He unconsciously ran his fingers over his calluses. They were already getting soft, after just a few days. The hard shell of the prisoner was wearing away, which scared him, for he would need an even thicker one when he returned. His eyes wandered back to the 404th. The prisoners were on the slope. And below them, deployed at the bridgehead, was something new. The grim gray hulks of two tanks and the troop carriers used by the knobs. The prisoners were not working. They were waiting. The knobs were waiting. Rinpoche was waiting. Sungpo was waiting. And now he was waiting. All because of the mountain.

But he couldn't wait. If he did nothing but wait, Tan would devour Sungpo. And the knobs would devour the 404th.

He followed the crest back to its abrupt dropoff into the Dragon's Throat. But the dropoff wasn't totally vertical. A steep narrow path, a goat path, led down in a series of switchbacks to a jumble of rock slabs a hundred yards below. Slowly, risking a fall to his death with any misstep, Shan moved down the path to the rocks. They had sheared off the mountain and collected on a small ledge, creating a barrier from the wind.

He climbed out onto a large flat slab and found himself looking directly at the new Dragon's Throat Bridge, close enough to hear the rumble of the diesel engines that had been kept running in the tanks, and even snippets of conversation from the guards on the slope.

Fearful of being seen, he began to push back when he suddenly noticed chalk markings on the slab. It was Tibetan script and Buddhist symbols, but unlike any he had ever seen. He copied them into his pad and stepped between two slabs which had fallen together in an inverted V to create a shelter. He froze. In the back of the enclosure a circular picture had been painted on the stone, an intricate mandala which had required many hours of work. In front of it was a row of small ceramic pots such as those used for butter lamps. They were all broken. But they had not been broken casually. They had been arranged in a row and broken where they stood, as if in a ritual.

He studied the chalk signs again. Had the pilgrim been here? Had the pilgrim been watching the 404th? He climbed back up to the crest, hoping to catch a glimpse of the red robe, but the pilgrim was out of sight. He moved southward again along the slope, looking for signs of the pilgrim's path. There was another goat path, but no sign of humankind, no sign of a demon.

He steered toward a rock outcropping that jutted from the side of the ridge, deciding that he would return to Feng and Yeshe when he reached it. But when he arrived at the huge rock formation he heard a bleating that carried him farther. Behind the rocks, shielded from the wind, was a pool of water. A small flock of sheep lay beside the pool, basking in the warmth. They watched him as he approached, but did not shy away. Shan squatted at the water, washed his face, then lay back on a flat rock that had gathered the sun's heat.

Without the wind the sunshine was luxuriant. He watched the animals for several minutes, then, on a whim, grabbed a handful of the gravel at the bottom of the rock and began to count the stones. It was a trick his father had taught him. Place the stones in piles of six and the number left would be used as the bottom digit in the tetragram for reading the Tao Te Ching. Four stones were left after the first round, indicating a broken line of two segments. He grabbed three more handfuls, until he built a tetragram of two solid lines over a triple segment and the double segment. In the Tao ritual it meant Passage Eight.

The greatest good is like water. The value of water is that it nourishes without striving.

He spoke the words out loud, with his eyes closed.

It stays in places that others disdain and therefore is close to the way of life.

It was the way he had learned with his father. They would use stones or rice- or on special occasions the ancient lacquered yarrow sticks that had belonged to his grandfather- then close their eyes and speak the verse.

In his mind's eye he conjured his father. They were alone, the two of them, in the secret temple in Beijing that had nourished them through so many difficult years. His heart leapt. For the first time in over two years he could hear his father's voice, echoing the verse. It was still there, not lost as he had feared, waiting in some remote corner of his mind for such a moment. He smelled the ginger that was always in his father's pocket. If he opened his eyes he would see the serene smile, made forever crooked by a Red Guard's boot. Shan lay motionless, exploring an alien feeling he suspected might be pleasure.

When he at last opened his eyes, the sheep had been spirited away. He had not heard them leave, and he could not see them on the slope. He rose with a peaceful expression, turned and froze. On a rock shelf above him sat a small figure bundled in an oversized sheepskin coat and wearing a red wool cap. He was smiling with great pleasure at Shan.

How had the man arrived so quietly? What had he done with the sheep?

"Spring sun is the best," the figure said in a voice that was strong and calm and high-pitched. It wasn't a man- it was a boy, an adolescent.

Shan shrugged uncertainly. "Your sheep are gone."

The youth laughed. "No. They are thinking I am gone. They will find me later. We only keep them so they will take us to high places. A meditation technique, in a way. It's always different. Today they brought me to you."

"A meditation technique?" Shan asked, not sure he had heard properly.

"You're one of them, aren't you?" the boy asked abruptly.

Shan did not know how to answer.

"Han. Chinese." There was no spite in the boy's words, only curiosity. "I've never seen one."

Shan stared at the boy in confusion. They were fifteen miles from the county seat. Twenty miles from a garrison of the PLA, and the boy had never seen a Han.

"But I have studied the works of Lao Tzu," the boy said, suddenly switching to fluent Mandarin.

So he had been there all the while. "You speak well for one who has never met a Han," Shan said, likewise in Mandarin.

The boy swung his legs out over the ledge. "We live in a land of teachers," he observed matter-of-factly. "Passage Seventy-one," he said, referring to the Tao Te Ching again. "You know Seventy-one?"

"To know that you do not know is best," Shan recited. "To not know of knowing is a disease." He considered the enigmatic boy. He spoke like a monk but was far too young. "Have you tried Twenty-four? The way of life means continuing. Continuing means going far. Going far means returning."

Pleasure lit the boy's face again. He repeated the passage.

"Does your family live on the mountain?"

"My sheep live on the mountain," the boy replied.

"Who does live on the mountain?" Shan pressed.

"The sheep live on the mountain," the boy repeated. He picked up a pebble. "Why did you come?"

"I think I am looking for Tamdin."

The boy nodded, as though expecting the answer. "When he is awakened the unpure must fear."

Shan noticed a rosary on his wrist, a very old rosary carved of sandalwood.

"Will you be able to turn your face toward Tamdin when you find him?" the boy asked.

Shan swallowed hard and considered the strange boy. It seemed the wisest question anyone could ask. "I don't know. What do you think?"

The serene smile returned to the boy's face. "The sound of the water is what I think," he said, and threw the pebble into the center of the pool.

Shan watched the circles ripple the surface, then turned. The boy was gone.