Eliot Pattison - Beautiful Ghosts

“Think of your worst hell,” Ko said in a whisper, “times ten. They work you for twelve hours a day, every day, all year. In the cold, the rain, the snow, the heat, it doesn’t matter. Barely warm rice gruel twice a day, and you pray you find an insect or a worm to eat with it. First day I was there I saw a man catch a bird and bite its head off and chew it, then stuff the whole body in his mouth, feathers and all. After a month I was looking for birds. Every night you drop with exhaustion, but the fucking lice keep waking you, chewing on your skin.”

Something inside Shan prayed for Ko to stop speaking. He didn’t want to hear any more. He was powerless to help his son, knew his son would have to go back to the hell he described.

“They never issue gloves,” Ko continued. A distant fascination had entered his voice. “And almost no tools. Old hammers and dull chisels. My first week, I saw a man with little white caps on his fingers and asked what they were. He laughed and said they were the reward for prisoners who survived ten years. It was only later, when I saw more men that way, that I understood that it was the bones of his fingers. The skin on the tips wears away. After ten years the flesh starts shriveling and the bones show like little white knobs. Fuck me,” he added, his distant voice cracking for a moment. “It’s true.”

Shan found himself trembling. He knew it was Ko, the nineteen-year-old convict speaking, but he heard the words in the voice of Ko as an eight-year-old boy.

They moved in silence.

“In one of those rooms I felt someone,” Ko said suddenly. “I touched his shoulder. A ghost I think. He said if I would sit with him I could learn to understand. I ran and hit my head again. I imagined it. He couldn’t have been real.”

Shan stopped, fighting the temptation to call out Gendun’s name.

“I see light!” Ko exclaimed.

Shan turned to see a glimmer in the distance. As they approached more light could be seen, then the moving beams of hand lamps, and he heard familiar voices speaking in urgent whispers. Lokesh and Liya were at another wall of text as Shan and Ko reached them, struggling with the translation.

Yao frowned at Ko, and extended a water bottle to Shan. As Ko stepped in front of him to grab the bottle Shan saw that his pants pockets had been emptied of the artifacts he had taken, but his jacket pockets were now full. His son had not discarded the artifacts, only moved them.

Shan noted the confused expressions shared by Liya and Lokesh. They seemed to be understanding the words but not the text. It was not one of the old teachings. Along the top were painted small white birds that looked like doves, along the sides flowers that looked like roses with heavy thorns.

“It’s not as old as some of the others,” Corbett said, bending to examine the paint. “Only a century or so.”

“To all things exists a season,” Lokesh said slowly, pointing to the first line. “And an hour for every intention under the gods’ palace.”

Shan heard Corbett’s breath catch, and the American bent to the final words, near the floor, then stood. “To everything there is a season,” Corbett recited in English, “and a time to every purpose under heaven. A time to be born and a time to die.”

Lokesh, nodding his head, looked at the American in confusion.

Corbett pointed. “At the bottom, the source is given, in English. Ecclesiastes. The Christian Bible. A time to plant,” he continued with the verse, “and a time to pluck up what is planted.”

As they stared in mute astonishment a woman’s voice rose from the shadows. “Bloody wonderful, isn’t it? I wish I could have known the old major. His life was a miracle, don’t you think?”

Elizabeth McDowell stepped into the chamber. Corbett frowned, and patted his pockets as if looking for a weapon. Liya grabbed Dawa and pulled the girl behind her. McDowell looked at the Tibetan woman with a hurt expression, shrugged, then offered Shan a small apologetic nod.

“All these years,” she said with a vague gesture into the labyrinth, “we never had a clue about the amban. There’s a key to a fortune somewhere in these walls. If Lodi and I had known,” she said, and shrugged again, “we never would have had to work so hard.”

“Lodi wouldn’t let you do this,” Liya said. “Not the earth temple. He would protect it.”

“Not the temple, cousin. The amban’s records. Lodi wanted to know about the amban as much as the rest of us. The lost treasure belonged to the emperor. It’s not stealing from Tibetans.”

“You can’t do it,” Liya protested. “They’ll hurt the temple.”

“You misunderstand, Liya. We want to learn where in the north we can find the amban’s treasure, that’s all. Kwan Li and the emperor liked a good mystery. All these old gompas keep detailed records. I assumed they were destroyed until I heard about the underground temple. Help me find the records, help me solve the mystery, and no one has to damage the temple.”

“Someone already stole a fresco here,” Shan pointed out. “Damaged others.”

“I didn’t know, you have to believe that,” the British woman said in a strangely plaintive voice. “Lodi didn’t know. People get overzealous. Good professionals always keep their skills honed,” she said with a glance to the shadows. “It won’t happen again. Look, let Ming get famous, let him get rich. I’ll make sure Bumpari gets part of it. You’ll never have to worry about food or medicine again. I want to get them away from here as much as you do. I can do it. Just trust me.”

“You’ll never get away, McDowell,” Corbett said between clenched teeth.

“Punji. All my friends call me Punji,” the British woman said in an oddly gentle, almost vulnerable tone. “Somehow you seem like an old friend, Agent Corbett, following my tracks, trying to get close to me.”

“I didn’t know you were one of them,” Corbett growled.

“Not one of them,” Punji said with a melancholy glance toward Shan and Liya. “Just call us an alliance of people with certain mutual interests.” She seemed to force a grin as she studied Corbett and Yao. “But just so we have no more unpleasant misunderstandings, we’ll have to check things.”

Liya moaned as two men appeared out of the shadows, the huge Mongolian and the gaunt Han whose faces Shan had seen in the photos with Ming and Dolan. “This is Mr. Khan and Mr. Lu.”

Liya visibly shuddered, then grabbed Dawa and stepped between Shan and Corbett. Shan saw the long scratches down Khan’s cheek, where Liya had raked her nails. Khan fixed her with an eager, hungry stare.

“Godkillers!” Liya spat at the two men. Lu laughed, then the two men began searching each member of the party. They took the packs, stuffed inside them the radio, pocketknives, the compass, and all the lights.

“Even if you thought of running back,” McDowell said, “you’ll never find the path.” She opened a palm to show a handful of rice.

Brother Bertram’s life was a miracle. The British woman’s unexpected words about her ancestor stayed with Shan as she escorted him, with Corbett and Lokesh, deeper into the maze of chapels while Khan guarded the others. The woman was an enigma, an art thief and humanitarian, partner of Director Ming, cousin of the Bumpari clan, organizer of relief for Tibetan children, and, according to Corbett, a murderer.

“I can give you a deal,” Corbett said in English to McDowell’s back as they walked. “Maybe it was Lodi’s idea, maybe you were just duped. If I ask for leniency a judge will listen.”

“Deal?” she asked with a laugh. “For what?”

“For the prosecution that will take place in Seattle.”