor heard anything.

All the leaders of Glingkar’s villages came to the old steward’s fortress. Khrothung rode up on his wooden vulture. He circled the fortress three times before landing and, reciting an incantation, made sure that everyone saw his vulture cleverly tuck in its wings.

He asked the old steward if he had received a sign at the altar.

‘The son of the deities, Joru, has found a new place for us,’ the steward replied.

‘Did the rocks on the mountain tell you so?’ Khrothung said, with a sneer.

‘We can take to the road once the snow begins to melt.’ Then, turning to the crowd gathered outside the fortress, he called, ‘Go back to your villages and prepare your people to follow you out.’

At this, even the steward’s own people began to wail, for they loved this place, which they called home. Admittedly, there had been summer snow, but now that it had stopped, the grass would soon grow again. And, it was true, many cows and sheep had starved to death but not all of them. When spring came, the survivors would give birth to more. Only Gyatsa Zhakar and the great general Danma supported Rongtsa Khragan’s plan; the others sat in blank silence like clay statues. Khrothung was among them, but he saw no need to speak since the silent people had done so for him.

The old steward realised he must describe what the Buddha had shown him, just as a booming voice sounded in his ears: ‘Heaven can help, but the people must come to their senses for themselves.’

With a sigh, he said, ‘Go home and talk it over with your people. You know that Joru has founded a new settlement along a bend in the Yellow river to the north.’

They had heard much about the banished Joru from caravans that brought tea. Now almost everyone in Glingkar drank it; their mouths no longer festered with cankers and their limbs had grown strong. More importantly, they were energetic and clear-headed all day long. On the caravans’ return trips, not all the horses carried pelts and medicinal herbs, such as the blue flowers of rosemary. Some were loaded with slabs of shale from the rocky cliffs to pay Joru’s rock tax on their return trip past the river bend. The merchants told them that Joru had built a tri-coloured fortress with the rocks he had collected so far.

‘Three colours?’

‘Rocks brought back by southern merchants are red, those by western merchants are copper-coloured, and those from the east are white.’

‘What is the colour of rocks from the north?’

The merchants shook their heads. ‘The north is still under the control of the savage leader of the Hor tribe, King Padrang, and the demon Lutsan, who has devoured countless people. We have no idea when King Joru plans to bring them under his rule.’

‘That will never happen. He will pretend that he has already subjugated the north by using the green rocks from Glingkar.’

‘Untrue. The king has said he will use them for the roof of the fortress as a sign that he never forgets his homeland.’

The girls, led by Brugmo, the prettiest, had something else in mind: ‘He devotes himself to warrior activities so he must have grown into a handsome young man.’

The merchants shook their heads slowly and said, as if in defence of Joru, ‘The greatest warriors are those who do not look like warriors.’

This was greeted with sighs of disappointment.

‘But he was so clever and comely when he was newly born,’ Brugmo said.

‘But did he not turn himself into a monster?’ Khrothung gloated.

Yes, he had cut a fine figure when he was first born, but by the age of three or four he had begun to dress in his strange rags, and in the end, his appearance had changed to match his odd attire and his nickname, Joru. People had forgotten that his real name was Gesar, although many were sure that he would one day regain his former looks. Gyatsa Zhakar said to the giggling girls, ‘One day my brother will look like a warrior.’

The twelve prettiest girls of Glingkar, including Brugmo, said, ‘If that is the case, then we twelve would willingly be his consorts.’

Stroking his oily black beard, Khrothung said, ‘Do not wait for him. We men could not bear to see you waste your beauty and youth and wither like flowers. Why don’t you all marry me? You will enjoy lives of wealth and glory, dine on delicacies and dress in the finest clothes.’

Like flickering fish that spot the shadow of a hawk, the girls fled.

The caravans left with their heavy loads of stone. As he watched them disappear, the old steward said softly, ‘Son of the deities, why will you not show your true image?’ A sense of powerlessness filled him, and he repeated his question. ‘Son of the deities, why will you not show your true image?’

Khrothung came to the old steward. ‘No one listens to you,’ he said, ‘because you are not the true king.’

‘I am not the king. I am just a steward elected by the tribes of Gling. We are waiting for the king to appear.’

‘If you cease to call yourself “steward” and replace it with “king”, you will be the true king.’

‘Return to your settlement. I am tired. Come back tomorrow when you have been able to think.’

‘You are older than I, so you will be the king and I will be your steward. With your benevolence and my powers, Glingkar will surely prosper and grow strong.’

‘Why don’t you declare yourself king?’

‘Why not indeed? Glingkar cannot go on without a king.’

The old steward waved his hand and said, ‘We shall wait and see what Heaven has in store for us.’

Khrothung mounted his wooden vulture and flew off to tell the tribal leaders, who were travelling in different directions, ‘Come back to the fortress tomorrow. We will not talk of moving. Instead, we will elect a king for Glingkar.’

As they trudged through the snow, the leaders followed the vulture with their eyes. ‘Perhaps he is the king, the one who will lead us through the difficult days ahead.’

The next day the sky shone bright and clear, when the old steward stood on a dais in front of the fortress. The snowdrifts were silently collapsing under the heat of the sun, with water gurgling beneath the white blanket. It was nearly noon, but not a single person could be seen on the roads that led to the tribal lands. The old steward sent soldiers to find them, while he sat on the top tier of the fortress, neither drinking tea nor touching the cheese that was brought to him. Eyes closed, he could hear the snow melting, and when he opened his eyes, he saw steam rising in the sun’s rays. Still no one came. The heat from the sun weakened and, battered by an icy western wind, the steamy vapours turned to grey mist and fog. He sank into gloom. Perhaps he had outlived his usefulness; perhaps he deserved to be abandoned by the people.

Suddenly, figures appeared on the road – Danma and Gyatsa Zhakar, who had suffered snow blindness on their return trip the day before and had lost their sense of direction. Then the soldiers returned with the tribal leaders, who had lost their way also after being blinded. The last to appear was Khrothung, who had ridden his vulture straight into a mountain and had had to limp his way back. The moment he entered the fortress, snow began to fall again.

The people, thirsty from their long walk, gulped tea.

‘The caravans cannot get through,’ the old steward said, ‘and I have no more tea for you.’

‘Are you saying that whoever has the most tea can be the king?’ Khrothung spoke half in jest.

‘You do not understand,’ the old steward snapped. ‘Listen . . . the snow is falling again. We have missed another chance given us by Heaven.’

The snow grew heavier, and its strange weight now seemed to settle not on the ground but in people’s hearts. At last they pleaded, ‘Old Steward, let us go to this other place.’

The old steward fell to his knees: ‘Bodhisattva,’ he prayed, ‘they have come to their senses at last.’

On the fourth day, the blizzard eased, and the people of Gling left their snow-covered fields and villages, taking only their meagre belongings with the sheep and cattle that had survived the snow. As they walked they wept, until their voices reached the sky and changed the wind’s direction.

It was late spring at the bend of the Yellow river. Lambs gambolled and wild strawberry flowers blanketed the roadside. The old steward knelt facing their homeland, which lay far in the distance beneath snow, and looked up into the sky. ‘The people of Gling have arrived in their new home. I have brought them to the one you have chosen.’ He hesitated, turning to his people. ‘Yet you must go on alone. I am ashamed to face Joru.’

The Story The Bend in the Yellow River

They travelled for three more days before the stone fortress appeared before them, its roof glistening with the dark green rock of Gling, laid like dragon scales.

Joru stood before the people, who touched their foreheads as a sign of celebration. He did not ride upon his stick, as he had done in his former playfulness, or wear the robe with those strange antlers on its hood. His eyes shone bright and clear in his unmarked face. After he had kissed the Han consort on the forehead, he and his brother embraced, tears streaming down their faces. Then he cast an admiring glance at the twelve beauties of Glingkar.

‘Joru!’ they called.

‘Not Joru, it’s Gesar.’

‘His name matters little,’ Khrothung said. ‘Remember, he is just an eight-year-old boy.’

The girls retorted: ‘But he’s already broader and taller than you.’

‘Already his glance makes our cheeks burn.’

‘He has given us a new place to live.’

Danma led Joru through the crowd to the old steward, who was hiding in shame. Once he had made sure that the people were fed, Joru took his brother and the old steward by their hands and extended an invitation to his tent to all the tribal leaders, including his father, Senglon, the warrior heroes, priests, sorcerers and Buddhist monks who had recently been disseminating the Buddhist teaching in Glingkar. It was the tent that had accompanied Joru when he was banished from Glingkar, and the sight of it rekindled remorse in Gyatsa Zhakar, who fretted, ‘How can such a small tent accommodate so many honoured guests?’

‘The fortress is much larger and more impressive,’ the old steward said.

As though he hadn’t heard them, Joru parted the tent flaps to reveal an enchanting scene. It was roomy and airy, with a pleasant fragrance. Everyone was given a seat on a Persian rug, facing a table made of precious stones and sandalwood set with golden goblets, silver cups and long-stemmed red carnelian glasses filled with fruit. The people of Glingkar had never tasted such fruit, which came from distant lands.

Picking up his wine glass, Joru said, ‘I thank the heavens for bringing my family and kinfolk to me. This is the happiest day of my life. Drink, all of you.’

They drank, all but the old steward, who approached him. ‘I have a request on behalf of the people of Glingkar, and I will not drink until you agree.’

‘Please speak.’

‘A calamity has descended upon our beautiful land, owing to our many crimes, of which chasing you and your mother out was the most serious. I beg you, for the well-being of the people of Glingkar, let them spend three years on the land you have opened.’

‘Why three years and not three days?’ Joru was feeling mischievous.

The old steward bowed low. ‘The severity of our crime was as deep as the snow at home. It will take three years for the snow to melt and for life to return to the land.’

A pain, as sharp as a pinprick, shot through Joru’s heart as he heard the old steward shoulder the blame. He escorted him to the seat of honour and held out his own wine glass. ‘Old Steward and tribal leaders, I, Joru, built this place because I wish to help Glingkar prosper for millennia.’

As he spoke, the top of the tent disappeared, and their seats seemed to rise. They heard Joru’s booming voice: ‘See for yourselves. This beautiful and broad section of the Yellow river is curved like a precious sword, its blade facing India to the south, its tip pointing at China, the sword plunging into Mount Nyenchenthanglha. I built the fortress here because Yulung Kulha Sumdo is the future centre of Gling. Once our nation has achieved great things, we will send some of our people back to our homeland.’

Overjoyed, the old steward picked up his glass and drained it three times. A banquet was served and when the people had eaten they began to sing and dance. All night long the thousands of bonfires lit outside their tents burned so brightly they outshone the stars in the sky.

The next morning Joru took the tribal leaders up a hill, where he pointed out their surroundings. ‘Look at the river,’ he said. ‘The warriors have open spaces to gallop their horses, the people have a market for trade, and the herders have grassy plains to graze their flocks. I am giving the fortress, built with the rock tax, to our beloved old steward. It has a capacious meeting hall. When you summon us, Old Steward, the sound will travel far from the high tower.’

‘It is your fortress and you are our king,’ the old steward said.

‘King Joru! King Joru!’ the people cried.

‘He is not Joru, he is Gesar,’ his father shouted.

The people changed their chant: ‘King Gesar! King Gesar!’

Joru used his magic power to stop the people’s cheers before he brought the old steward into the fortress and set him on a throne that was covered with a tiger skin and had golden armrests carved with dragon heads.

‘Sit here, Old Steward.’

‘Heaven has shown its will. You are our king.’ He struggled in vain to get up.

Khrothung walked up. ‘He is right. Only you are qualified to be our king. Why don’t you sit on the throne and give each tribe a new place to live? It makes us uneasy, dallying in your fortress and eating your good food.’

‘I know that Uncle Khrothung wants to find land for farmers to till and pasture for the shepherds to graze their cows and sheep,’ Joru agreed.

‘Now, that is being a good nephew! I shall not fill your ears with pleasantries, as the old steward has done. My dear nephew, there are high places and low. Soil can be fertile or barren. You know that in Glingkar my Tagrong tribe occupied an area near a good river.’

‘Not everyone can feel shame and not everyone can change from bad to good,’ the old steward said, sighing over Khrothung’s words.

‘Old Steward, you can say these things because you are seated on the throne. I, on the other hand, have my people’s livelihood and happiness to think of. I have no choice but to be candid.’ He took Joru to one side. ‘The people of Glingkar can no longer tolerate this steward. Since you have bestowed such favours on us, why won’t you be our king?’ Then he tugged at Joru’s sleeve. ‘My dear nephew,’ he said, ‘I believe you do not wish to be king because you are afraid.’

‘I am not afraid, Uncle.’

‘Child, you may not know it but you are afraid. You fear that with a child’s intellect you will be unable to deal with people whose schemes are as vast as the ocean.’

‘Enough, Uncle.’

‘What are you afraid of? Do not be afraid.’

‘I am not afraid. I am just weary.’

‘That is fear!’

‘Yes, it is indeed as you say. My dear uncle, I am truly afraid that, with the simple mind of a child, I cannot deal with an elder whose schemes are as vast as the ocean.’

Khrothung, of course, knew that his nephew’s barb was directed at him, but he refused to give up. He continued: ‘Remove the old steward from the throne, and I will be your steward. You can continue to vanquish evil spirits and demons, and I will resolve any troubles.’

Everyone heard him, and the old steward responded loudly, ‘I will be the steward if Joru is king.’

The Tagrong people stood with Khrothung, but the other tribes supported the old steward. As their quarrel grew fierce, they forgot about Joru.

‘Do not argue,’ Joru said quietly. They reminded him of a flock of noisy migrating birds when they first land on a lake. He walked out of the fortress.

When his mother saw him, the sadness on his face sent sharp pangs to her heart, ‘Do they want to take your fortress from you?’

‘Oh, Mother. Why did you have to leave the Dragon fortress and give birth to me among these people?’

She wanted to tell him that they would have to ask Heaven, but held back from voicing words that might add to his distress.

The shouts grew so loud that the heavy stone slabs on the roof began to vibrate and the water birds feeding at the quiet riverbank were startled into flight. Gyatsa Zhakar and General Danma came out after him. ‘Where is Father?’ Joru asked.

‘He is with the old steward.’

‘Why does he not come to Mother? How can he help the steward?’

‘Everyone has to declare which side he is on.’

‘What about you?’

‘Why don’t you want to be king?’

‘Why should I?’

‘To build a nation, a real nation. At the moment, all the tribes, who have come from the same ancestors, are nothing but loose sand.’

‘Everyone knows you were sent by Heaven to be King of Glingkar,’ Danma joined in.

Joru looked up at the sky. ‘No one has ever told me so. I only know that this argument is tiresome.’

Just then, they heard a pair of travelling monks claiming that Gling must wait for word from Heaven to determine who should be king. If the two sides could not reach agreement, they said, they themselves would take over. Without a king sent by heaven, only they could rule fairly and unselfishly. The monks offered further explanation. All under Heaven had been divided into separate worlds, each of which was to fall under the teachings of a different religion. Glingkar was placed in the realm of the Buddhist light. The son of the deities, who would be its king, had received blessings from accomplished Buddhists in the west, which was why he had magical powers and a clear mind. All this had been illuminated by Master Lotus and the Buddha of Great Compassion.

‘Monks?’ Joru’s expression changed from solemnity to disappointment and from bewilderment to playfulness. He resumed the clownish form he had adopted when first banished from Glingkar. On his stick, he rode up to a mountain peak. Gyatsa Zhakar tried to follow, but could not catch up with him, so he returned to the fortress, and the crowd grew quiet, believing he had brought a message from Joru. He opened his mouth, but could make no sound. He tried again, and this time he succeeded, but the people were impatient. ‘Louder!’

So he raised his voice: ‘Since Joru does not wish to be king, whoever he puts on the throne will be our leader.’ At that, he heard the sound of swords returning to their scabbards. If Joru heard it, Gyatsa Zhakar said to himself, he would be disappointed.

The crowd slowly dispersed. The old steward slumped on the throne. ‘We have only just emerged from disaster. How has it come to this?’

Gyatsa Zhakar was quiet, but the quick-tongued General Danma voiced his anger: ‘The old steward himself is the one who should answer that question.’

‘How dare you?’ Senglon roared.

‘Hush, Father,’ Gyatsa Zhakar whispered. ‘You should go to our mother, Metog Lhartse.’

By then, the Han consort had already gone to look for Metog Lhartse, but in vain. Senglon also sought her, but he could not find her either. For the rest of the day, the people, who were once again feeling guilty, searched for Joru, but no one saw either mother or son. The tent by the fortress had disappeared; even the haystack fence around it had vanished in a gust of wind, as if nothing had ever existed on the patch of grass.

Joru had vanished again.

Two days later he reappeared. He was wearing his deerskin robe, with the crooked antlers on the hood; his face was dirty. Perched on the twisted magic stick, he descended from the skylight in the fortress roof and landed in front of the throne, where the old steward was resting. His eyes were tightly shut, but he could not stop sighing. Joru shook his shoulders and said, with a grin, ‘Have they given you a headache?’

‘Joru is back!’ He nearly leaped off his seat.

‘Come back in, all of you. Joru is here,’ he shouted.

Joru waved his stick. ‘Stop,’ he said. ‘I won’t let them hear me.’

‘Will you use heavenly powers?’

‘I don’t know, but they can’t hear me if I don’t want them to.’

‘You are the son of the deities.’

A gust of wind blew through the window, fluttering the fur on Joru’s robe and sending the stench of him to the old steward. He raised his hand to cover his nose, which made Joru laugh. ‘Is that the smell of the son of the deities?’

The old man grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him violently. ‘A Bodhisattva came from Heaven to give me a sign. He wanted all the Glingkar tribes to follow you, so I brought them here.’

‘Bodhisattva?’

‘The Guanyin Bodhisattva of Compassion.’

For an instant, an image flashed in Joru’s mind, like the shadow of ripples on water. ‘What is a Bodhisattva?’ he asked.