will travel far from the high tower.’
‘It is your fortress and you are our king,’ the old steward said.
‘King Joru! King Joru!’ the people cried.
‘He is not Joru, he is Gesar,’ his father shouted.
The people changed their chant: ‘King Gesar! King Gesar!’
Joru used his magic power to stop the people’s cheers before he brought the old steward into the fortress and set him on a throne that was covered with a tiger skin and had golden armrests carved with dragon heads.
‘Sit here, Old Steward.’
‘Heaven has shown its will. You are our king.’ He struggled in vain to get up.
Khrothung walked up. ‘He is right. Only you are qualified to be our king. Why don’t you sit on the throne and give each tribe a new place to live? It makes us uneasy, dallying in your fortress and eating your good food.’
‘I know that Uncle Khrothung wants to find land for farmers to till and pasture for the shepherds to graze their cows and sheep,’ Joru agreed.
‘Now, that is being a good nephew! I shall not fill your ears with pleasantries, as the old steward has done. My dear nephew, there are high places and low. Soil can be fertile or barren. You know that in Glingkar my Tagrong tribe occupied an area near a good river.’
‘Not everyone can feel shame and not everyone can change from bad to good,’ the old steward said, sighing over Khrothung’s words.
‘Old Steward, you can say these things because you are seated on the throne. I, on the other hand, have my people’s livelihood and happiness to think of. I have no choice but to be candid.’ He took Joru to one side. ‘The people of Glingkar can no longer tolerate this steward. Since you have bestowed such favours on us, why won’t you be our king?’ Then he tugged at Joru’s sleeve. ‘My dear nephew,’ he said, ‘I believe you do not wish to be king because you are afraid.’
‘I am not afraid, Uncle.’
‘Child, you may not know it but you are afraid. You fear that with a child’s intellect you will be unable to deal with people whose schemes are as vast as the ocean.’
‘Enough, Uncle.’
‘What are you afraid of? Do not be afraid.’
‘I am not afraid. I am just weary.’
‘That is fear!’
‘Yes, it is indeed as you say. My dear uncle, I am truly afraid that, with the simple mind of a child, I cannot deal with an elder whose schemes are as vast as the ocean.’
Khrothung, of course, knew that his nephew’s barb was directed at him, but he refused to give up. He continued: ‘Remove the old steward from the throne, and I will be your steward. You can continue to vanquish evil spirits and demons, and I will resolve any troubles.’
Everyone heard him, and the old steward responded loudly, ‘I will be the steward if Joru is king.’
The Tagrong people stood with Khrothung, but the other tribes supported the old steward. As their quarrel grew fierce, they forgot about Joru.
‘Do not argue,’ Joru said quietly. They reminded him of a flock of noisy migrating birds when they first land on a lake. He walked out of the fortress.
When his mother saw him, the sadness on his face sent sharp pangs to her heart, ‘Do they want to take your fortress from you?’
‘Oh, Mother. Why did you have to leave the Dragon fortress and give birth to me among these people?’
She wanted to tell him that they would have to ask Heaven, but held back from voicing words that might add to his distress.
The shouts grew so loud that the heavy stone slabs on the roof began to vibrate and the water birds feeding at the quiet riverbank were startled into flight. Gyatsa Zhakar and General Danma came out after him. ‘Where is Father?’ Joru asked.
‘He is with the old steward.’
‘Why does he not come to Mother? How can he help the steward?’
‘Everyone has to declare which side he is on.’
‘What about you?’
‘Why don’t you want to be king?’
‘Why should I?’
‘To build a nation, a real nation. At the moment, all the tribes, who have come from the same ancestors, are nothing but loose sand.’
‘Everyone knows you were sent by Heaven to be King of Glingkar,’ Danma joined in.
Joru looked up at the sky. ‘No one has ever told me so. I only know that this argument is tiresome.’
Just then, they heard a pair of travelling monks claiming that Gling must wait for word from Heaven to determine who should be king. If the two sides could not reach agreement, they said, they themselves would take over. Without a king sent by heaven, only they could rule fairly and unselfishly. The monks offered further explanation. All under Heaven had been divided into separate worlds, each of which was to fall under the teachings of a different religion. Glingkar was placed in the realm of the Buddhist light. The son of the deities, who would be its king, had received blessings from accomplished Buddhists in the west, which was why he had magical powers and a clear mind. All this had been illuminated by Master Lotus and the Buddha of Great Compassion.
‘Monks?’ Joru’s expression changed from solemnity to disappointment and from bewilderment to playfulness. He resumed the clownish form he had adopted when first banished from Glingkar. On his stick, he rode up to a mountain peak. Gyatsa Zhakar tried to follow, but could not catch up with him, so he returned to the fortress, and the crowd grew quiet, believing he had brought a message from Joru. He opened his mouth, but could make no sound. He tried again, and this time he succeeded, but the people were impatient. ‘Louder!’
So he raised his voice: ‘Since Joru does not wish to be king, whoever he puts on the throne will be our leader.’ At that, he heard the sound of swords returning to their scabbards. If Joru heard it, Gyatsa Zhakar said to himself, he would be disappointed.
The crowd slowly dispersed. The old steward slumped on the throne. ‘We have only just emerged from disaster. How has it come to this?’
Gyatsa Zhakar was quiet, but the quick-tongued General Danma voiced his anger: ‘The old steward himself is the one who should answer that question.’
‘How dare you?’ Senglon roared.
‘Hush, Father,’ Gyatsa Zhakar whispered. ‘You should go to our mother, Metog Lhartse.’
By then, the Han consort had already gone to look for Metog Lhartse, but in vain. Senglon also sought her, but he could not find her either. For the rest of the day, the people, who were once again feeling guilty, searched for Joru, but no one saw either mother or son. The tent by the fortress had disappeared; even the haystack fence around it had vanished in a gust of wind, as if nothing had ever existed on the patch of grass.
Joru had vanished again.
Two days later he reappeared. He was wearing his deerskin robe, with the crooked antlers on the hood; his face was dirty. Perched on the twisted magic stick, he descended from the skylight in the fortress roof and landed in front of the throne, where the old steward was resting. His eyes were tightly shut, but he could not stop sighing. Joru shook his shoulders and said, with a grin, ‘Have they given you a headache?’
‘Joru is back!’ He nearly leaped off his seat.
‘Come back in, all of you. Joru is here,’ he shouted.
Joru waved his stick. ‘Stop,’ he said. ‘I won’t let them hear me.’
‘Will you use heavenly powers?’
‘I don’t know, but they can’t hear me if