Qiangba didn’t know exactly what happened next but he thought that his apparently lifeless body must have been found by a group of men on their way to perform a sky burial, and added to the corpses. He imagined that the men had fled the sky burial site on hearing of the approach of the Chinese. They had not had time to cover up the corpses, whose shrouds had just been taken off in preparation for dismemberment. Qiangba had regained consciousness just as a massive bird was attacking his chest.

His story told, Qiangba knelt at Kejun’s feet and thanked him for saving his life.

Kejun stopped him. “Do you think you can stand?” he asked.

The young lama nodded.

“Then come with me,” Kejun said, leading Qiangba to where the commander was eating his meager breakfast. He explained to the commander that Qiangba was willing to take him to find water and asked for permission to leave the unit. Impressed by Kejun’s courage, the commander readily agreed.

Kejun then sat down and scribbled the last entry in his diary. At the end of it, he wrote a letter to Wen.

My darling Wen,

If I don’t return today, others will tell

you what happened to me. Please understand

and forgive me.

I love you. If I am allowed into paradise,

I’ll make sure you live a safe and peaceful

life, and wait for you there. If I go to hell

for this, I will give everything I have to pay

the debts we both incurred in life, working

to give you the right to enter heaven when

your time comes. If I become a ghost, I’ll

watch over you at night and drive away

any spirits that trouble your rest. If I have

no place to go to, I’ll dissolve into the air

and be with you at your every breath.

Thank you, my love.

Your husband, who thinks of you day and

night,

Kejun

On this day, which both of us will never

forget.

Wen turned the next page, but the rest of the diary was blank.

She felt the room spin and a dark shadow fall over her. Then she fainted.

WHEN WEN came around it was pitch-dark in the tent except for a small, flickering butter lamp. Tiananmen and Zhuoma were sitting with their prayer wheels, muttering prayers for her. She fell into a deep sleep that seemed as bottomless as Lake Zhaling. In her dreams she heard the wistful singing of Qiangba the hermit.

She didn’t know how long she slept, but she awoke to find Zhuoma sitting beside her.

“There is something you should see,” Zhuoma said, taking her hand.

Outside the tent, more khata scarves than she could count were fluttering in the breeze and a crowd of people stood waiting for her. In the middle of this crowd, she could see Old Hermit Qiangba sitting on the ground, flanked by two lamas.

“He is not a ghost,” said Zhuoma. “He has ridden here from the monastery. He has had a recurring problem with his lungs ever since he was abandoned in the mountains as a young man. But he felt sufficiently recovered to come here to see you. He wanted to meet the wife of the man who saved his life.”

The hermit rose shakily to his feet and walked over to Wen. Presenting her with a khata scarf, he bowed deeply.

“Most respected hermit,” said Wen. “I have read in my husband’s diary that he wanted to explain to the angry men surrounding his unit why he had shot a sacred vulture. He took you with him. Please, can you tell me what happened?”

Qiangba sat down on the grass and signaled to Wen to sit beside him.

“Your husband told me that he knew a way to call back the sacred vulture that he had killed. He wanted me to take him to the men he had offended so that he could make amends for having disturbed the sky burial. I believed him. I led him to where the men were, up on the mountainside. First I foolishly tried to explain to them what had happened to me, but they wouldn’t listen. They looked at me in horror. They thought that I had been transformed into a ghost because demons had interrupted my burial. They believed that because one sacred vulture had been killed, no more vultures would return to earth and the Tibetan people would be consigned to hell. They were about to set upon us with knives when your husband pulled out his gun and fired a shot into the air. There was a momentary stillness and he used the opportunity to shout to the men to let me go.

“‘I beg you to listen,’ he said in faltering Tibetan. ‘Let this man go to my friends to tell them that I must remain here to put right my insult to the messengers of the spirits. I am going to call back the sacred vulture. Otherwise, none of your vultures will ever return and you will never enter heaven.’

“Reluctantly the men parted to let me through. As I was leaving, your husband passed me a bundle tied up in bandages.

“‘If anything happens to me,’ he said, ‘make sure my wife receives this.’

“I was still very weak and it was difficult for me to move away quickly. As soon as I was at a safe distance, I stopped to rest behind a thicket. From there I watched your husband lay down his pistol and prostrate himself on the ground. He then knelt before the crowd of men and addressed them. His words drifted over to my hiding place.

“’Neither I nor the other Chinese have come here to harm you. All we wanted to do was bring Chinese knowledge to you, to improve your lives, as Princess Wencheng did more than a thousand years ago. She taught you how to weave, how to grow crops and treat your illnesses. We wanted to tell you how to use new materials to improve your tents, how to make new sorts of leather goods, how to make your animals grow fatter. We wanted to help you conquer the demons of sickness that cause you pain. Although we carry weapons, we don’t want to use them against you. We only use them like you use your knives, to protect ourselves from evil people.

“‘I did what I did yesterday to save one of your lamas, who had not died, as you believed. However, I have realized that I made a mistake in killing one of your sacred messengers. I wish to atone for this mistake. I will sacrifice my own life to call the vultures back. According to your religion, the sacred vultures will not eat a demon. After I die, I ask you to cut my body up with your knives, and see for yourselves whether we Chinese are the same in death as you Tibetans. If the spirits send down their vultures as a sign, please believe that we Chinese see them as our friends also, that hatred and bloodshed are the work of demons, that in the eyes of the spirits we are all brothers!’”

Qiangba looked up at the sky.

“Your husband then picked up his pistol from the ground and, facing toward his home in the east, shot himself through the head.”

The hermit paused. Wen, too, gazed at the sky. After a few moments of respectful silence, he continued with his story.

“Overwhelmed by grief, I limped back to the camp to tell the commander what had happened. He rushed to the place I had described, the other soldiers hard on his heels. But it was impossible for him to rescue your husband’s body from the vultures. The men had dismembered it with their knives and the earth was covered in hungry birds.

“Perhaps, in the menba’s body, they could taste the sincerity of his desire for peace,” said Qiangba.

“Perhaps there was something magical in the appearance of so many birds. Whatever the reason, the vultures lingered there for a long time, wheeling and circling the summit of the mountain.

“The soldiers saw the Tibetans watching them respectfully from a distance. By your husband’s action, they had realized that the Chinese could also be carried into the sky by the sacred birds. His death had taught them that Chinese flesh and Chinese feelings were identical to theirs. As the soldiers made their way back to the camp, khata scarves lined their path, performing a memorial dance under the blue sky and white clouds.