Eliot Pattison - Beautiful Ghosts

“Back thirty paces,” a dry voice commanded.

Shan was not even sure Tan had spoken the order, not certain it hadn’t been imagined somehow. But as he watched, one of Tan’s aides ran among the guards, who slowly, reluctantly, retreated along the perimeter. Tan slowly moved along the field’s edge, his face dark, sometimes pulling Shan, until they were in front of the trucks again. Shan watched the colonel, and saw that through his thinning veil of anger, a strange, remote curiosity had entered his countenance.

The sound continued for over five minutes, the guards scowling, the prisoners slowly gathering in the center of the field, the old ones still smiling, the younger ones circling about their old companions, as if to protect them. Beyond the work site the farmers began to pause in their labors, looking toward the cliff.

Suddenly the top of the high rock wall began to shift. A prisoner called out in joy. An officer called out in alarm-but even he did not move, transfixed like everyone else at the sight. A Buddha had materialized on the wall. It was one of the huge ancient banner paintings, fifty feet wide and twice as long. Without a doubt it was a work of Zhoka, for the image had all the features of the living god paintings, the huge serene smiling face looking out over the valley like a blessing, one hand holding a begging bowl, one in the earth witness mudra. The hair was blue, with a green halo around it, the eyes alive, the skin glowing with a bright gold paint. Shan knew then that he had read about the painting in Brother Bertram’s journal. He recalled the pulleys and rotten yak ropes on the underground ledge, the long cavity that must have been used to store the painting, the bones arranged by Lodi to point out the location to Liya, the ox-like herder’s report of people carrying things away from Zhoka the night after Lodi’s death. It was the festival banner, unrolled from the top of the gompa’s central tower on special days. The Mountain Buddha.

Prisoners began dropping to the ground into the lotus position, some offering loud prayers of gratitude, some standing as if paralyzed with joy, tears streaming down their smiling faces. Shan became vaguely aware of the sound of an engine being started, and turned in time to see Ming speeding away.

The guards had their batons out now, most looking expectantly at Tan, several watching Surya, who was wandering, face uplifted to the Mountain Buddha, toward the prisoners. His aides darted to Tan’s side, one pointing back toward the valley. The farmers were running across the fields, hoes and rakes in hand. Children were streaming out of the few houses that could be seen, all converging toward the Buddha banner.

One aide gestured Tan toward the side of the truck. When Tan looked at the officer but ignored his obvious request to move, Shan realized the colonel had assumed a position directly in front of the gun mounted in the truck. Tan raised his head and gazed at the banner in silence.

“A monk!” an aide gasped, pointing to the top of the cliff above the banner, where a maroon-robed figure had appeared. Even from the distance, there was no mistaking the figure. From the start this had been what Gendun had meant when he said he would liberate the prisoners.

“Hard to tell at such a distance,” Tan said after gazing at Gendun. “I think it’s a goat.”

As the aide raised binoculars to his eyes, a second, older officer pushed them down. “The colonel said it was a goat,” the older man reminded the first.

“We can summon a helicopter,” the first aide said. “Sever the lines with bullets, land troops on the top.”

Shan realized Tan’s eyes were on him. The colonel looked at him with the same impassive gaze he had held on the Buddha. For a moment he seemed to search Shan’s eyes, then he sighed, and turned to his aide.

“No helicopters are available,” he told his officers. “This,” he said, gesturing toward the giant banner painting, “is an exercise arranged by Director Ming. They are cleaning an old artifact in the wind. Tell the men they have responded well to my training exercise.” His face hardened, and he snapped several orders. The hidden soldiers jogged out of the rocks and thicket, boarding the truck with the other soldiers in combat gear, which then roared to life and headed north, leaving only the older aide and the prison guards.

“The prisoners have worked exceptionally hard this week,” Tan said in a gruff voice. “They will no longer be productive in their work for the people unless they take an hour’s break. I order them to stand down.” He did not release Shan from the manacles, but handed him his binoculars. In the lenses Shan could clearly see the features of the lama on top of the cliff. Beside Gendun was Fiona, in her festival dress, her arm around Dawa. Jara, too, was there, and perhaps thirty other hill people. From somewhere behind Shan, from among the farmers, a bell began ringing.

It was a strangely quiet celebration, all the prisoners eventually sitting on the ground, some chanting mantras, the farmers gathered at the line of guards, children pointing to the huge Buddha, many of the older Tibetans embracing, some dropping into the posture of prayer. Surya walked among them, pausing to kneel among the children. Even from the distance Shan could see his smile. More and more Tibetans were arriving, some on foot, some galloping up on horseback.

Several of the farmers began tossing apples to the prisoners, over the heads of the guards, who looked at Tan uncertainly but did nothing to stop them. It became a strange ethereal kind of picnic, some of the prisoners taking up song. Tan seemed determined not to let Shan get closer to the prisoners, but did not object when Shan lifted the binoculars to study them. He spotted faces he knew, and longed to go to them, would have gladly suffered the batons of the guards to hear some of the old lamas say his name again, but Tan would not remove the manacle, and kept Shan in the shadows, where the prisoners would not see him.

Tan smoked, one cigarette after another, silently studying the prisoners, watching Gendun, not objecting when a Tibetan woman ventured close, nervously glancing at Shan, then offering them both apples from a pocket in her apron. Tan stared at her uncertainly, accepting the apple, his mouth opening and closing several times as if he could not find words. “Thank you,” he called at last, to her back, so softly she probably didn’t hear.

Tan tossed aside his cigarette, then they ate their apples slowly. When he was finished eating Tan signaled the officer, who blew his whistle. The prisoners began to rise. The banner began to roll back up on its ropes.

“I should have had him followed,” Tan said as they stepped back to his car. “Ming.” He offered no apology as he released the manacles from Shan’s wrist. “He’s safe by now, out of Lhadrung. People will protect him.”

Shan looked across the valley. “No,” he said. “Ming’s not gone. He doesn’t know Dolan is dead.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning he thinks he is still in a race with Dolan, to take as much of their bounty from Lhadrung as possible. He’s worried Dolan will get more than he does. He wants to leave Lhadrung, but his greed will be greater than his fear.”

“Meaning what?” Tan asked again, as he settled into the backseat, his aide at the wheel.

Shan slid in beside him. “Meaning I have to go to the town square.”

* * *

A quarter hour later, Shan climbed out in the alley beside the government center. Tashi was in the shadows at the back of the square. “I need to know what Ming did, when you told him those words, and returned in the helicopter.” Shan said.

“Like you said, I told him Dolan knew about the Mountain Buddha and was planning to take it back with him, that he had changed his mind and wanted everything back. Ming asked where he could get a truck and some strong men. Then he got in his car, with that Lu, and drove south.”