Eliot Pattison - Bone Mountain

Finally there were two brief standards. Committee Approval, the poster said, and approval of the Public Security Bureau.

Shan stared at the poster, fighting an acrid taste on his tongue that seemed to be spreading to his belly. Beijing's Bureau of Religious Affairs established a strict cap on the number of monks at each gompa, usually a fraction of the original population. Gompas where two thousand monks once served might have only fifty authorized by the howlers. Even when an opening arose, a candidate could take years to satisfy all the necessary approvals. Once applicants might have sat with lamas and recited scriptures learned at home or spoken of how a growing awareness of the Buddha within was calling them to put on a robe. Now for the best chance of winning a robe, an applicant should sit with a commissar and recite scripture from little red Party books.

Past the poster, on the opposite wall, was a sheet of paper whose handwritten words were almost as large as those of the poster. Never Again a Monk, it said, with five names below it, each with a date from the past two years. On the wall, in chilling proximity, hung five robes with names on labels pinned over each. Above them was another sign. Walked Away from Buddha, it read, and under it a quote, Once you walk away Buddha will not embrace you again, over the embellished signature of Chairman Khodrak. The line of pegs continued down the corridor with another dozen pegs, all empty, except for the last two, from which hung lush fox-fur caps. Past the caps, at the end of the hall, was a set of double wooden doors, one of which hung partially open.

Shan heard voices and stepped toward the gap in the doors to see Nyma, Lokesh, Lhandro, and Tenzin seated in front of a heavy wooden table in rigid straight-back chairs. On the far side of the table were three much larger chairs, wooden but with padded backs, upholstered in red silk. Two of the chairs were occupied, by Khodrak and the Han with long thinning hair Shan had seen at the lake. Director Tuan of Religious Affairs, who had qualified for his job by having a prior career in Public Security. An elegant set of porcelain tea cups sat on the table, and a young monk was refilling those in front of Shan's friends. The monk disappeared from view and a moment later the door flung open. The monk gestured Shan toward one of the empty chairs beside his friends.

"Excellent, excellent," Khodrak said. "Take a moment with us, Comrade Shan." Behind him, leaning against the wall, was a long ceremonial staff, a mendicant's staff with an ornate head of finely worked white metal ending in a point. "We were expressing our gratitude and our pleasure that you will be able to join us tonight for a meal with the assembly."

Shan stole a glance at his friends. Only Lhandro returned it, with a small, forced smile. The others stared uncertainly at the dainty, steaming cups in front of them. Shan hesitantly took a seat beside Nyma. Khodrak had learned his name. What else had he asked about?

"This kind of heroism should not go unrewarded," Khodrak said. "Common people, agricultural laborers even, sacrificing themselves to save the life of a representative of the religious establishment. Here at Norbu, a model of right conduct amidst so many reactionary thinkers, we especially applaud your contribution."

It was Shan's turn to stare at his cup of tea, placed there by the young attendant, for he feared what he might say if he fixed eyes with Khodrak or Director Tuan. Khodrak had assumed the Tibetans were all herders or farmers. Agricultural laborers were the most revered of classes in the hierarchy the Party had created for its classless society. Shan's mind raced. Images of the signs in the hall flashed before him, and the Chinese flags, the stalwart Gyalo alone with the yak dung, and the office outside that looked like the operations center for a government agency. He ventured a look up at the empty chair. Khodrak had called himself chairman. The signs outside did not refer to him as an abbot, or kenpo, the traditional head of every Tibetan gompa. When Gyalo had spoken of the authority inside the gompa he had used the plural 'they'. Because, Shan now knew, Norbu was a model of the truly modern gompa, run not by a lama abbot but by a Democratic Management Committee.

Once, during a winter storm that kept them confined to their prison barracks, Shan and his cellmates had listened to a young monk who had just begun a five-year sentence. The monk had explained that his crime was refusal to sign a statement swearing to patriotism and pledging never to protest against the policies of Beijing, a pledge required by those who ran his gompa. What the older monks hadn't understood, and what the new prisoner had had to explain repeatedly, was why abbots and lamas would request such a pledge, and how they could send him to a Chinese prison for refusing to accept it. The reason, the monk patiently explained, was that a new body had taken over administration of his gompa, a Democratic Management Committee. The Committee tested monks on their knowledge of correct political thought, and would call upon monks in assembly to recite Chinese versions of Tibetan history, in addition to their sutras- the version that said Tibet had always been Chinese and that Tibetans were descended from Chinese stock.

The attending monk appeared by Khodrak with a stack of slender, six-inch-long boxes. "Please," Khodrak announced, "you deserve something in honor of your contribution." He said it in a gracious tone, speaking slowly and loudly, as if he were accustomed to public speaking. The young monk distributed one of the boxes to each of them and gestured for them to open their gifts. Inside was a heavy red plastic dorje, the thunderbolt symbol used in many Tibetan rituals. The monk showed Nyma how to push one end so it clicked. A ballpoint pen. Along the bottom was inscribed, in Chinese characters, Bureau of Religious Affairs.

Shan looked up, his throat dry. Khodrak was smiling broadly, studying each one of them with intense interest now as his hand absently straightened the monogram on his robe. Shan had heard somewhere that members of Democratic Management Committees were paid salaries by the Religious Affairs Bureau. He gazed out the window. It was getting dark, too late to leave the gompa.

"Perhaps an extra one for our special friend?" Khodrak said to the attendant, in the tone of an order.

"Yes, Chairman Rinpoche," the monk replied woodenly.

The young monk appeared at Shan's side, another of the pen boxes extended toward him. Shan looked at Khodrak. His special friend. Because Shan was Han. "Thank you, no," he said to the monk in a taut voice. "Unfortunately I can write only with one hand."

Khodrak chuckled, then laughed loudly, and Director Tuan took up the laughter, followed by the attending monk. Shan's friends offered strained smiles. Abruptly Khodrak stopped laughing and clasped his hands, the index fingers extended together. Not a mudra. He was pointing with the fingers, pointing at Tenzin.

"Perhaps your friend should see a doctor. We have specialists here, all the way from Lhasa."

See a doctor. The expression sparked a flash of pain in Shan. The words had been a code in the gulag, a threat used by the guards for recalcitrant prisoners like Shan who were sometimes taken to knob specialists with cattle prods and small hammers and needle-nosed pliers.

"Have you had your affliction long?" Khodrak asked Tenzin in his solicitous tone. He seemed to be studying Tenzin's hands. Shan recalled the rongpa village, where Colonel Lin had studied Lokesh's hands. What was it? Was there something special about Tenzin's hands? They were not, Shan realized, the rough calloused hands of a rongpa or herder.

"We told you," Nyma interjected. "Tenzin was struck by lightning. He doesn't speak. We don't mind. He is a good worker."