Eliot Pattison - Beautiful Ghosts

Yao was hovering near the rough plank door of the nearest of the buildings when Shan and Corbett reached the village. He was examining implements leaned against the front walls: a hoe with a crooked handle, an ax, a leather bucket.

“Obviously a den of international art thieves,” the American observed.

More vultures appeared, flying low over the village, as if they sensed the visitors and expected a new meal. From the distance, in the rocks below the houses, someone called out. Shan could not make out the words but the tone of warning was unmistakable.

A solitary goat appeared and began walking from house to house, pausing several times to study the intruders. At the fourth house it pushed its nose into a pile of blankets by the front door. The blankets began moving, and a gaunt hand reached out to stroke the animal’s neck.

Shan raised his arm, cautioning his companions, and slowly approached the house. The goat looked up, cocking its head at Shan for a moment before burying it in the blankets. A dry rattling laugh erupted and another bony hand emerged, the two hands embracing the animal’s head.

The old woman who rose out of the blankets wore a tattered grey felt dress, the same color and material as the blankets. Heavy silver earrings dangled from her lobes, a necklace of thick turquoise beads framing a silver gau hung from her neck. Her hair was streaked with grey, her face spotted with age. Her eyes, which did not follow them as they approached, were milky. She was blind.

“Two Chinese,” she declared in an amused tone, then hesitated, lifting her head as if to smell. “And another outsider, but not Chinese.” The goat turned and pressed close to her side as if to defend the woman. Shan put an arm around its neck. The woman’s head shifted back and forth a moment, settled in Shan’s direction, and she abruptly reached out, grabbing his arm. “Are you prepared?” she asked in Chinese.

“For what?” Corbett blurted out in English.

The woman paused. The bright smile that appeared on her face revealed nearly toothless gums. “Give you joy,” she called in a thin, dry voice, in English.

The three men looked at each other in confusion.

“Do you speak English?” Corbett asked.

“Inchi?” the woman asked with a flush of excitement.

“She wants to know if you are an Englishman,” Shan explained to Corbett.

“Close enough,” Corbett said in Chinese. “How could she speak English?” he whispered to Shan.

“Give you joy,” the woman declared again in English, more loudly. She cast a smile in Shan’s direction. “Mostly we speak goat,” she said in Chinese again.

“A man died in Zhoka,” Shan said. “He could have been brought here. We need to know about his death.”

“It is a season for death,” the woman sighed. “Uncle Yama has come to live in the hills this summer,” she said. Shan felt something cold travel down his spine. She was referring to the Lord of Death. She embraced the goat’s head again. “We must be very careful when speaking about the dead,” the woman added, addressing the animal now. She reached to her belt to clutch a string of prayer beads and dropped her head, as if she had abruptly fallen asleep.

Yao continued his investigation of the compound, lifting the lids of the clay jars that lined the front of the next house, the largest in the village. Shan knelt closer to the woman, whispering. “Grandmother, I am seeking an old man and a girl, and a woman named Liya.” The goat pushed Shan’s shoulder with its head as though warning him away now.

“Liya,” the woman said, not raising her head. “Trying to keep a leg in both worlds stretches her too thin. I pray for Liya.”

“The Englishman,” Corbett interjected, in Chinese. “Have you seen him? He calls himself Lodi.”

A dry crackling sound came out of the woman’s throat. “Too thin to see at all,” she said with a sad smile and began working her mala, whispering the mantra in the goat’s ear. The goat settled onto its back haunches with a contented expression, as if welcoming the prayer.

Yao was standing now, staring into the last of the large clay jars, that nearest the door of the house. Shan slowly stepped toward him, carefully replacing each of the lids Yao had dropped onto the ground in front of the jars. Barley was in the first two jars, some kind of white tuber in the third, then small shriveled apples and bricks of black tea. By the time he reached the inspector’s side, Yao had his pad out, writing feverishly. Corbett reached the last jar a step ahead of Shan and gasped.

Inside the large clay pot was a small black radio-cassette player, a battery-powered razor, and a blow dryer.

“Like you said, nothing’s changed in a thousand years,” Yao observed in an acid tone.

Shan lifted the cassette player. It was covered with dust. He turned it over. The batteries inside were corroded. He set it back in the basket and lifted the hair dryer. It had a cord, to be plugged into an electrical outlet. But there were no outlets for at least twenty miles. As he lowered the dryer back into the jar he noticed for the first time a small shape that dangled from a roof beam directly over the jar. It was made of twigs, fastened in a diamond shape, with colored yarn interwoven around the frame to form a series of diamonds, ending in a small red diamond in the center.

“What is it?” the American asked.

“A spirit trap,” Shan explained, “to catch demons.” He stepped closer. It seemed new.

“There’s another,” Corbett said in a nervous tone, pointing to one more of the traps hung unobtrusively under the eaves. They quickly surveyed the other buildings. Every house had one or two of the traps hanging in the shadows under their eaves. “If you’re a ragyapa, doing what they do,” the American said in a contemplative voice, “what demon could you possibly be frightened of?”

Yao had stepped away and was staring down the slope, toward a small wood plank structure fifty yards away. It stood in the shadow of two old wind-twisted junipers. A ragyapa girl stood in the doorway, looking not at the three strangers but inside the hut. Shan jogged to join her, followed closely by the American.

The girl did not notice their approach until they were only a few steps from the shed. Fear clenched her face as she spun about. She stood, mouth open, gulping air, then bolted toward the cover of the nearest outcropping. As she reached it a woman in a red dress appeared and swept the girl into her arms.

Shan ran past his companions to the crude plank door of the shed, which hung ajar a few inches. Someone inside was chanting. The sweet acrid scent of incense wafted through the cracked door. He pushed it open. The single chamber of the hut was dimly lit with four butter lamps, three of which stood in front of an open peche. An adolescent girl sat against the wall in one corner, apparently asleep. The man who read the book paused only a moment as Shan reached his side, turning to offer a sad, familiar grin and returning to the book. It was Lokesh. Shan glanced back at the girl, finally recognized a dirty, haggard Dawa with tangled hair, her dress torn, her hands caked with dirt. Her jaw was moving, clenching and unclenching. Perhaps she wasn’t asleep, he realized, perhaps she was just frightened. For Lokesh was reading the Bardo, the death rites, and in front of him, in the center of the rear wall, was the shadow of a dead man.

A hand closed around Shan’s forearm. It was Yao, squeezing tightly. Shan started to pull away resentfully, thinking Yao was again worried Shan would flee. But then Shan saw Yao’s face. The inspector was looking at Lokesh and the effigy in front of them with a tight, worried expression. For the first time Shan saw uncertainty in Yao’s eyes.