He looked only at Shan now as he spoke, as if he were confessing, as if it were a story he had to tell to a Han. "My father said probably those Chinese monks were trying to bury the bodies, trying to help. But the people were too angry."
Too angry at Chinese, he meant. People came and became crazed with rage and the lust for revenge. Not soldiers, but the farmers and herders. He looked at the skull in the still-open bench. A hoe could have killed that monk, or a pick.
"They couldn't tell anyone afterwards," Lepka said forlornly, wringing his hands. His wife stood beside him, holding his shoulder tightly. "If word got out about the Chinese monks, the Chinese army would return. So our families burnt the Tao temple and covered it with a barley field." Tears streamed down the old man's face. "Afterwards, the monks from Rapjung heard. They came and said words for the Chinese, for all those who had died. They made the people reopen the grave that had been dug for the Yapchi villagers and bury whatever remains they could find of the monks with the villagers. Made the people who had killed the monks promise to send their first sons to become dobdobs at the gompa, so such a thing could not happen again." He looked at the yak-like Dzopa. Enforcers of virtue, Chemi had called the monk policemen. "My brother went," Lepka said, "but he died at Rapjung when Mao's children came."
Suddenly there were loud voices at the platform, commands for workers to leave the platform and allow the dignitaries to be seated. The chairs and benches were quickly filled with Chinese and Tibetans in business suits. Jenkins's secretary stood at the top of the stairs, welcoming the guests, handing them paper programs, but glancing frequently toward one of the army tents, where a tight knot of soldiers had formed. Lin must be there, with Anya. Other soldiers were moving around the compound, holding their weapons conspicuously.
Professor Ma had opened Dzopa's backpack and produced a blanket from it to cover the fallen sentry but it was only a matter of time before the man revived, Shan knew, and more trouble would begin. An officer from Lin's command climbed onto the stage and stood beside a microphone on a stand, facing the assembled dignitaries as he waved a polished wooden pointer in the air. He was gesturing toward the ruined village, the denuded slopes, even the patch of scorched earth where the painted rock had been. He explained the victorious role of the People's Liberation Army in the opening of the valley, and pointed out the soldiers stationed on the outer perimeter of the camp like a security net.
Shan looked back at the blanket. It was white, heavily soiled but still white, streaked with lines of soot. Dzopa's blanket. Dzopa who had traveled with Jokar from India. Shan's vision seemed to blur a moment, and he saw something else, in his mind's eye. He saw Jokar sitting in the night wrapped in Dzopa's blanket. He saw Drakte running, frantic, in great pain, fleeing from Tuan's howlers, knowing the white-shirted men were pursuing, trying to capture him, perhaps even trying to ambush him. He saw Drakte pause as a white figure appeared before him, saw Drakte fit a stone to his sling and fire a shot into Jokar's neck. The shudder that coursed through his body somehow told Shan that he had glimpsed the truth.
Another figure appeared, striding purposefully up the stairs, watched expectantly by the seated figures. It was Jenkins, now wearing a clean blue shirt and red tie, leading half a dozen others in ties and blue shirts, including two Westerners. As Jenkins stepped aside and gestured his party onto the platform, Shan spotted another group assembling near the platform. Or being assembled. Over fifty Tibetans were being herded by soldiers toward the front of the platform. The forced laborers, Shan suspected, by the way several of them acknowledged Lhandro and Nyma with small, tight nods.
Finally came Special Director Zhu, and an older woman wearing a dark grey suit, and a large-brimmed straw hat against the sun, to sit in the last two seats of the front row. Zhu began to sit, then straightened, squinting toward the dig, toward Shan and Jokar and Tenzin. Even from the distance Shan sensed his sudden excitement and he watched as Zhu called a knob soldier to the edge of the platform and pointed in their direction. The knob took several strides toward the dig, then paused as an army officer called out. The officer bolted up the platform steps, looking toward the southern end of the valley as he spoke excitedly into a handheld radio. After a moment the officer ran to Jenkins and pointed southward with a victorious gleam.
Shan could not hear the conversation, but from the man's excitement, from the way the party in blue shirts raised their hands, clapping in Jenkins's direction, he knew the soldiers had scored one last victory. An army truck sped past, and Shan saw the distant figures of a patrol jogging along the south end of the valley.
"She's okay, Winslow," a deep voice suddenly announced. Jenkins was there, at the side of the dig, studying Winslow with an apologetic expression. "I thought you'd want to know. Larkin's up there, the soldiers say, hiding in the trees with a lot of Tibetans, digging for something. They're bringing her down." The American manager studied Winslow, then shook his head and sighed. "I'm sorry about that fax. If it helps I'll put in a word. You were trying to help, I know." Winslow did not acknowledge him, only stared toward the far end of the valley. Jenkins shrugged and stepped back toward the platform.
A mocking voice called from a distant corner of Shan's mind. Thirteen months of freedom. Four years in the gulag, then thirteen months of freedom. It was the way many purbas lived, he knew, alternating long stretches of lao gai with short intense bursts of work on behalf of their cause.
But there was another voice, equally distant at first, shouting at him down a long dark corridor in his mind. The deity rock. Even a small distraction might allow some of the Tibetans to escape, perhaps even taking Jokar with them. If only Tenzin and Jokar could flee, Shan could bear all the suffering to come. He inched toward the crew putting the final touches on the Serenity banner. Without consciously understanding what he was doing at first, he found himself by the stack of paint cans. He leaned and picked up a can of red paint. When he looked up Somo was there, only five feet away, staring forlornly at the line of prisoners coming down the valley through the ruins of the village. He stepped to her side and extended the can of paint. She accepted it with a confused look. They gazed at each other a moment, exchanging the kind of sad, proud gazes soldiers might trade as they were about to throw themselves against impossible odds.
He opened his mouth with a small, sad smile. "Can you run?" he asked.
An intense energy seemed to build in her eyes as Somo considered his question. Then she looked at the can of paint and smiled back. He spoke quietly to her, and an instant later she faded away through the crowd.
As she did so the East is Red anthem exploded through the public address system again and scattered applause broke out as the dignitaries rose to formally welcome a final set of visitors marching from the camp toward the platform. Shan's throat tightened as he watched Khodrak, Padme, and Tuan escorted by a line of the white-shirted guards, each of them shaking hands with many of those in the crowd, acting like guests of honor. This was their day as much as Jenkins's. Khodrak moved slowly, ceremoniously carrying his mendicant's staff, Padme a step behind, carrying the black satchel Shan had seen in the conference room at Norbu.
The professor wandered toward the delegation from Norbu. Shan watched as Ma politely shook hands and spoke, first with Padme, then with Khodrak, who seemed at ease with the elderly Han.