He leaned the stone against a tree so the prayer faced outward, then followed Winslow, Tenzin, and the stranger down the winding trail toward the sound of voices. The scent of burning juniper floated through the air. They cleared a tall wall of rock and found themselves in a bustling camp. A lean Tibetan youth with a pockmarked face darted forward and grabbed Tenzin's arm, pulling him toward the back of the small blind canyon, followed closely by the man in the tattered green sweater.

Shan lingered near the narrow canyon entrance, surveying the chaotic scene inside. At least forty people were arrayed on blankets or sitting around fires, some of them with bruised faces, some with arms in slings. On one blanket a young man lay prostrate, tended by a grey-haired woman.

Chemi was at the side of the canyon, speaking rapidly with an older woman as she rubbed the hand of a large man who lay beside the rock face, his face swollen and eyes glazed, blood oozing through a sling on his left arm, a bloody bandage around his forehead.

"Ours was the closest village so her family fled here," Anya explained as she stepped to Shan's side. "The company said they had to build a water collection facility at Chemi's home, to install tanks to take water from the stream for the work camp. They said the houses could not stay because it would foul the water needed for the workers. They said the venture would pay compensation. The venture people didn't understand, Chemi's sister told them, they would need to hear from the township council before they could leave their homes. But the company had soldiers to help them."

"The government was there, not just the army," interjected the old woman. "He showed us his card. From some Ministry. It said Beijing. We never expected Beijing to take notice of us. My son always wanted to meet someone from Beijing, because in his school they say many heroes live there. But it was only a Mongolian man with dark glasses."

"Special Projects," Winslow muttered bitterly over Shan's shoulder. Zhu, the Special Projects Director, had been there when the village had been destroyed.

Several of the Yapchi villagers were there to help the injured and spoke excitedly with Anya about the return of the caravan. Some of the villagers looked solemnly toward Shan after speaking with the girl, but soon their gaze shifted toward Winslow as the American began moving about the camp. It was impossible to ignore the tall fair-skinned stranger. He stopped at the pallets and spoke in low words to those lying on them, then reached into his pack and emptied it of its food. A bag of raisins, a bag of nuts, and a bag of hard candy. There were not many children in the camp, only four other than Anya, but all four surrounded the American and gleefully shared out the treasure. Anya watched with a strangely detached expression, as though, Shan thought, she had forgotten how to be a child.

The man beside Chemi groaned, closed his glazed eyes and seemed to sink into unconsciousness. She pulled off her coat, lifted his head, and propped it behind him as a pillow.

"It's my uncle Dzopa," she whispered. "He'd been gone for ten years. He went to India to live."

Shan studied the man. He looked at the woman, perplexed. "Why did he return now?"

"I can't understand him when he speaks," she said, with pools of moisture in her eyes. She nodded toward a woman sitting nearby, churning tea with a sad, distant expression. "My cousin says he was trying to clear out the village when the tank started shooting. Things exploded and hit his head. He had just returned the day before, looking for me. He had heard I was sick. He has no other family. When he was young he was at a gompa and never married."

The big Tibetan appeared to be in his late fifties. His arms were like logs, his neck like that of a bull. "He's a farmer now?" Shan asked.

Chemi nodded. "He sent a letter once. He settled in Dharmasala," she said, referring to the seat of the exiled Tibetan government.

"What do you think, why would he return?"

"Sometimes the Dalai Lama gives speeches, and says the biggest contribution a refugee from Tibet can make is to return. Because those who have crossed over to India have demonstrated their faith, and their strength, and those are the traits needed to keep Tibet alive."

Shan studied the battered man again. His injuries looked severe. The fingers on Dzopa's left hand trembled, a sign of possible nerve damage. "Did he bring something from India? A message perhaps? Was he coming to take others to India?" But Shan looked up to see that Chemi had turned away and was walking toward the back of the small canyon. He found her with Lokesh and Anya, who sat with bowls of tea behind a circle of people reciting a mantra.

"They are not going to stop the mantra until those people leave," Lokesh explained. Beyond the circle was a flat stone with several wooden offering bowls and a charred metal disc where incense had burned. Anya and Nyma had made a chapel in the rocks behind the village, Lhandro had said.

"You mean the bulldozers in Chemi's village?" Shan asked.

"No," Anya said. Her tone was excited, and her eyes wide. "Not until the Chinese and foreigners leave our valley. Night and day they say, they have made a vow to Tara. A mantra chain, for as long as it takes. We will all take turns, when we can."

Shan studied the girl and recognized the fierce light in her eye. There had been an old Khampa warrior in his prison barracks, imprisoned for life for leading ambushes against soldiers, who had always marveled at how the monks resisted by resort to prayer, even when being beaten or electroshocked. "All I could do was shoot guns," the Khampa had often said in a voice that never lost its awe for the holy men. "That's nothing compared to them."

Shan was tempted to sit in the circle himself. Perhaps that was all any of them could do now, just pray. "Why would Chemi's uncle want to have cleared out his village, why warn them now?" he asked the girl.

"Probably because he had met others who had lived near Chinese development projects. He thought the venture would take them away."

"Away?"

"To work for it. Or move the families to a strange place. All the time we have been gone the venture has been torturing our village, harassing it, trying to drive everyone away our people say. The venture took all the young men who were in Yapchi to work cutting trees. They have to stay in that camp, in those metal boxes, that are locked at night. The others are scared to even go ask for them, for fear they will be taken, too." Anya spoke with a defiance Shan had never heard in her voice. But as she returned his stare, confusion crossed her eyes, then fear. "Locked in a metal box," the girl repeated, and she turned away to join the circle.

Thirty feet away, in a corner of the little canyon, Tenzin sat with the two Tibetans who had brought him into the camp, and another man, older, but who wore the same deep-seated anger that etched the faces of the first two. The youngest of the men suddenly turned, stood, and took a step toward Shan, straightening into the pose of a sentry. They were not men who resisted the Chinese merely by reciting mantras. Shan looked beyond the man toward Tenzin, who leaned forward, listening earnestly to the older man. Beside them was a stack of equipment: braided leather ropes; bottles of water; a compass, hanging from a lanyard; a portable shovel, folded into its handle; nylon sleeping bags.

Suddenly there was a wrenching moan from the front of the camp. Shan leapt toward the sound, the purbas at his heels, to find Chemi draped over her uncle's shoulders, trying to pull him back. He was sitting up, holding the wooden handle of a tea churn, savagely beating a small stump. The handle was shredding in his hands. Shan tried to grab Dzopa's arm. The man flung him away effortlessly, then Chemi put her hands on his cheeks. "Uncle!" she cried. "You must stop!" Dzopa paused, and his eyes seemed to find her, though they could not focus.