The Song of King Gesar, page 15
The fortune-teller laughed. ‘You are one of the competitors. Why, if not for the golden throne?’
‘As far as I know, neither the Indian Karma Dawa throne, the Chinese emperor’s dragon seat, nor the throne of any other nation is decided by a horserace. But in our land, the one with the fastest steed will be king, while those with slower horses will be his ministers. Is this not strange?’
‘Have you never heard the Chinese saying that one may not be able to rule the world on horseback, but one can definitely own the world in that way?’
‘Do you wish to own the world? You cannot divine that for yourself, but you could for me.’
The fortune-teller roared with laughter. ‘Before an arrow leaves the bow, you can ask if you will hit the target, but once the arrow is out, even the best fortune-teller cannot see the result.’ He whipped his horse and galloped off. Joru smiled and, when the fortune-teller was an arrow-shot ahead, flicked his reins; Rkayngkar Perpo quickly overtook the fortuneteller, and as he passed him, Joru said, ‘You are a good fortune-teller, for you did not lie. If I win, I will make you the official fortune-teller.’
Then Joru saw a famous healer on horseback, though the healer’s horse was tiring.
‘Healer, you dropped your medicine satchel,’ Joru called.
When the healer reined in his horse, he saw that his satchel was still securely fastened to his saddle. But Joru grinned at him and said, ‘I could tell that your horse was exhausted, and I thought you should let it rest.’
The healer smiled and slowed his horse to ride alongside Joru.
‘I think you are ill,’ Joru said.
‘To say that a healthy person is ill is the same as casting an evil spell.’
‘Then it must be me who is ill.’
‘You do dress . . . oddly, but your eyes are bright and clear. You are not ill.’
‘I am.’
The healer began to talk as if he had forgotten about the race and the throne. ‘Joru, there are three types of illness, those associated with the wind, the gallbladder and phlegm. They are caused by greed, anger and senselessness. The three intertwine to afflict humans with four hundred and twenty-four illnesses. You, however, show no sign of illness, so spur your horse forward and win the throne that you deserve.’
‘Why do you whip your horse, if you know you will not be king?’
‘I am well known in Gling. I must race to win. How otherwise shall I hold up my head?’
As he spurred his horse on, Joru shouted, ‘If I become king, you will be my royal healer.’
Rkayngkar Perpo was clearly the finest charger in the race – all Joru had to do was flick the reins and the horse would run like lightning. They caught up with the old steward.
‘Uncle,’ Joru called out, using the honorific befitting an older man of the family.
The old steward would not let that pass. ‘I may be your uncle, but you may call me that only in private. On public occasions like this, you must address me as “Steward”.’
‘I know what I say. The old order in Gling is broken. Only after someone wins the golden throne can we make a new order. That is why I called you “Uncle”.’
‘You are a son of the gods,’ the steward said, with a nod. ‘That is why your thoughts are both rational and profound. Go and win the throne: obey Heaven’s will and fulfil the people’s wish.’
Joru was about to say that the steward would be his chief minister when he won the throne, but Rongtsa Khragan whipped Joru’s horse, and it shot forward like an arrow. Effortlessly they passed Khrothung and his horse Yusha, which was so fast it seemed to carry the wind on its hoofs.
Mount Kure, the finish line, rose up like a helmet before them. Khrothung had felt as if a golden throne had been placed there for him; he and his horse were beyond anyone’s reach. The prophecy of the Hayagriva was about to come true: the rare beauty, Brugmo, would soon be his, and the door to the treasure in Kure mountain would open for him. He felt as if his body flew while his mind ran ahead into the future where he was king. And in that moment he heard someone breathing hard, and turned to see Joru behind him, looking as though he would fall off his horse.
Khrothung laughed. ‘Even if you used every bit of your strength, you would be far from the throne. But, my good nephew, since you have surpassed all those others, I will let you walk ahead of them when I hold court.’
Khrothung saw a light shoot past him. Joru and his celestial horse were suddenly in front. His gloating vanished and he nearly coughed blood in his despair and anger. He cast obstacle magic at Joru, but the celestial horse turned into a bright light and pierced the dark wall he had created to block them. The bright light blinded him and he saw darkness; his body swayed and he nearly fell off. He whipped his steed forward. The golden throne was so close: he had only to sprint the short distance and leap from his horse onto the throne. But he could not see Joru, who had raced ahead. Maybe the boy was not such a good rider after all and had failed to rein in his horse when they reached the throne.
Khrothung swallowed hard and gripped his horse with his legs, but the animal reared. The throne was moving away from him. Khrothung could not halt Yusha, so he jumped down, the horse whinnying pitifully behind him.
‘Dear Yusha, there is nothing I can do for you now. When I am on the throne, I shall return for you.’
The horse’s legs gave out, and it collapsed on the ground.
Khrothung crawled towards the golden throne, but again it moved away from him, forever at his fingertips and forever beyond his reach. When he heard Joru’s laugh, his embarrassment turned to anger.
‘Are you laughing at me, lowly beggar?’
‘My noble uncle, are you talking to me?’
‘Why did you use magic during the horserace?’
‘You used the obstacle magic on me. I used none on you.’
‘Then why could I not reach the throne even though I ran hard?’
‘The gods are punishing you, Uncle. Rkayngkar Perpo and I have circled the throne twice already, but we dare not sit on it.’
‘The little beggar is frightened by the golden throne,’ Khrothung said to himself, but he poured honeyed words on Joru.
‘My dear nephew, you are wise. To be in power means shouldering the concerns of many people – it is nothing less than unbearable suffering.’
‘I must ask Uncle’s opinion of the trophy – the girl.’
‘She is like wild fruit on the mountains, red and enticing, sweet as honey, but if you eat it, you will die.’
‘What about the treasure in Kure mountain? Uncle must have lost sleep over that.’
‘Good nephew,’ Khrothung said, ignoring Joru’s teasing, ‘please step aside, so I can sit on the throne and assume the people’s suffering, while you continue to lead a carefree life.’
‘It is a hard seat – let me take it, Uncle. Eight years of roaming the floodplain along the Yellow river has taught me to endure hardship. And, Uncle, you should see to your horse.’ He held up his whip, and Yusha got to its feet. Khrothung took the reins and tried to mount the horse, but its front legs buckled.
Khrothung wrapped his arms around his horse’s neck, and began to sob. ‘Good nephew, help my horse. Heal him.’
Joru was touched. ‘Abandon the throne that is not yours, and the horse will run like the wind again.’
But Khrothung was still unwilling.
‘The Hayagriva prophesied that the throne would go to the Tagrong tribe.’
Joru took off his hat and wiped his brow as if mopping sweat. His face assumed the ferocious features of the Hayagriva. Khrothung rubbed his eyes, but Joru was himself again. No – not quite the same. His face had undergone a subtle change. His narrow forehead was broader, the bridge of his nose higher, and his brows more clearly defined. Freckles from the plateau sun vanished to leave his skin as clear as a gemstone. Khrothung could only cry plaintively. ‘Heaven gave me great powers and intelligence, so why send a son of the gods to the noble throne of Gling?’
Joru walked up to the golden throne, and examined it carefully. He wondered why one had to sit on it in order to have the power, wealth and beautiful women that others envied. Did the throne mean only those three things? He looked up, but the blue sky was silent as usual. Then he gazed at the endless stretch of grassland that ran to the horizon, and suddenly felt relief, as if he had come home after a long journey. The snowcapped peaks sparkled, a hawk spread its wings. For an instant, everything between Heaven and Earth held its breath. It had all been predestined, but it had taken Joru twelve years to reach this point. Perhaps he could indeed transform the grassland into a place where people felt at ease, a homeland for the tribes of Gling.
Joru sat on the throne.
The people who had gathered on Mount Lute to watch the race went silent. But then they understood what had happened, and a thunderous cheer broke out at the sight before them.
The Story
Winning a Horserace to be King – II
Joru sat on the throne, and the sky filled with auspicious clouds that parted like water as the gates of Heaven opened. His celestial mother, Lhamin Dagmo, holding a quiver, rose into the sky.
Rkayngkar Perpo, the celestial horse, whinnied three times, and Joru tossed the key that the mountain goddess had given him to Mount Kure. The mountain roared, boulders rolled like an avalanche, and the crystal gate to the trove of seven treasures opened. Attendants to the mountain goddess came forward to lay the treasures before the throne. Warrior gods emerged, in black iron armour and helmets like snowy mountain peaks, with red rattan shields and tiger-skin sheaths for their bows. They dressed Joru as a warrior: a bow over his back, a sword on his hip, a spear in his hand. And as they did so his face changed from that of an ugly clown into that of a man of dignity. A rain of flowers fell from the heavens.
Since his birth, Joru had been like the sun behind clouds or a lotus in mud, its sweet smell buried. Yet the hardships with which Heaven had showered him had made him feel the people’s suffering keenly. And now he sat on the throne. Above him the heavenly gate was slowly closing. A stern voice came from behind it: ‘From now on Gling is a nation, and Gesar is its king.’
As if they had awoken from a dream, the people of Gling now swarmed down the mountain, calling out joyously to Joru, to Gesar, the son of the deities.
Gesar rose from the throne and gazed down at his people. He began slowly: ‘All you warriors who raced today and all you citizens of Gling, it has been twelve years since I pledged to come down to the human world to kill the demons and relieve the people of their suffering. Over the past twelve cycles of summer and winter, you have seen what I have done. Now I have ascended to the golden throne of Gling, as Heaven ordained. But I still do not know one thing: are you willing to accept me as your king?’
‘Heaven has blessed Gling!’ the old steward shouted. ‘He is our hero, King of the Nation of Gling!’
King! The people of Gling had never dared to say the word before, although they had hoped for it for a long time. Now their thousands of hearts and thousands of mouths cried out together, ‘King! King! King!’
‘Gesar! King! King Gesar!’
The word shone more brightly than any treasure.
To show their allegiance, the leaders of the tribes, led by the old steward, offered up their tribal records of ancestry and their flags. Gesar accepted them, and the people’s heartfelt cheers. With a wave of his hand, he began to appoint his officials.
First was the old steward, who was made chief minister, then the centiarchs and the chiliarchs, contingents of a hundred and a thousand families, who were responsible for keeping order in each tribe.
Of the thirty Gling warriors, Gyatsa Zhakar, Danma, Nyibum Daryag and Gnyatsa Aten were installed as the four great generals. Then came the civilians, the high monks and the doctors. Everyone praised his choices. Even Khrothung could do nothing but congratulate the new king.
‘Great King,’ Khrothung said, ‘we still need a palace for the golden throne. I invite the king to use my fortress – there is no grander castle in Gling.’
Chief Minister Rongtsa Khragan offered his advice: ‘A king must stay at the centre of the country. Tagrong is on the borders.’
The two men began to argue.
Gesar smiled and said, ‘Let us all go to the big tent and celebrate. We will discuss this there.’
The warriors mounted their horses and raced down the hill to the tent, where a feast had been laid out. Brugmo led the girls of Gling in singing to greet them. She danced gracefully up to Gesar and knelt before him, raising a bowl of wine over her head.
‘My king, may your brilliance shine like the sun and let my happiness bloom like a flower. I will be as your shadow in all your deeds, and hold your reins and steady your stirrups.’
Gesar raised her up, and offered her the seat beside him. People came up with well-wishing hadas.
Thus in one day a loose cluster of tribes became an orderly nation, an ugly boy became a mighty king and took the prettiest girl in Gling as his bride. And as the people celebrated, a palace rose out of the ground like a mushroom until it stood gleaming by the Yellow river, with its nine twists and turns. They had all been sitting together on bright cushioned seats, but now a jade staircase ran the length of a grand hall lined with one hundred and twenty fragrant cypress trees. The king’s throne stood above all else, and the king’s voice, as he repeated his pledge to the people, to his officials and generals, and to the heavens, to reconstruct the land and subdue all the demons and evil spirits, reverberated as if someone had struck a bronze bell.
Groups of artisans, half god, half human, arrived – although it is more accurate to say that they began as humans and became the gods of their trades in Gling.
The one among them who knew how to smelt metal was the father of iron, the head of Gling’s armoury. He became the god of blacksmiths. And then there was a carver; a potter, who could turn clay into glazed tiles; a lutemaker; a geomancer, who knew how to break rock to build roads without incurring the anger of the mountain gods; a seed magician, who made flowers love each other like humans to produce more fertile seeds and who became the god of harvests, worshipped by crop farmers; and a spice master, who collected the scent of flowers and became a secret god in the boudoirs of women who wished to look beautiful.
King Gesar invited them to sit and share the feast, saying, ‘I will have great need of you in the future.’
All sat down, all but one, the lutemaker, who said, ‘The wine is good but the music grates on the ear. These forlorn drums and trumpets are not suitable for a palace. Let me teach these musicians how to play elegant music.’
Gesar gave his consent with a smile, but the crowd waited to see how the man would teach a cohort of fierce warriors, used to playing drums and trumpets, to play his refined music. The man placed his finger to his lips, and the band stopped playing. Then he strummed his lute strings, and the music that flowed from his fingertips was like fine spray above a waterfall, like sunlight dappling the surface of a lake. His music seemed to travel far away, and when it returned, the musicians’ faces became peaceful. The lutemaker ran his hand over a drum, and the congealed blood of sacrificed animals fell away, replaced by a lotus flower. He strummed his lute again, and trumpets made of human leg bones fell to the floor and smashed.
‘Here are your instruments,’ he said, and lutes appeared in their hands.
They began to play, and the music blew through the people’s hearts like a fresh wind. Tears streamed down the faces of men who had been warriors and shamans, and in that moment they became musicians instead, known as the ‘men who were born twice’.
Many women fell in love with the lutemaker. But there were many who gossiped, and one woman, hiding by the lake to watch him bathe, discovered that he was in truth a woman. Yet still they longed for him. When he played that first time, even Queen Brugmo, sitting next to Gesar, prayed for the strength to resist the lutemaker, for the music invoked a sweet emotion in everyone’s heart.
The Storyteller
A Fine Charger
The horserace in Khampa began.
There were so many horses with so many riders competing that if they were to set off at the same time the starting line would have had to be at least two kilometres wide. So they set out in heats. At one end of the line a man held a starting gun, while at the other a man held up a pennant. The riders grasped their reins and waited. Such throngs of spectators crowded in that it took a police line to keep the way open for the horses. When the starter fired his gun and the pennant was waved, the first heat raced towards the finishing line, where a judge with a stopwatch sat on a high stool under a large parasol. He recorded the time of every horse.
Jigmed had to shove his way through the crowd. He largely ignored the horses. He had never seen so many people in one place in his life. A man in sunglasses whispered to him, ‘The true charger has not yet appeared and the moment has yet to come.’
Was the man speaking to him?
‘Yes, I’m speaking to you. Will you come to my tent for tea and a little rest?’ He turned and squeezed through the crowd. Jigmed followed and saw him wave from a distant tent.
Outside, the sun was scorching, but inside the tent it was cool. Jigmed drank a bowl of tea as the man spoke.
‘You sing the praises of horses, so you must know them.’
Jigmed shook his head – he merely followed the will of the gods when he sang.
‘Anyone who sings about horses must know them,’ the man said obstinately.
Jigmed remembered the old man who had appeared on the hilltop at dusk. ‘I know someone who does know about them. He specialises in singing their praises.’
The man, who, despite the shade of the tent, was still wearing his sunglasses, sighed. ‘Let’s go, then.’
Jigmed followed the man through the tent city to the foot of a small hill, where several men were standing around a horse in a grove of willow trees by a river. The horse looked exhausted, but it was an exceptionally beautiful animal.
