us talk about the land of Tibet.
The oldest six clans in Tibet were: Jure of Drikung, Gasi of Taglung, Khon of Sakya, Chos gyalpo Lang, Gya of Khyungpo and Lha of Nedong. But these old clans were unable to maintain their vitality, so in time nine newly risen clans came to dominate Tibet. Though fearful at first, eventually the old clans let the names of the respected nine clans gush out like spring water: Ga, Dro, Tong from one line; Se, Mu, Dong from a second; and Ban, Tag, Dra from a third.
The many tribes of Tibet were scattered across the plateau, and looking down from Heaven, it appeared that snowcapped mountains, rocky cliffs and sparkling light surrounded the Pureng, Guge and Mangyul in the Ngaraus area of Taziks to the west. At the centre, there were the four Wetsang tribes: Yulru, Weru, Yasru and Yonru. Next to them were the six hill tribes of Dokham, which were governed by six magic mountains, named Marza, Pobor, Tsawa, Selmo, Markham and Minyag. The Yellow, Jinsha, Nu and Lancang rivers lingered at the foot of the mountains, bordered by pastures and farmland, and the many villages dotted among the hills and rivers fell under the authority of towering castles.
‘Dispersed to all corners like pearls from a broken strand, Blown by the wind throughout the land like grass seeds.’
The story isn’t finished yet. Om!
The wise old man had an adage: How can you see a towering tree just by looking at the trunk? You must remove your boots and climb it, touching every twig. Om . . .
I’ll put on my storyteller’s hat. Om! Let me tell you about that hat. It looks like a mountain with gold and silver threads . . . Oh, very well. I’ll talk about my hat tomorrow. What are you saying? That I’ve digressed from heredity to geography? Ah, people today have no patience!
Now we will speak of the noble Mu clan, who commanded all the tribes of Glingkar. The Mu family had enjoyed a prominent position in Glingkar for more than a hundred years when Qupan Nabu became its leader. The father of the old steward Rongtsa Khragan had three consorts, one of whom was Rongtsa Khragan’s mother, Consort Rong. Consort Ge’s son was called Yukye, a warrior who fell into the hands of the Hor during a battle in the north. Consort Mu’s son was Senglon, chosen to be father of the son of the deities. Rongtsa Khragan had long been married with children – three sons and a daughter by his wife, Metog Lhartse. Before following the will of Heaven to marry the Dragon daughter, Metog Lhartse, Senglon had married a Han woman from China to the east. They had a son named Gyatsa Zhakar. Gyatsa Zhakar also had an uncle, Khrothung, the head of the Tagrong tribe, who was adept at magic and transformation. It was said that Gyatsa Zhakar was born with the brave and righteous appearance of a heroic figure, taller at the age of one month than a grassland one-year-old.
Ah! Young man, now that you understand, the story can begin.
The Storyteller Chance
The old man said, ‘Young man, look at the river bend. The water laps against the stony banks but does not produce a hollow sound. Our meeting here must be seen as extraordinary. So let me help you work through the important lineage of our hero, Gesar.’
‘What shall I do next?’
‘I don’t know. Perhaps you should think back to every time you have encountered this great story.’
‘Encountered? I saw it in my dreams.’
The old man smiled faintly. ‘Dreams are encounters.’ He plucked the strings of his lute, and the crisp sound of vibrating metal made the shepherd feel as if the land were spinning at his feet, the clouds were rushing past in the sky and the entrance to Heaven was about to open for the deities to descend. But when the old man’s fingers left the strings, everything returned to normal, as if a heavy curtain had blocked out the bright light of understanding.
Dreamily, Jigmed murmured, ‘The sound of the lute, where did it go?’
The old man slid the instrument into its bag. ‘If this is your village, I’ll spend one night here. I’ll sing for the people by the entrance to the village, where the branches on the old cypress tree have formed the shape of dragon claws.’
Jigmed knew that the old man would not receive enough money for his singing in such a small village, so he decided to kill a sheep for him. The old man said, ‘A good shepherd never kills his ewes in the spring. All you need do to sing of heroes is listen to this old man sing with his lute.’
Jigmed lay down at the bottom of a hill dotted with azalea blossoms and gazed up at the snowcapped mountain, waiting for revelation. He quickly fell asleep in the warm sunlight, but did not dream of anything, although the familiar sense of agitation assailed him. So he rose and made his way to the lake below. As he walked, he spotted a tent near the shore. The style and fabric belonged to a distant past; it was the kind of tent used when the world had just begun. Then the boy appeared before him.
‘You are . . .’
‘No, I’m not.’
He was going to say, ‘You are the son of the deities,’ and the boy’s quick response had proved that he was. How else could he utter a denial before the question was out? Yet the boy’s face was filthy, and the gem-like sparkle in his eyes of supernatural intelligence was dimmed, replaced by a fierce glare. The boy turned to chase a fox that had emerged from its den. The fox conjured up more foxes, which in turn prompted the boy to conjure the same number of himself, each chasing a fox. All Jigmed could see now was a hill overrun with foxes and Jorus. When all the foxes were under the feet of the Jorus, the hill streamed with blood as the Jorus tore apart their foxes, flinging away limbs, organs, flesh. But one Joru, with a fox beneath his foot, stood still on the hilltop. That was Joru’s true self. He seemed stunned as he watched his other selves engaged in a bloody slaughter.
‘Son of the deities!’ Jigmed shouted. The boy seemed to have heard the cry, and Jigmed saw him look up into the sky, perplexed. Then, gazing once again at the bloody entrails scattered across the hill, compassion appeared on the boy’s face, and in an instant the Jorus and the foxes disappeared, as did the boy, who was dragging the dead fox behind him.
The dream world has its own logic and freedom, so when the son of the deities disappeared, Jigmed turned towards the squat tent by the water, where a woman, worry written on her features, stood at the opening and gazed into the distance. She was Joru’s mother, the Dragon daughter, Metog Lhartse. But her husband, Senglon, was not by her side.
Why was she not in her husband’s palace? Why was she worried?
Jigmed spoke these questions aloud in his dream, but the woman, a thousand years distant, did not hear him. Dreams are full of trickery, and suddenly a tree appeared, from which a thrush chirped incessantly. Jigmed realised that it wasn’t the bird but the woman lamenting: her son had forgotten his celestial origins and, in using his magic to kill animals, had angered the people.
Jigmed tried to defiend the son: ‘But weren’t the animals really demons and evil spirits?’
‘That is what he said, but nobody believed him.’
‘That fox must have been a demon in disguise – but are you sure that all the creatures he killed were evil spirits?’
The thrush darted from the branch, saying, ‘Are you asking me to speak evil about that poor boy?’
‘I feel sad for his mother.’
‘Oh . . .’ The thrush fluttered its wings. ‘You are not as stupid as people think.’ It let out a shrill cry, and flew off.
Joru had come to the tent, carrying the bodies of the foxes. He flung the bloody flesh, the fouled entrails and shattered brains to the ground, then wove the green intestines into intricate knots and hung them on branches, even at the opening of the tent. The stench of blood was overwhelming. Birds in the sky, animals on the ground, even many mice in underground caves fled from it. Joru, who had lost nearly all of his celestial qualities, bared his teeth at Jigmed – Jigmed, who would one day sing of his great feats but now was so frightened he wanted to escape from his dream.
And so he ran, crossing one hill after another, but the