Eliot Pattison - The Skull Mantra

Below his name he made the ideograms for his father's name then, with a pang of guilt, abruptly closed the pad and looked to see if Feng was watching.

From somewhere came a low moan. It could have been the wind. It could have been someone in the stable. He moved the pad away and discovered a folded sheet of paper under it. It was a printed form with the heading REPORT ON ACCIDENTAL DEATH.

He picked up the phone and dialed the first name on the list. It was the clinic in town, the county hospital.

"Wei."

"Dr. Sung," he read.

"Off duty." The line went dead.

Suddenly he realized someone was standing in front of his desk. The man was Tibetan, though unusually tall. He was young, and wore the green uniform of the camp staff.

"I have been assigned to you, to help with your report," the man said awkwardly, glancing about the room. "Where's the computer?"

Shan lowered the phone. "You're a soldier?" There were indeed Tibetans in the People's Liberation Army but seldom were they stationed in Tibet.

"I am not-" the man began with a resentful flash, then caught himself. Shan recognized the reaction. The man did not understand who Shan was, and so could not decide where he belonged in the strata of prison life or the even more complex hierarchy of China's classless society. "I have just completed two years of reeducation," he reported stiffly. "Warden Zhong was kind enough to issue me clothing on my release."

"Reeducation for what?" Shan asked.

"My name is Yeshe."

"But you are still in the camp."

"Jobs are few. They asked me to stay. I have finished my term," he said insistently.

Shan began to recognize an undertone, a quiet discipline in the voice. "You studied in the mountains?" he asked.

The resentment returned. "I was entrusted by the people with study at the university in Chengdu."

"I meant a gompa."

Yeshe did not reply. He walked around the room, stopped at the rear and arranged the chairs in a semicircle, as if a tamzing were to be convened.

"Why would you stay?" Shan asked.

"Last year they were sent new computers. No one on the staff was trained for them."

"Your reeducation consisted of operating the prison computers?"

The tall Tibetan frowned. "My reeducation consisted of hauling night soil from the prison latrines to the fields," he said, awkwardly trying to sound proud of his work, the way he would have been taught by the political officers. "But they discovered I had computer training. I began to help with office administration as part of my rehabilitation. Looking at accounts. Rendering reports to Beijing's computer formats. On my release, they asked me to stay for a few more weeks."

"So as a former monk your rehabilitation consists of helping imprison other monks?"

"I'm sorry?"

"It's just that I never cease to be amazed at what can be accomplished in the name of virtue."

Yeshe winced in confusion.

"Never mind. What kind of reports?"

Yeshe continued pacing, his restless eyes moving from Sergeant Feng at the door back to Shan. "Last week, reports on inventory of medicines. The week before, trends in the prisoners' consumption of grain per mile of road constructed. Weather conditions. Survival rates. And we've been trying to account for lost military supplies."

"They didn't tell you why I am here?"

"You are writing a report."

"The body of a man was found at the Dragon Claws worksite. A file must be prepared for the Ministry."

Yeshe leaned against the wall. "Not a prisoner, you mean."

The question didn't need an answer.

Yeshe suddenly noticed Shan's shirt. He stooped and looked under the table at Shan's battered cardboard and vinyl shoes, then back at Feng.

"They didn't tell you," Shan said. It was a statement, not a question.

"But you're not Tibetan."

"You're not Chinese," Shan shot back.

Yeshe backed away from Shan. "There was a mistake," he whispered, and moved to Sergeant Feng with his hands outstretched, as though beseeching his mercy.

Feng's only answer was to point toward the warden's office. Yeshe retreated with mincing steps and sat in front of Shan. He absently stared at Shan's shoes again then, apparently marshalling his strength, looked up. "Are you to be accused?" he asked, unable to hide the alarm in his voice.

"In what sense of the word?" Shan marveled at how reasonable the question sounded.

Yeshe stared at him wide-eyed, as if he had stumbled upon some new form of demon. "In the sense of a trial for murder."

Shan looked into his hands and absently picked at one of the thick calluses. "I don't know. Is that what they told you?" Perhaps that had been the plan all along. The old ones, like Tan and Minister Qin, enjoyed playing with their food before eating.

"They told me nothing," Yeshe said bitterly.

"The prosecutor is away," Shan said, struggling to keep his voice calm. "Colonel Tan needs a report. It is something I used to do."

"Murder?" Yeshe's voice sounded almost hopeful.

"No. Case files." Shan pushed the list toward Yeshe. "I tried the first name. The doctor was not available."

Yeshe looked back toward Sergeant Feng, then sighed as the sergeant refused to acknowledge his stare. "This is only for the afternoon," Yeshe said tentatively.

"I did not ask for you. You said it was your job. You get paid to compile information." Shan was confused at Yeshe's hesitation. He thought he had understood the reason for his new assistant. If the Bureau was watching, it would not rely simply on one bug in a phone.

"We are warned against collusion with prisoners. I am looking for a better job. Working with a criminal, I don't know. It could be seen as-" Yeshe paused.

"Regression?" Shan suggested.

"Exactly," Yeshe said, with a hint of gratitude.

Shan studied him for a moment, then opened the pad and began writing. Before this date I have never met the clerical assistant named Yeshe of the Central Prison Office of Lhadrung County. I am acting on the direct orders of Colonel Tan of the Lhadrung County government. He paused, then added: I am deeply impressed by Yeshe's commitment to socialist reform. He signed and dated the note, then handed it to the nervous Tibetan, who solemnly read it and folded it for his pocket.

"Only for today," Yeshe said, as if reassuring himself. "I just get assignments for a day at a time."

"No doubt Warden Zhong would not want such a valuable resource to be wasted for more than a few hours."

Yeshe hesitated, as if confused by Shan's sarcasm, then shrugged and retrieved the list. "The doctor," he said, suddenly all business. "Don't ask for the doctor. Call the office of the director of the clinic. Say Colonel Tan needs the medical report. The director has a fax machine. Tell them to fax it immediately. Not to you. The warden's secretary. The warden left. I will talk to her."

"He left?"

"Picked up by a driver for the Ministry of Geology."

Suddenly Shan remembered seeing the unfamiliar truck when the body had been found. "Why would the Ministry of Geology visit the 404th work site?" he wondered out loud.

"It's on a mountain," Yeshe replied stiffly.

"Yes?"

"The Ministry regulates mountains," Yeshe said distractedly, reviewing the list of names. "Lieutenant Chang. His desk is down the hall. The army ambulance crew who took custody of the body from the guards. Their records will be at Jade Spring Camp," he said.

"I will need an official weather report from two days ago," Shan said. "And a list of foreign tour groups cleared for entry into Tibet during the past month. China Travel Service in Lhasa should have it. And tell the sergeant we may be going back to town."

Five minutes later Yeshe began delivering the reports, still warm from the machine. Shan read them quickly, and began to write. He had nearly finished when a claxon sounded in the corridor, a siren he had heard only once before in all his months at the 404th. It was the signal for rifles to be issued to the prison guards. A chill crept down his spine. Choje had begun his resistance.