Eliot Pattison - Beautiful Ghosts

In that pleasant district of merry England which is watered by the river Don, it began, there extended in ancient times a large forest, covering the greater part of the beautiful hills and valleys which lie between Sheffield and the pleasant town of Doncaster.

Suddenly he realized his hand was trembling, his heart racing. The names floated on a flood of memory and, for a fleeting instant, he thought he smelled ginger. He read on, in a slow, sometimes quivering voice. His father and he had sat together by candlelight, wondering about the faraway, exotic places described in the novel.

Here haunted of yore the fabulous Dragon of Wantley, he read on, here also flourished in ancient times those bands of gallant outlaws, whose deeds have been rendered so popular.

After another five minutes he closed the book, clutched it to his chest a moment, then reverently returned it to its shelf, pulled the flowered cloth back over the shelves, and stepped outside, leaving the door as he had found it.

He walked along the outside walls of the house, circled the stable once more, then ventured down a path that wound through large rock outcroppings toward the northeast. After less than two hundred feet he froze. A Tibetan woman in a black dress sat on a large flat rock, facing the mountains, her back to him, a large brown dog at her feet. Kicking a stone in the path to warn of his approach, Shan slowly advanced. The dog did not move, did not bark, only silently bared its teeth.

When the woman finally spoke, it was in a casual tone, as if she had known he was there. “Do you celebrate the birthday?” she asked, turning, calming the dog with a hand on its head. Perhaps sixty years of age, she wore half a dozen necklaces of elaborately worked silver, lapis, and turquoise, the kind of finery reserved for special occasions.

“Yes,” Shan replied hesitantly, pulling his hat low. “Lha gyal lo.”

She offered a melancholy smile, rose with what seemed to be a great effort, and walked back toward the house, Shan a few steps behind her. Directing Shan to sit on a small plank stool she rekindled the fire under the kettle and began singing, an old song Shan had heard at the festival. She swayed back and forth as the water heated, clutching the rosary at her belt, her eyes avoiding him but drifting often toward the eastern horizon, toward Zhoka. After several minutes she disappeared inside and returned with a small copper bowl of flour, extending it toward Shan. He took a pinch then waited as she did likewise.

“Lha gyal lo,” he said again in a wistful tone and flung the flour into the air.

“May he live forever,” the woman said, and tossed her flour over her head.

She silently poured the hot water into the smallest of the churns, mixed in salt and butter, and began churning. Shan searched for words, wary of her seemingly fragile state. When she had poured the buttered tea she stepped back inside and reappeared with a wooden serving board covered with shelled walnuts and small white kernels of dried cheese.

“You think I am crazy,” she said, then looked again toward the east and sighed. “I know the festival was to have been yesterday. But everyone in the hills left, taken by a black horse that came in the night. My nephew had promised to visit in the afternoon, so we could have our own little festival.” She abruptly pressed a hand to her mouth to stifle a sob. “I think someone may have died. I know them. Only death would have kept them away.” She bent and thrust her palms to her eyes, which had welled with moisture.

“You sat out there all night?” Shan asked.

“The clouds kept hiding the moon. I didn’t want them to miss the house in the dark.” She pulled a little black box out of her sleeve. “I used this.”

Shan extended his palm and she set the box in his hand. Shan had seen such devices used by the army. It was a global positioning indicator, with a small screen for displaying latitude and longitude. Its red diode blinked to indicate it was active. It cost more money than half a dozen Tibetans earned in a year.

“One of my nephews gave it to me,” she said as Shan returned the device to her. “He says it helps people find their way. But it is so dim. I held it over my head in the night, to help them see it.”

“I was there,” Shan said. “At Zhoka.”

“You saw him, you saw my Jara and his children? He had gone to the bus in town and back to his herd. I should have gone to Zhoka with them but my legs are too worn.” She paused, worry in her eyes. “He was supposed to bring a little girl back from the bus. But there were soldiers in town.”

“Dawa?” Shan asked. “Dawa was there.”

The woman beamed and clutched at the rosary on her belt. “I have never seen her. When her mother was young, she used to help me at the kiln.”

“Jara’s family should return soon. Jara hurt his leg. Some soldiers frightened everyone. Dawa ran toward the south.”

A small moan escaped the woman’s lips. “Not the south. She cannot be ready for the south,” she whispered into her hands.

Shan looked back at the costly navigation device. “Where is your other nephew, the one who gave you the black box?”

The woman glanced up with worry in her eyes, then looked into the fire. “He lives in faraway places.” She looked back at Shan and shifted as though to stand. “If Jara hurt his leg, who will bring Dawa away from that place? I will go, if I have to crawl I will go.”

“What place?” Shan asked, but she did not answer. “A friend of mine has gone for Dawa,” he said. “She will be safe,” he added, hoping his uncertainty did not come through in his words.

They drank the strong, salty tea in silence, the woman gazing into the fire.

“When you said someone had died it was almost as if you expected it,” Shan said quietly.

“All who arise will go up,” she whispered. It was part of an old prayer, about the certainty of death.

“There was an old man, Atso. He fell climbing to a sacred cave.”

The woman was silent for more than a minute, then sighed. “He insisted on climbing up to the deity at least once a year. It was always the way he would die.”

For the first time Shan saw a charred strip of paper, at the edge of the fire. The last word written on the strip was still visible. Phat. It was the emphatic closing of a mantra to invoke deities. “Someone burned a prayer,” he observed.

“I should not have done so.” The woman plucked the paper from the ash and straightened it on her knee. “The black horse brought them, one for every family. Recite it a thousand times, she said. But she did not say why we were supposed to burn it after.”

“Liya?”

The woman nodded. “Our Liya.”

“For what deities?”

She leaned forward, fixing him with a somber stare. “Protectors. The wrathful ones.”

“Why?” Shan asked.

The woman said nothing but rose and led him to the stable. Inside, on a beam along the back wall, hung a line of old thangka paintings. They had all been mutilated, one cut in half and sewn back together, others riddled with holes. Underneath were half a dozen painted ceramic statues, some cracked, some with pieces missing.

“Godkillers.” The word rushed out of Shan’s mouth as if on its own accord, leaving them staring at each other. “They came here?”

“No. What would I have to interest such demons? People in the hills remember that artists once lived here, and bring things hoping they can be repaired.” She stepped outside with a quick step, as if the sight of the ruined art caused her pain, and poured them both more tea, motioning for Shan to sit again.

They drank in silence.

“Would you do that once more?” the woman suddenly asked with an awkward smile. “You can bring it outside where the light is better.”