The Song of King Gesar, page 7
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.
