The Golden Tiger Mountain, page 1
CONTENTS
I The Mountain
1. The Coldest Winter
2. The Search
3. The Cave of the Nine Demons
4. The Storm
5. The Serpent
6. We Will, We Can
7. The Whispering Pines and the Hummingbird
8. The Call of the Valley
9. The Call of the Tiger
II The Tiger
10. Sertaktse La
11. The Crossing
12. The Golden Tree
III The End
13. The End of the Day
14. The Coldest Night Ever
IV The Day
15. Morning
16. Return to the Valley
17. A Golden Orange Life
18. Songs from The Golden Tiger Mountain
About the Book
About the Author
About the Illustrator
Copyright
THE COLDEST WINTER
The light of the sinking sun turned the peaks flaming orange and copper pink. Pala Dawa sat cross-legged on his bed, looking at the sun setting behind the mountain range outside his window. His knobbly, wrinkled joints ached from the cold. He drew his blanket close around him and his entire body bent forward as he coughed hard.
The Lamo Angdang La peak looked so close that evening. He felt he could hold out his hand and touch it. Then the winter wind blew off the snow ranges and into the room. In the golden glow that came in through the window, his face looked pained, thin and wrinkled, and he shivered as he thought of the cold night ahead.
‘This summer of illness has made me feel so much older,’ he thought. ‘I hope Kunzang, Deki and the workers have stored enough firewood and fodder. This year, the snow will come in early and lock us into the valley.’
Looking at the coppery light on the high peaks, Pala Dawa grimaced as he found himself saying, ‘It’s the coldest winter ever.’
And then Rinzing skipped in through the low doorway to his room.
‘Drink this tea, Pala,’ she said, proffering a cup of steaming-hot tea. ‘Ama put extra salt and herbs into it so you will cough less at night. She’s making tsampa and soup for dinner. Do you have a fever again?’
Rinzing was his eight-year-old granddaughter. To Pala Dawa, it looked as if she danced whenever she moved. She talked all the time in her soft, bird-like voice.
Pala Dawa took the glass of hot tea from her and inhaled the herbs through the steam. ‘No fever,’ he replied, ‘just this cough all day. And I feel too weak to go out to work in the fields.’
She felt his forehead as she spoke: ‘No need for you to work now, Pala. Apa harvested all the kodo and put it into the storehouse. He and Ama cut all the vegetables. They’re all dry on the shelves in the kitchen. The fodder for the yaks is all done. And so is the winter firewood. I wish I could make you well, Pala. You’ve been so sick all summer. We don’t get to play together in the fields or by the river anymore.’
Pala Dawa loved to hear her chatter. He put his arms around his granddaughter and ruffled her hair with his rough, slightly shaking hands.
‘Someday, when I’m better,’ he said in a gentle, soothing tone, ‘I will climb the Golden Tiger Mountain, and I will eat the fruit of the golden tree. Then I will be completely well and strong. I will never be sick again.’ Pala Dawa smiled. ‘The fruit of the golden tree cures every illness anyone ever had. It makes people young and strong again.’
‘Where is the golden tree? Which one of our mountains is the Golden Tiger Mountain? How does one get there?’ rushed Rinzing’s questions.
Pala Dawa took a big gulp of tea and spoke softly: ‘When you walk up our valley, along the river, you go around the second big bend of the river, where the two rivers meet. Then, you come to the base of the Golden Tiger Mountain. When I was small, our elders used to call it Sertaktse La, out of respect and fear. Sertaktse La isn’t as high as Lamo Angdang La or Khangchendzonga, but my father told me that Lamo Angdang La and Khangchendzonga are the mountains where the deities live.’
Pala Dawa paused, his brows furrowing. He took another gulp of the hot tea. Closing his eyes, he slowly swallowed, feeling the warmth seeping down his throat. When he opened his eyes again, he did not meet Rinzing’s gaze.
‘The Golden Tiger Mountain is the home of the demons that the lamas and deities chased away from all our villages here in the Lachen valley,’ he said.
His voice was an almost inaudible whisper, his eyes fixed upon some distant point. To Rinzing, Pala Dawa looked lost, far away, in a memory.
Pala Dawa turned his gaze back to Rinzing and brought the smile back to his face.
He spoke again, his hands now animated in description: ‘You will know this mountain because it starts with this almost vertical, black-rock cliff that runs right around the base, and runs up sheer, for many thousands of feet. The mountain towers far above you when you look up from the valley, purest black. So high that rolling storm clouds engulf it halfway up. No one has ever seen more than half the mountain. Dark, stormy clouds just keep rolling up and down and hide the upper half.’
Rinzing’s eyes widened as she started to see the picture Pala Dawa’s words and hands were drawing. Pala Dawa noticed his granddaughter’s interest, and he continued, more spirited this time, his gestures broader and even more exaggerated.
‘There is a cluster of huge rocks at the far end of the second river bend, where the river water runs white. Right there is where a narrow path starts to climb up the Golden Tiger Mountain. The path is steep through the jagged cliff face, and as you climb, the river looks terrifying far below, white and foaming with anger. The path is just wide enough for one person. At many sections, you have to clamber over giant stones that stand taller than a grown man. When you look down on them, those massive stones look like they are a staircase for giants. They are light grey – so different from the Golden Tiger Mountain’s black rock.
‘My grandfather told me that ancient, giant demons carried those rocks from the plains. They used the rocks to build a staircase for themselves, with steps so big that it would be difficult for any man to climb them.’
Rinzing burst in excitedly: ‘I’m going to climb the Golden Tiger Mountain and bring back the fruit of the golden tree for you! You will never be sick again. We’ll play hide and seek in the fields again, as we used to when I was small.’
‘No! You can’t,’ said Pala Dawa, his voice taking a stern tone. ‘You must not go anywhere near the Golden Tiger Mountain. Not even near the second bend of the river.’
Pala Dawa put his hands on Rinzing’s shoulders and brought her right in front of him. Looking straight into her eyes, he spoke: ‘Do you know why this mountain is called the Golden Tiger Mountain? Because at the top sits the fiercest golden tiger. It guards the golden tree which bears the magic fruit that makes everyone well. Very few men have ever dared to face the golden tiger. And whichever man ever dared to confront the golden tiger has never returned alive. Just the touch of the golden tiger was enough to kill them all.’
Rinzing’s lips curled down in a show of petulance. Pala Dawa could sense that she wasn’t taking his words for the warning they were meant to be.
‘You mustn’t even think of the golden tree or the Golden Tiger Mountain,’ said Pala, feeling afraid. ‘When I was a young man, even I tried to climb up to the peak of the Golden Tiger Mountain. I reached almost to the top. And when morning came, I saw the tiger . . . ’
Pala Dawa trailed off.
‘And then?’ asked Rinzing.
Pala Dawa stayed silent for a moment. And then, almost reluctantly, as if in uttering the next words he would release the demons he had tried to bury away for so long, he said, ‘. . . and then . . . I . . . I went forward to face it.’
There was no bravado in his voice. Only regret.
‘One touch of the golden tiger turned my bones and muscles to water,’ he continued, ‘even though I was so strong when I was young. Just that one touch and I was nothing. I was barely able to crawl away . . . barely alive.’
Pala Dawa saw the effect his words were having on Rinzing. He hurried to add: ‘It took me three days to come down from the Golden Tiger Mountain, sometimes on my knees because I could not walk. I nearly fell off the narrow path down the cliff so many times.
‘If I had fallen, I would have been killed almost instantly – those jagged, sharp cliffs fall thousands of feet. The golden tiger was so terrifying that I barely have any memory of my journey down.’
Rinzing looked sad, and just a little scared. Seeing her wide eyes looking up at him, Pala Dawa felt sorry but also satisfied that his frightful warning had made an impact.
‘You must promise me that you will NEVER even think of the golden tree or of that mountain. Do you promise me?’
Rinzing was silent, staring at the floor.
‘You must promise me, child.’
Rinzing continued staring at the floor, her body tensing in defiance.
‘Promise me!’ Pala Dawa said, his voice rising.
Rinzing crossed her arms and, still staring at the floor, mumbled something.
‘What? Do you promise?’ asked Pala Dawa.
Again, a mumble, only slightly louder this time.
‘Do you promise?!’ yelled Pala Dawa. His annoyed, gruff voice boomed around the tiny room.
‘No!’
Rinzing was looking up now, staring right at Pala Dawa’s face.
‘No!’ she repeated.
‘I will go up the G
‘No, child!’ interjected Pala Dawa. ‘No! You must not. You cannot! Don’t even think about doing this. You must never, ever go near the mountain.’
‘Why not?’ said Rinzing, her voice rising too now.
‘Because no man has ever come back alive from the mountain,’ replied Pala Dawa. ‘You may defeat the mountain, but you cannot defeat the tiger. No man can!’
‘I am no man! I am a girl!’ yelled Rinzing. Her tiny voice sounded no more threatening than the tinkling of little bells. But there was a firmness in it that shocked Pala Dawa. ‘I will and I can!’
And then, like a toddler distracted by a jangling toy, Rinzing started smiling. The rhyme took hold of her.
‘I’m not a man, I’M A GIRL, SO I CAN. I’m not a man, I’M A GIRL, SO I CAN!’ shouted Rinzing joyfully.
And she ran out of Pala Dawa’s room, dancing and clapping her hands.
‘No! You must promise . . . come here . . . ’ shouted Pala Dawa as he tried to catch her, but his back and legs hurt too much. He could hardly get up off the bed. Then he began to cough again.
Just then, Rinzing’s Ama and Apa called out that dinner was ready, so Pala Dawa and Rinzing went into the kitchen. They ate their dinner quickly. In the lamplight, Pala Dawa discreetly wagged his finger at Rinzing. She responded only with a mischievous smile. No one talked much. And soon, they blew out the lamps, and everyone went to bed.
THE SEARCH
Next morning, the household woke before dawn as usual. Kunzang, Pala Dawa’s son, ate a light breakfast and reached the fields in the semi-darkness, along with the other men of the village.
Pala Dawa woke a little later, after Kunzang had left. As he was lying abed in the grey early-morning light, Deki, his daughter-in-law, peeped in and asked him if Rinzing had come to his room that morning.
Pala Dawa suddenly sat bolt upright. All the muscles in his body complained at the sudden movement, but he ignored the pain.
‘I’ve just woken up,’ said Pala Dawa quickly. ‘Have you seen her since morning?’ When Deki shook her head, Pala Dawa quickly dressed and searched the house. He couldn’t find Rinzing anywhere.
‘She must be playing in the fields,’ said Deki.
Pala Dawa stood in the doorway and reassured her: ‘I’ll go and see. She may be there, or she may be playing with the children somewhere in the village. I’ll be back as soon as I see her. Nothing to worry about.’
Giving Deki a reassuring smile, Pala Dawa rushed out of the house as fast as his illness-weakened legs would allow.
He walked across the village in different directions several times. Then he went all around. He asked the village children if they had seen Rinzing. All of them replied that they hadn’t seen her since the previous day.
Moving beyond the village houses, he took the path that meandered through the terraced village fields, with the river close on one side and the gently rising mountain slopes on the other. Everyone he met said that they hadn’t seen Rinzing. He ran into Kunzang, who was harvesting the last of the squash vines so that Deki could ferment the leaves for winter soups. Pala Dawa asked him if Rinzing had come out to the fields with him early in the morning or if he had seen her. Kunzang, too, said he hadn’t.
‘Why don’t you go home and eat some breakfast, Apala? Rinzing must be out playing somewhere. She’ll be home by lunch. You know her . . . ’ he said, smiling at Pala Dawa.
Almost convinced that Rinzing was indeed out somewhere playing, Pala Dawa began to walk home. After a few minutes, he passed the large, flat rock that jutted out over the river, where Rinzing and he often sat and talked while looking at the river flowing down below. He slowly clambered up onto the rock.
When he was standing on the flat top, what he saw almost made his heart stop. A large drawing was scratched onto the dark rock with a broken whitish river stone that was still lying there. There was a roughly drawn mountain and, next to it, a crudely drawn tiger that looked more like a dog, but there was no mistaking the snarling face and the mouth full of sharp fangs.
‘The Golden Tiger Mountain!’ thought Pala Dawa. ‘She drew this as a message for me, knowing I would come here.’ He was now very worried. ‘She can’t have gone too far. I’ll go and bring her back quickly. No need to alarm Deki and Kunzang.’
Pala Dawa limped back to the house as fast as he could. Once he was home, he wrapped his thickest yak wool blanket around his shoulders. He was slightly hungry, so he tucked a cane-work box of tsampa flour and a couple of handfuls of dried walnuts into a cloth bag Deki had made for him. He slung the bag around his shoulder, picked up his biggest, thickest stick and shuffled out of the house.
Pala Dawa went straight beyond the fields, crossed the village boundaries and began walking up the valley along the river. It was a beautiful, sunny day with a light, cool breeze blowing through the valley. Pala Dawa trudged as fast as his knees would carry him. He hoped that he would be able to catch up with Rinzing before she reached the first bend of the river.
It took him a good while to reach the first bend, where he saw four boys from the next village bathing in the shallows. They were laughing and splashing each other in the clear, cold water. In the morning sunshine, each flying droplet seemed to hold a rainbow.
Looking at the children playing so happily, Pala Dawa wondered how many of them would stay in their valley village and how many would go away forever to the city or even the plains.
He shouted to them if they had seen a little girl go by – about eight years old. ‘Short cut hair? In a red bakhu?’ they yelled back above the rushing noise of the fast-flowing water. When he nodded, they told him she had passed through the spot about two hours ago, when they had just arrived at the river to wash their clothes and bathe.
‘Such a crazy girl!’ they said, laughing. ‘She was asking directions for the Golden Tiger Mountain. She said she had to fight and defeat some tiger up there. Maybe she’d heard too many old people’s stories. We told her to ask anyone up the valley. We don’t know any tiger or tiger mountain.’
Pala Dawa felt a shiver run through him. ‘Two hours ahead of me,’ he thought. ‘She doesn’t walk fast. I can probably catch her before the second river bend if I rush.’
He thought of tiny Rinzing picking up river stones and enjoying the last autumn flowers of the valley. Then he thought of the possibility of her climbing the black cliffs of the Golden Tiger Mountain and walking up the narrow, steep path where the trail’s huge stones were taller than her. He began to walk faster, despite his painful leg and back.
He walked past the upper villages in the Lachen valley. All the fields had fresh kodo stubble, cut close to the ground – remnants from the last harvest of the year. He waved at men and women as they scrambled up the mountainside to gather firewood for the oncoming long, hard winter, before the snow closed in.
He walked for what seemed like an hour and saw the river’s second, sweeping bend ahead. Across one part of the brightly lit valley was the deep black shadow of the Golden Tiger Mountain as it blocked the morning sun. In that dark shadow, the valley looked lifeless, and the river seemed almost at a standstill.
As he stood at the huge rocks at the end of the bend, he saw a fisherman catching trout. Pala Dawa asked him if he had seen Rinzing. The fisherman replied that a little girl in a red bakhu had passed the rocks some time ago, carrying an armful of blue and yellow flowers tucked into the front of her bakhu.
Exasperated that he had missed her again, Pala Dawa promised himself that Rinzing would really know how angry he was when he caught up with her.
He looked up. Above him, for at least three or four thousand feet, rose the sheer black cliffs of the Golden Tiger Mountain. The giant black rocks that jutted out of the cliffs along the way up looked like big black jagged teeth that threatened to chew up anyone who got that far. High above the coal-black cliffs, the looming, intimidating mountain disappeared into a menacing blanket of rolling dark clouds.
Every now and then, bolts of lightning shot out of the billowing angry-black clouds and thunder sounded, seemingly loud enough to crack the mountain, and Pala Dawa’s head, in two. And sometimes the clouds rumbled and roared, as if the mountain was grinding its black rock teeth and flexing its jaw muscles, waiting for someone to chew alive. Pala Dawa paused to think.
