Once Trinle had taken a beating for breaking from a work line to grab such a stone, abandoned on the slope above them. "Why risk the batons?" Shan had asked as Trinle rubbed away the moss to release the prayer.
"Because this may be the prayer that changes the world," Trinle had cheerfully replied.
Shan carefully rubbed away the dirt from the prayers of five stones and laid out three, then stacked two and one on top. The beginning of a new wall.
Ignoring Feng's scowl, he walked along the road in front of the creeping truck. The tinkle of the tsingha floated through the air again, and a high wall came into view. The cracks and seams and patchwork paint on the wall told of ordeal and survival. It had been battered and rebuilt and broken and patched more times than Shan could trace. Half a dozen shades of white and tan had been painted over the uneven surface, which here was stucco, there plaster, and elsewhere exposed rock.
Flanking the wall on either side were ruins, jagged piles of rocks overgrown with vines, shattered and charred timbers covered with lichens and mosses. The wall, he realized, had formed the inner courtyard of what once had been a far bigger gompa. The gate hung open, revealing several novices sweeping the courtyard with brooms of rushes tied to long sticks.
Shan surveyed the scene with unexpected joy. The buildings were familiar to him from the 404th's oral reconstructions, but nothing prepared him for the stark, powerful presence of a working gompa.
In the center of the yard was a huge bronze caldron, so battered and dented the face of Buddha forged on its side had the appearance of a scarred warrior. Two monks were painstakingly polishing the vessel, which was one of the largest incense burners Shan had ever seen. Wisps of smoldering juniper rose from it as they worked.
On either side of the gate, following the wall halfway around the courtyard, were low structures with roofs made of overlapping flat stones, the quarters of the monks. Assembled of salvaged stone and scrap lumber, they looked suspiciously like unlicensed construction. What was it Director Wen had told them? Jao had denied Sungpo's gompa its building permits, cutting it off from official sources of material.
The buildings beyond were just as patchwork but somehow more majestic. On the left, up a small flight of stairs and past a porch of heavy timbers, was the dukhang, the hall of assembly where the monks took their lessons. To the right lay a parallel structure in front of which, under the overhanging roof, stood an upright prayer wheel as large a man. A monk was slowly spinning it, each rotation completing the prayer inscribed on its side. Behind the wheel, past a pair of brightly painted red doors, was the lhakang, the hall of the principal deity. On the outer wall above the hall was a circular mandala painting depicting the sacred path, the Wheel of Dharma, with a deer painted on either side, signifying Buddha's first sermon in India.
Between the two structures was a large chorten shrine, consisting of a plaster dome built over a square base, flattened at the top with a series of slabs of decreasing size. Above the slabs was a barrel-shaped stage capped by a conical steeple. Trinle had once constructed a tiny chorten of wood scraps for Loshar, the new year holiday, and had been able to explain its spiritual symbolism to Shan before it had been seized and stomped to splinters by Lieutenant Chang. There were thirteen levels to a chorten, representing the traditional thirteen stages of advancement to Buddhahood. The top of the chorten was crowned with sun and crescent-moon shapes worked in iron. The sun represented wisdom, the moon compassion. On the round, barrel-shaped level were two huge painted eyes, symbolic of the ever-watchful Buddha.
Shan stepped into the courtyard as the truck rolled to a halt behind him. The novices in the yard stopped and bowed low as they spotted their three visitors. Shan followed the gaze of one of the monks toward a door in the assembly hall. A middle-aged lama appeared.
"Forgive the intrusion," Shan said quietly as the lama approached. "May I speak to someone about the hermit Sungpo?"
The lama did not seem to consider the question worth answering. "What is your purpose?"
"My purpose is to find the teacher of Sungpo."
The man's face tightened. "And what is his guru accused of?"
Yeshe stepped to Shan's shoulder. "He is not the kenpo," he whispered without moving his head. "He is the chotrimpa."
Shan looked up, trying to hide his surprise. The kenpo, the abbot, had chosen not to talk to Shan. He had sent the lama responsible for monastic discipline.
Shan looked back at the lama. "Sungpo is with us. His tongue is not. I respectfully request an audience with his guru."
The lama surveyed the curious young monks who were gathering beside the truck. A censuring sweep of his hand scattered them. In the same moment a deep-throated bell sounded from somewhere inside the hall. The courtyard cleared.
"Will you join our instruction in sunyata?" he asked Shan and Yeshe. There was a small smile on his face, but he made the words sound like a taunt. Sunyata was one of five required studies of every monastic student; it was the study of voidness, of nonexistence. Shan watched the lama as he disappeared into the nearest door. He had answered each of Shan's questions with another question, then turned away without waiting for a response.
Shan looked about the now empty courtyard. Without looking back to Feng or Yeshe he climbed the stairs into the lhakang. Inside was a small passage leading up another flight of stairs, which he followed into a large, empty chamber lit by butter lamps. He lit a stick of incense and sat at the altar, lotus fashion, before the life-size bronze statue of Maitreya Buddha, known as the future Buddha, that dominated the chamber. Before the statue were the seven traditional offering bowls, three filled with water, one with flowers, one with incense, one with butter, and one with aromatic herbs.
He sat for several minutes in silence, then picked up a broom at the back of the hall and began sweeping.
A silver-haired priest appeared and lit an offering of butter shaped into a small spire. "It is not necessary," he said, nodding toward the broom. "This is not your gompa."
Shan leaned on the broom for a moment. "When I was young," he said, "I heard about a temple high in the mountains along the sea, where all the wisdom of the world was said to reside. One day I decided I must visit the temple."
After a few strokes of the broom he paused again. "Halfway up I began to lose my way. I met a man carrying a huge burden of wood on his back. I said I was looking for the temple of the saints, in order to find myself. He told me I didn't need the temple, he would show me all I needed to know. Here is what it takes," he said, and he set his burden on the ground and stood straight.
"But what do I do when I go home, I asked. Simple, he said. When you go home you do this- and he put the burden back on his shoulder."
The old priest smiled, found another broom, and joined Shan in the sweeping.
When Shan emerged he walked to the gate and moved along the track that followed the outer wall. Halfway around he found a dirt path leading onto the slopes above the gompa. The grass on either side of the path had been crushed recently by the tires of a heavy vehicle.
Ten minutes later he reached a clearing where the vehicle, unable to navigate the rocky terrain above, had been parked. He kept climbing. The path became tortuous, winding around wind-sculpted rocks, hugging the side of a precipitous cliff. It traversed a steep chasm across two logs which had been lashed together. At last the track opened into a large meadow. A carpet of tiny yellow and blue flowers led to a small stone structure built against a rock face. A raven screeched. He turned to see the black bird, a sign of wisdom and luck, gliding in the void barely a hundred feet away. Below the bird lay the entire world. A waterfall cascaded from the opposite slope into the conifer forest; beyond it a small lake gleamed like a jewel. To the south the valley stretched for miles with no visible sign of man. Beyond it, brushing a solitary cloud, was the pass they had driven through at dawn.