Xinran Xue - Sky Burial, An Epic Love Story of Tibet

“Yes,” said Wen with excitement. “Do you know something?”

“I too am looking for her,” said the lama. “Many years ago, I was her servant. We were separated while traveling in a storm. I wandered for days in search of her and would have died if a lama from this monastery who was gathering medicinal herbs in the mountains hadn’t found me and carried me back here. I have devoted my life to this monastery since then, but I have never ceased to ask all visitors for news of my dear mistress.”

Wen could barely speak. “You are Tiananmen,” she said.

The lama was taken aback. “Yes,” he said, “She named me Tiananmen.”

IN THE days that followed the Dharmaraja ceremony, Tiananmen would visit Wen, Ge’er, and Pad in the intervals between scripture readings in the monastery’s great hall. When he heard Zhuoma’s story, he wrung his large hands until the joints cracked. After that he seemed preoccupied. He told them that he had petitioned the abbot for a period of leave from the monastery. He wished to join them in their search for Zhuoma. Sometime later, he came to them with the good news that his petition had been granted. What was more, the abbot was willing to give a blessing to their quest, in which were joined the fates of both Tibetans and Chinese. Tiananmen led them into the presence of the head lama, who listened patiently to their petition.

“On the high plateau,” he said, “the sky may change, people may change, yaks and sheep, flowers and grasses all may change, but not the holy mountains. If you leave messages on the thirteen holy mountains, those with knowledge of Zhuoma will find them. Life starts in nature and returns to nature.”

He gave Wen half a lead pencil, which, he told her, was a modern treasure belonging to the monastery. Wen was delighted. To her, too, this pencil was priceless: writing her diary had become her main consolation and her colored stone etched out no more than faint traces on the pages of her book. That evening, she wrote in clear black lines.

Only Pad seemed sad that they were leaving the monastery. Now that Zawang’s brother had returned to the monastery with the head lama, Zawang was spending less time in her company. Whenever the lamas were released from their daily duties, Zawang would run off to talk to the brother he hadn’t seen for ten years. How would Pad survive, Wen wondered, when she had been used to such companionship? But her worries were unnecessary. The day before they were due to leave, Ge’er came to her and told her that Zawang wished to accompany them on their journey. It seemed that he, too, could not bear to be parted from Pad. Horse messengers were sent to Gela and to Zawang’s family to inform them about the discovery of Tiananmen, and of Zawang’s decision to join the quest. They had sent such messengers before, but had never received back any news of Gela’s family. Wen hoped that these messages would find their destination.

The monastery saw to their horses and their provisions. As they were climbing onto their horses, Wen noticed that Tiananmen had loaded his saddle with silk scrolls. She assumed that, as a lama, he needed to carry the scriptures with him. Once they were under way, however, Tiananmen explained that they were in fact messages asking for information about the lost Zhuoma. The monastery had taught him many things, including how to write. He told her about the scripture debates, where lamas came together to discuss interpretations of the scriptures in a formal group with a very particular set of rules. Wen felt herself growing closer to the taciturn Tiananmen with this rare glimpse into his world.

HOW MUCH time passed in that trek around the holy mountains of Qinghai? Wen lost track of the days and weeks. Her little group plodded onward, dogged in their determination to find Zhuoma, undaunted by the distances they covered and the hardship they suffered. Between each of the giant holy mountains lay other mountain ranges that they must cross. But they refused to give up: they would not stop until they had left Tiananmen’s scrolls on all thirteen mountains.

Somewhere between the first and the third mountain, Ge’er gave his consent for Pad and Zawang to be married. The silent mountains were their witness. “We live under the eyes of the spirits,” Ge’er told her. “This union is part of the divine plan.” Wen wondered if Pad, with her gift for prediction, had always known something about this marriage. Perhaps this was why she had waited so long, in clear defiance of the Tibetan custom of early marriage, to join herself to someone. Would the spirits also guide Wen along her path? She felt their presence in her life more and more.

At the fifth mountain, Pad gave birth to a daughter and named her Zhuoma.

Wen worried about the addition of a baby to their group. The constant traveling was putting an intolerable strain on Pad and it did not seem right that Pad should be jeopardizing both her life and that of the child by continuing with the quest. Wen discussed her concerns with Tiananmen and Ge’er, and it was agreed that Ge’er should accompany Pad and Zawang to a place where they could build a proper life for their family. He would then return home to Gela and Saierbao: he had been away from his brother and wife for too long and it was time that he rejoined them. Tiananmen could protect Wen. Tiananmen suggested to Ge’er that he take the young couple to the southeast. He had heard at the monastery that, in this region, Chinese and Tibetans lived together. Pad and Zawang would find work, and their daughter could go to school.

As Wen watched Ge’er’s horse recede into the distance, followed by Pad and Zawang, she wondered if she would ever see them again. The rest of her life would not give her enough time to repay all that Ge’er and his family had done for her. “Om mani padme hum,” she murmured under her breath as the figures disappeared into the mountains.

IT WAS at the ninth mountain that they found Zhuoma’s message. The mountain was covered with pile upon pile of mani stones inscribed with the mantra and passages of Buddhist scripture.

“They are the Diamond Sutra,” said Tiananmen. “There is one chapter of scripture to each cairn.”

“May I touch them?” Wen asked.

“You may,” replied Tiananmen. “When you place your fingers on the words, you will feel the presence of the spirits.”

For a while the two of them separated, walking around the cairns, reading the prayers preserved in stone. As Wen gazed at them, she tried in vain to imagine how many generations of hands had carved those holy words, piling them up on this mountain to be preserved for thousands of years. Suddenly Tiananmen called out. Wen turned. He was standing waving a white khata scarf that he had taken down from the line of prayer flags fluttering in the wind, and was shouting something indistinguishable. When she reached him, picking her way down the path, he was almost too overcome to speak. She took the scarf from his hands. On it was written a simple message: “Zhuoma is looking for Tiananmen. She awaits him at the next mountain, close to the stonecutter’s hut.”

Their hearts were in their mouths as they pushed their horses toward the neighboring mountain. How long had the message been there? Would Zhuoma have waited? It took them many days. When they arrived at the foot of the mountain, they saw in the distance a stonecutter’s hut and, standing above it, the statuesque figure of a woman. As their horses thundered toward her, she turned. It was Zhuoma.

For a long time the three of them remained silent. No words could express the intensity of the emotions they felt. Wen got down from her horse and embraced the friend she had not seen for more than twenty years. Behind her, Tiananmen greeted his old mistress with quiet tears. He had found her, but could not hold her in his arms. In Tibet a single woman could not so much as touch the hand of a man whose life was pledged to the Buddha.