Eliot Pattison - Beautiful Ghosts

But when he finally set foot on the golden beam he paused. There was a new quality to the silence. Then he heard the words and a sickening paralysis overtook him once more. He managed two steps before he had to lean on one of the golden mountains for support. Lokesh was reciting the death rites.

Corbett looked up from where they sat with Yao as Shan stumbled into the chamber. “He wanted you to go,” Lokesh said in an apologetic voice. “He didn’t want you to see how bad it was. He had to write a letter.” The old Tibetan pointed to a folded paper tucked in Corbett’s pocket.

Ko appeared and, emitting a groan, knelt at Yao’s side.

“The bullet hit an artery in his abdomen,” Corbett explained. “He was almost gone when I returned. He knew there was no chance, he said, when he felt how hard his belly was, because it was filling with blood.”

“The letter?” Shan asked.

“It’s for Colonel Tan and the Council of Ministers,” Corbett explained.

Ko rose and, inexplicably, began wiping the dust from all the statues.

A silent sob wracked Shan, then he settled onto the floor, numbly straightening Yao’s clothing, mouthing the death rites with Lokesh as his son cleaned the deities who resided in the center of the universe.

The silence just after death is a sound unto itself, like an empty scream, a deep wrenching rumble that reaches not the ears but the essence behind the ears. Shan took Yao’s hand, still warm, and pressed it between his own.

Lokesh paused to sip from a water bottle offered by Corbett and saw the pain in Shan’s face. “He’ll have no trouble here,” he said in a calm, assuring whisper.

“Here?” Shan asked in a breaking voice.

“Zhoka. Even for a soul as meager as that American’s, there might be a chance, because it was released among all the beautiful ghosts who dwell here.”

Shan offered a small, sad smile. “That letter, what did he…?” he asked Corbett. His question was interrupted by a desperate cry from below.

Ko darted out of the chamber and returned seconds later. “It’s Jara!” he reported. “He says soldiers are invading Zhoka!”

The herder stood at the foot of the stairs in the third level, agony in his eyes. “They landed in helicopters by the old stone tower,” he reported, “many soldiers, all running this way.”

“We must meet them,” Shan said wearily. “Or else they will keep searching until they find the temple.”

“We have to bring Yao,” Corbett said in a grim tone. “Or they will search for him.”

Even with Jara’s help it was difficult work carrying Yao’s body back through the temple, sealing the secret doors as they descended, but after a quarter hour Shan and Corbett were climbing the stairway to the surface.

They were almost into the sunlight when several voices simultaneously demanded that they halt. Green uniformed soldiers sprang from the shadows of the side walls, guns leveled at them. A minute later they were standing in front of Colonel Tan, who was leaning against the chorten, a cigarette in his mouth, anger in his eyes.

He pulled a folded paper from his pocket and tossed it at Shan. It was one of Ming’s draft memoranda to Beijing. Prison Insurrection in Lhadrung, read the heading. He seemed not to notice the grim expressions worn by Corbett and Shan. “It says it happens today.”

“There was a terrible tragedy, Colonel,” Corbett interjected. “Yao was killed by looters. Dolan fell to his death trying to resist them.”

Shan stared at Corbett, struggling not to show his surprise.

Tan studied each of them in silence. “You’re lying.”

Corbett extracted Yao’s letter and handed it to Tan. “Inspector Yao explained it all before he died. He was … he was a hero.”

Tan stared at Shan without opening the letter. The colonel’s gaze drifted past him and Shan watched as his anger changed, not extinguishing, but growing somehow weary. He straightened, then stepped past Shan to the wall nearest the chorten, to a white patch under a protecting shelf of stone, a patch of white flour left from the festival. Tan touched the patch, put his finger to his mouth, and turned back to Shan with an accusing glare. “If Ming’s right, if this is all some scheme to help prisoners escape, it will be the end of you.”

“The end of both of us, Colonel,” Shan countered. “Why would you come here if you were worried about the prisoners?”

“Because Ming said so.” Tan grimaced, as though regretting his words. “Because he said Tibetans are moving a large golden Buddha, the Mountain Buddha, as a means of inciting insurrection, that the prisoners are planning to escape so they can take it across the border as a gift to the Dalai Lama, enlisting local citizens as they go. He’s says it’s all been a conspiracy by outsiders for political destabilization of the county.” His hand tightened around the letter as he stared at it with an uncertain expression, then he looked back at Corbett. “No doubt the bodies are missing,” he growled.

“Only one,” Corbett said.

They went down the stairs, slowly, soldiers deploying ahead as if wary of ambush. At the base of the stairs Lokesh and Ko sat with Yao’s body, which was propped against the wall. Tan squatted and grabbed one of Yao’s arms as if to shake him, as if to call their bluff. He instantly dropped it and recoiled from the now cool flesh. A low groan escaped his lips.

“They never understand in Beijing.” It sounded as if he were apologizing to Yao. Then, abruptly, all business again, he stood and demanded to see where Dolan had fallen.

They walked slowly down the tunnel, past the waterfall, in complete silence, Tan’s aides looking uneasily at the wall paintings, Tan pausing more than once to gaze at the demons, looking as if he wanted to ask questions, but each time moving on.

“Was he still alive when he was washed out of the mountain?” Tan asked as they stood at the outfall, looking at the twisted, broken iron bars.

“We don’t know,” Shan said. “Probably.”

“We’ll need his body. His heirs will need to be certain.” He stepped closer to the outfall. “It’s too dangerous for a helicopter down there.”

“The gorge opens into the valley five miles from here,” Shan explained.

“I’ll send a squad.”

“There’re two bodies,” Shan said. “Others should go, to say things.”

Tan frowned. “You mean the McDowell woman. You mean Tibetans should go to say prayers for an American and a Briton? Ridiculous.”

“To say prayers for two people who died in a Tibetan monastery. Take Lokesh.”

“And me,” Ko said, stepping forward. “I am going.”

“You need a doctor,” Shan protested. Ko’s wounded hand still dripped blood.

Tan frowned again. “You are a prisoner. You go where I say.”

Ko seemed to shrink. Shan watched his son look into the swirling black water as he replied in a slow voice. “I am a prisoner. I go where you say.”

Tan began snapping orders to the aide who stood behind him. “Manacles,” he added when he was finished. The officer extracted a pair of handcuffs from his belt and stepped toward Ko.

“Not him,” Tan said, and pointed to Ko. “I order you to go with the recovery squad up the gorge, to help the old Tibetan keep up with my men. Tomorrow Public Security officers come to take you back to your coal mine.”

He took the manacles and fastened one end around Shan’s wrist. “This one goes with me,” he said, “to stop the prisoner uprising.” Tan closed the other end of the manacles around his own wrist.

Ko paused as the officer herded him up the tunnel, pulling some papers from his pocket and, without looking at his father, pushed them into Shan’s pocket. Shan glanced down at Dolan’s checks. Ko’s last hope of freedom. He held Ko for a second with his free hand, then pulled something from his own pocket for Ko, who glanced at it then quickly covered it, pushing it inside his shirt. It was the sketch of Punji McDowell Shan had taken at Bumpari.