The Song of King Gesar, page 29
‘Why weren’t they given help?’
‘We will be able to help them when there is no more war. At least, I will help them. Not every high-ranking, powerful hero or Gling official
is compassionate.’
In Hor, Gesar was welcomed by cheering crowds. He saw that these people felt fortunate and proud to be living in a country built by a great king. On the night before he left Hor, he and Meza enjoyed a passionate interlude after the banquet. He said to her, ‘It seems the time has come to return to Heaven.’
Pressing her cheek against the king’s chest, Meza said, ‘Have you the heart to abandon us?’
‘It appears that wars will never end if I am here.’
‘But you slew the demons that plagued the human world.’
‘Yet soldiers continue to die and their wives and sons wander the earth like stray dogs.’
After leaving Hor, they went to Prince Gralha’s fiefdom. From the top of his fortress, on a night that twinkled with stars, they saw the mountains lined up from east to west and a mighty river running from north to south through a deep, dark canyon. They saw, too, the flames from the iron-smelting. Gralha told the king that they would go the next day to see how artisans forged new weapons from techniques they had recently acquired.
‘There is no need to go,’ the king said. ‘We can see it from here.’
‘But the presence of the great king will be an immense honour to the artisans.’
Gazing at the flames, Gesar said, ‘Much wealth must have been spent on making these weapons.’
‘The treasure we obtained from the wars has been sufficient.’
Gesar spent three days in Gralha’s fortress, but he made no mention of the weapons. He either kept quietly to himself or instructed Gralha on how to be a king who cared for the old and the poor, the king Gesar had wanted to be but had failed to become.
‘Gyatsa Zhakar’s blood flows through your veins,’ he said to Gralha, ‘so you must be as open as he when you become King of Gling.’
Prince Gralha paled when he heard the king’s words and knelt before him. His courtiers had told him that he must not give the king the impression that he was impatient to succeed him. The king helped him up and said, ‘You are the son of Gyatsa Zhakar. Do not let such thoughts enter your mind.’
As they were leaving, Gesar said to Meza, ‘I’ve left Prince Gralha with an impossible dilemma. He will not know whether to give all the treasure to the people or to continue making powerful weapons.’
‘Perhaps he will begin to learn how to be a great king.’
Gesar laughed. ‘A troubled king.’
‘If a king can never be happy, why does Uncle Khrothung seek the throne?’
The king told her to ask Khrothung in person when they reached the Tagrong tribal area.
But she did not dare to ask at the extravagant banquet held in their honour by the Tagrong. Khrothung was still sunk in grief, but when the king tried to console him, Khrothung reverted to his old self, and the grief left his face. After the banquet, Khrothung took Meza by the hand and asked her to present to the king a nine-foot piece of coral and a bronze Buddha statue that had formed naturally in the mountains.
Meza asked if there was something he wanted in return.
‘News of the king’s inspection tour has spread far and wide. Everyone is saying that he is about to return to Heaven. Only, I, Khrothung, have magical powers like him.’
‘Does Uncle mean . . .’
‘He will know that only Khrothung should inherit his throne.’
Meza had thought that the king would refuse such lavish gifts, but he did not. He simply said, ‘If we are living in a story, then everything has already been settled, and if that is the case, what good will it do him to give me these things?’ He told Meza to have them sold to the Persian or Chinese merchants who were always eager for rare treasures. The money from the sale would be distributed to the poor people they had met along the way. ‘We will be returning to the Tagste khar palace soon, so if we meet someone without a house, we will give him one. If we meet a girl who is about to be married without a coral necklace, we will give her one. We will give the sick medicine, the barefooted sturdy boots, the helpless a pleasant surprise.’
Then he sighed. ‘I have been in that man’s dream again. I entered it in his body, but I could see his face.’ He described Jigmed to Meza: a tall, gaunt man with a weatherworn countenance. The dust on his boots was a sign that he was always on the road with his lute. His eyes were lacklustre. ‘Since my celestial self chose him to spread my story in Gling, why is he not of noble lineage?’
The Storyteller
Rejection
Jigmed sang in a village. After the performance, the villagers did not follow the custom of compensating him with food and a little money, believing that the village chief should pay for the performance, since he had arranged it. The collective account should not be used exclusively for official inspectors: a performance like Jigmed’s qualified. But the village chief insisted that a traditional activity should be conducted in the traditional manner. ‘A fine horse will always follow a familiar route for its master,’ he said. Neither side relented, and in the end a young man stepped forward and gave Jigmed a hundred yuan. He asked to be Jigmed’s disciple, but Jigmed responded that as Heaven had given him the stories he could not teach them to others. The young man said he wanted only to learn some lute techniques and tunes, not the stories. Taking his own lute out of its bag and holding it in his arms, he played a few notes.
‘I want to use this lute to play your tunes.’
Jigmed assumed that it would take a long time to teach him, but he learned in three days. When they were tired from walking through deserted fields, they sat down and played together. Jigmed would strum a few notes; the young man would follow. Soon they did the same with longer passages. The young man quickly mastered them. One day they arrived at an autonomous prefecture reputed to have been part of the former Gling. Steady winds pushed them as they came down into the city, helping them maintain their stride even after a long trek. The wind was blowing north, but the airy clouds above drifted nimbly to the east. The city had a large square, and there the two men sat by a fountain to watch vehicles and people pass by.
‘Teacher, here we must say goodbye.’ The young man tried to pay, but Jigmed refused.
‘The tunes go with the stories, so why do you want only the tunes?’ Jigmed asked, for he had changed his mind and would be happy to teach the long narrative to the cheerful young man.
‘I want to give the tunes new lyrics,’ the young man said.
He began to sing of love, with a sorrowful look in his eyes. At first he sang softly, but then the melody surged. It was Jigmed’s tune, yet somehow different. Jigmed felt his heart swell, stretching beyond the square. When people heard the young man singing, they gathered, and as the crowd grew, women shouted and men whistled, for they knew who he was. Jigmed realised he was a famous singer. Amid cheers from the audience, the singer introduced his ‘teacher’ to the crowd, who granted him a round of polite applause. Then, tossing their hats and headscarves into the air, they begged the young man to sing another song. He did so. Jigmed got up to leave. The singer could not stop, so he bade Jigmed farewell with eyes that were in tune with his love song, forlorn and emotional. Jigmed wept as he left the square and the crowd.
‘This wind is hurting my eyes,’ he said. Then he said to himself, ‘I’m crying.’ And he wept again.
He spent the night in a pasture that reminded him of his home. As the cow-dung fire died down, he fell asleep; but during the night he awoke. A woman who smelt like sheep and fresh leaves slipped under his blanket. Holding her in his arms, he groaned.
‘You don’t sound like a grungkan,’ she said.
‘Oh! Oh!’
Then he was alone again under the blanket.
He fell asleep to the sound of a baby nursing from the woman who had just left him, and starlight falling on the dewy grass.
Gesar appeared in his dream. ‘I wish to see your face, since you will tell me nothing,’ Gesar said. ‘You are different from how I imagined.’
‘What should I look like?’
‘You are not handsome.’
‘I was an illiterate shepherd before the gods stuffed your stories into my belly.’
‘Has life been good to you?’
‘Sometimes, but at other times it hasn’t.’
‘Have you a home?’
‘I had one, but then I began singing your stories across the land. The four seas are home to us storytellers.’
‘Us? Are there others?’
‘Yes, quite a few, but they all say I’m the best.’
‘What about your wife?’
‘I don’t have one.’
‘You seem to have no money either.’
‘I made some a while ago. A hundred yuan!’ Jigmed pointed to the notes in his pocket.
‘But those are just pieces of paper.’
‘Paper with writing from the bank is money.’
‘So for you writing is magical. You know that here writing is just words on paper. I am in Khrothung’s fiefdom.’
‘He presented you with gifts because he wanted to be king after you.’
‘Will he become king? You will not tell me. But I will not let him. I saw many suffering people on my inspection trip. I am king, so why are so many people hungry and homeless? Do many people suffer where you are?’
‘Many.’ Jigmed wanted to say that he himself was one of them, but he didn’t. Instead he said, ‘There are also many prominent officials and eminent persons, as well as rich people.’
‘So the world has not changed.’
‘No.’
‘Are there still wars?’
‘The television says that many countries in the world are at war, but there are no more battles between demons and deities. People fight other people, black people, white people, people of our colour.’
‘Then I shall go back.’
The king vanished.
When Jigmed woke, he was at a momentary loss as to where to go next. Then he recalled the lama who had been writing the story of Gesar, the one mining for the heart treasure. So he took that road and arrived two weeks later. Amid the rustling of the trees, he waited for the lama to emerge from his meditation.
‘I told them you’d come back,’ the lama said, when he saw him.
‘You’ve been waiting for me?’
‘Yes. I want to teach you the new stories I have found in my heart so you can sing them.’
Thinking of the king in his dream, Jigmed lowered his head.
‘You don’t want to?’
Jigmed came straight to the point. ‘What have you written about?’
‘There have been many grungkans, but none has ever told a complete story. Now I have been inspired by the gods to unearth all his heroic deeds.’
‘What else has Gesar done?’
‘He vanquished several demon countries no one had ever heard of.’
Jigmed was quiet for a moment. Then he said, ‘I won’t do it. And I want to ask you to stop writing. King Gesar is tired. He wants to return to Heaven.’
The lama was taken aback, but then said, ‘You, an ordinary man, lecture a lama?’
‘Please, I beg you. He is so tired of war.’
‘It was war that brought him glory!’ The lama looked haughty. ‘It was your good fortune that the gods chose you to be a grungkan. How dare you criticise the stories? Those of us who have been chosen by him should be his humble servants.’
‘I think . . . I think he will forget the human world once he returns to Heaven.’
‘Gods! Hear what this crazy man is saying!’
‘Please . . .’
‘Steward! Send this man away!’
‘Am I wrong?’
‘You are.’
‘I’m not.’
‘Steward!’
The Story
News from China
Three pigeons took to the air in the distant land of China while King Gesar was inspecting his territory. They flew from the Fragrant Orchid Pavilion, where the Chinese princess lived alone in the golden palace. One carried a letter from the princess to King Gesar; the other two carried gifts, a piece of fine jade and the seeds of exotic plants from the princess’s garden.
The pigeons had first to cross a mountain country called Minyag, which lay between China and Gling. Minyag had lent assistance to King Gesar in the past, but the Dharma King of Minyag, Yutse Tonpa, had become disenchanted with Gling and levied heavy taxes on Gling’s caravans. Before long he had closed the border and severed communications between the two countries.
On this day, as the pigeons flew over Minyag, Yutse Tonpa was practising ascetic contemplation in the mountains, calling forth wind and rain to increase the power of his magic. Seeing the pigeons, he summoned snake-like clouds, leaving only a small patch of clear sky above his head, and transformed a magic stick into a fruit-laden tree. When the pigeons landed on it, it turned into a giant sack and caught them. Roaring with laughter, Yutse Tonpa said, ‘Messengers from China, my country is not your destination. Where are you flying to in such a hurry?’
‘We can no longer carry out our duty, so kill us.’
‘You are too small, and after such a long flight, you have used all the fat and meat on your bodies. Would I kill you just to crunch your bones? I shall not.’ Then the king read the letter. ‘Loyal pigeons of the Chinese princess, you must deliver this letter to Gesar of Gling.’
He treated the messengers to a hearty meal to restore their strength. ‘Now, fly away. And ask Gesar on my behalf how he expects to lead his troops to your country if I do not let him pass through mine. Your princess will have to ask for my help.’
‘Will you help her?’
‘If she will marry me.’
The pigeons flew on to Gling, but when they arrived at the Tagste khar palace, they found only Brugmo, who, on hearing of their news, grew jealous. She told them of the king’s inspection trip with Meza, so the pigeons flew to Hor, but the king had already left. When they reached Prince Gralha’s fiefdom, they were nearly killed by artisans of the weapons tribe who were testing their arrows. Prince Gralha comforted them, then pointed the way to the Tagrong tribe. Before the pigeons disappeared in the sky, he ordered his troops to prepare for an expedition to China.
When the pigeons came to the Tagrong tribe, they were welcomed by Khrothung, who told them he was the famed King of Gling. They gave him the letter and the gifts from the princess. ‘You may return home to tell your princess that Gesar will send his Gling armies to China without delay,’ he said. Then he gathered his army and set off for the Chinese palace.
When Gesar at last returned to his palace, Brugmo kept from him the Chinese messengers’ request for help, fearing that he would set off on another long journey. Then, one fine, sunny day not long after his return, as Gesar was resting in a tent in a meadow filled with flowers, drinking with his ministers and listening to the latest songs, columns of yellow dust appeared in the distance.
‘No summons has been issued,’ the surprised king said.
The chief minister gazed at the horizon. ‘The dust is rising above the public road from the Tagrong area. You don’t think that Khrothung . . .’
Messengers were sent to all corners with an urgent call for troops from all tribes to protect the palace. A dozen or so miles outside the fortress city, Danma’s palace guards stood in the path of Khrothung’s advance.
‘Honourable leader of the Tagrong tribe, why have you left your territory? Where are you bound, looking so proud?’
‘I have an important matter to report to the king. If it is delayed, Danma, you know you have only one head.’
‘You are taking a large force into the fortress city without having been summoned.’
Danma’s words, like a breath of air rekindling a dying ember, sent flames burning through Khrothung’s heart. ‘Those few men of yours are no match for my army.’
‘So you are planning a coup.’
Khrothung had set out to deliver his message and follow the king to China, but if they thought he was planning a coup, why not do so? ‘And if I am?’
Enraged by Khrothung’s arrogance, Danma charged.
It grew dark, but Khrothung continued to fight until his son Dongtsan rode up to separate the two warriors. ‘Danma would not block our way without the king’s consent,’ he said. ‘The king is probably concerned about your intentions. There is no need to force the issue, Father. I’ll deliver the letter myself.’
‘Gesar!’ Khrothung cursed. ‘I have come with good intentions, but instead of treating me with fine wine and good tea, you send your general to block my way. You think I am rebelling? Very well, I shall rebel!’
Dongtsan said, ‘The palace may not be heavily guarded, but everyone knows that Gesar has immense powers.’
‘He uses magic, and so do I! Are you really my son? How can you be so willing to submit to him?’ Khrothung continued slowly: ‘I am making the best of a mistake. If we succeed, this is a Heaven-sent opportunity. If not, I shall tell Gesar that Danma insisted upon fighting me. Ready the troops for a battle tomorrow morning. If we win, we make straight for the palace. If not, you will still have time to deliver the letter from China.’
But a heavy fog rolled in at midnight. The Tagrong soldiers were forced to wait for the red sun to rise before they could launch their attack. But Gesar had used his magic to call up the fog, and high noon felt like dusk. Khrothung could not attack. Try as he might he could not disperse the fog, for the mountain gods and water-dragon kings had come to help the king. On the third day, Khrothung called off his challenge, and his son Dongtsan showed Danma the letter from China and sought permission to see the king.
The king accepted the letter from Dongtsan and rewarded him. ‘The tribes will gather here in a few days and then we will decide what to do.’
Dongtsan leaped to his father’s defence. ‘It was simply because Danma forced . . .’
‘I have treated you hospitably. Go now, but return in three days with your father,’ Gesar said.
