the old steward had tasted the cha his wife brewed for him, he announced, ‘From now on, my mind will be clear and my eyes bright. I will never again be deceived by illusions and my heart will always face in the right direction.’
The people began to murmur to each other: ‘Joru is thousands of miles away, but he has changed leaves into medicine to send to Glingkar, whose people cruelly banished him.’ And the good name of the son of the deities began to spread again among the people of Glingkar.
That evening a canker sore erupted on Khrothung’s mouth and kept him awake. General Danma said, ‘That is his punishment for spreading rumours.’ Khrothung sent someone to the Han consort for some cha. But when her maid brought him a pot of the aromatic brew, he was suspicious: ‘This may be a trick of Joru’s. If he can change a leaf into medicine, he can change this bowl of cha into a magic potion to steal my powers.’ So his maidservants shared the drink instead, and soon an exotic fragrance oozed from their pores. Grinding his teeth, Khrothung snarled, ‘I could kill you all!’
Gyatsa Zhakar dreamed that same night of a world of white, covered with snow. Cows and sheep could not find grass to eat, shivering people could not find kindling and travellers could not find their way. When he awoke, he led a group of people to the mountaintop to pray at an altar made of nine layers of stone. They sacrificed an animal, but the shamans said they saw no sign from Heaven.
The Storyteller Fate
His listeners looked up to the heavens.
Nothing except flickering cold stars showed in a sky that people had been gazing at for thousands of years. They felt someone should have been there to announce a miracle, so long had they been waiting for one. True, miracles did occur sometimes, but only for a handful of people.
It took the old storyteller a long time to look up, as though he were slowly awakening from his own story. People quietly approached and placed gifts on the blanket before him: coins, dried meat, flour cakes, dried apples, cheese, salt and snuff. Then they walked away, their shadows elongated in the moonlight.
Jigmed was the only one still sitting there; his shadow and his body remained together, a solid dark shape. He watched the old man put away his lute, pick up the money and tuck it away. Then, breathing hard, the old man rolled his blanket into a bundle so he could take the other gifts with him.
‘Are you leaving now?’ Jigmed asked desperately. ‘I thought you’d come with me. What you sang was different from what I saw in my dream.’
A bright light seemed to burn in the old man’s eyes. ‘Maybe Heaven wanted to change the story and let you see that in your dream. So, tell me, young man, how are they different?’
‘They’re different from the beginning. The son of the deities didn’t let himself be exiled. The people banished him because they didn’t know who he was.’
‘In your dream, who told you this?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Then tell me what he looked like.’
‘It wasn’t a person who told me. It was like seeing something in a film.’
‘Tell me exactly how they differ.’
‘I told you. They were different at the beginning.’
‘Was everything the same after that?’
‘After that . . . I haven’t dreamed what happened after that. You sang so much in one night that you’re already far ahead of me.’
The old man slung the rolled blanket over his shoulder and cradled his lute. ‘The story will sprout new branches, young man. I’ll return to hear your version if I don’t starve or freeze to death on the road.’ With that, he hobbled off into the moonlight, and just before his shadow disappeared, Jigmed heard him say, ‘Why doesn’t this story end? Then ill-fated people like me would not have to spread it for ever.’
His shadow splintered and vanished.
The old man’s words pierced Jigmed’s heart, like a gust of cold air. Why has someone like him been chosen as a narrator for such a story? The wind began to blow, and he began to shiver. Storyteller. The word rose in his head and startled him. Was he really going to be like that old man, wandering the land burdened with the ancient story of a warrior from Heaven?
When he got home, he looked at the moon through his window.
‘Storyteller.’
I’m a fool. The deities made a mistake in choosing me, and now that they know how stupid I am they’ll never let me see the extraordinary things in my dream again.
He looked at the moon, trying to stay awake. But as he did, it changed, and the shards of light became more solid than moonbeams and whiter than snow, drifting and settling from the deepest recesses of the sky. And then he heard a voice: ‘The story, its main direction, has been settled, but there will be differences.’
‘Why?’
Roaring laughter sent the snowflakes swirling, as if disturbed by wind. ‘People always see things differently.’
The Story Snowstorm
The son of the deities also dreamed about the snow. It was not the first time.
He put on a robe and walked out of his tent. There was no snow on the ground – it was summertime, and moonlight flowed like milk. He wondered if that was a manifestation of the will of the deities, a sign that one day this would be a blessed place, a place where livestock would thrive.
But what about the swirling snow in his dream? He received no response from the heavens. The celestial soldiers who were secretly protecting him ducked into the grey clouds with the moon, fearful of answering such a question.
Noisy migrating birds landed in the marshes at a bend in the Yellow river, on their way north. The wind did not change direction, but the south-easterly winds, usually warm and moist, brought the chill of the north-westerlies. Hearing the startled birdcalls, his mother put on her robe and came out to stand behind him. Joru was beginning to understand.
‘Heaven is going to punish Glingkar,’ he said.
‘Will that incur more anger towards my son?’ his mother asked, with a sigh.
‘No, Mother.’
‘Who made me come to this world to give birth to you and make you suffer so grievously?’
‘Dear Mother, I no longer see it so. And I do love you.’
‘That, it seems, is the only blessing Heaven has bestowed on me.’
Now he saw clearly. ‘Mother, it is snowing in Gling,’ he said sadly. ‘We must prepare to receive refugees from Glingkar’s disaster, it seems.’
It was indeed snowing in Gling. Danma went to tell Gyatsa Zhakar, who then went to the old steward.
‘Snow in summer, an extraordinary sign,’ the old man said. ‘I know this is for the crime of banishing the son of the deities, a crime committed by all the people of Glingkar.’
They came out onto an open field where snow swirled in the air, turning the green summer grass yellow. In the evening, the blizzard died down a little, as a faint sunset appeared in the western sky. ‘The snow is stopping,’ the people said.
But the old steward knitted his brow. ‘Yes, the snow is stopping. But even so, ignorant people, we must reflect upon our crime. This is a warning sign from Heaven.’
‘Old Steward, don’t frown like that. You will frighten the people.’ Khrothung had appeared, and as he dismounted he spoke loudly: ‘Fear not, citizens of Gling. When you get up tomorrow, you will see that the insects that fight for grass with cows and sheep have frozen to death. I sent the heavy snow with my magic.’
‘I do not believe that your magic is adequate to such a performance. In any case, we will treat