a blessing on us?’ asked Gyatsa Zhakar.
Unable to answer, the old steward walked back into the fortress with his hands clasped behind his back.
‘The snow has stopped falling!’ Khrothung shouted. It had indeed, and a great rent had opened in the thick clouds to the west, freeing the dying sun to send down its brightest light. With his hands raised, Khrothung went on, ‘The snow has stopped falling. Now do you see my powers? The snow killed the insects, which can no longer take grass from the cows and sheep.’ The herders cheered. To them, this man was better suited to lead Glingkar than the fretful old steward.
The farmers, though, were worried. ‘Our crops froze with the insects.’
‘They will come back to life tomorrow.’
When the people of Glingkar saw how composed and resolute Khrothung was, they said, ‘We have heard that Heaven is going to send us a king. Perhaps he is the one.’
But the crack in the west closed, and thick clouds darkened in the sky above them. Khrothung fled back to his own tribe on his flying horse. He knew that the people could turn away from him in an instant. As the saying goes, ‘Good people believe that kind seeds are sown in people’s hearts, while bad ones see only evil sprouts.’ To a man like Khrothung, the people were sheep one moment and wolves the next.
A new snowfall began, and lasted nine days and nine nights.
Then the sky cleared once more.
The old steward said to Gyatsa Zhakar, ‘I want to offer a reverential prayer at the mountaintop altar, for I believe that Heaven is going to send us a sign. But the heavy snow has covered the roads, and for horses it would be like falling into an abyss.’
Gyatsa Zhakar extracted an arrow from his quiver, drew his bow and shot. The arrow cleaved the snow on the ground, pushing it aside. He did it again and again, sending the snow rolling back in giant waves to clear a path. The old steward took a group of priests up to the altar. ‘Deities in Heaven, I should have brought a human sacrifice, but my people have suffered too much. I shall be happy to offer you my old body. You may open up my chest with a sharp knife. Some people in Gling call me king, but I know that I am not a king. Please dispatch me and give them a king who will lead them out of the abyss of misery.’
The reflection from the snow was so blindingly bright that the people below could not see what was happening.
The deities sent a Buddha down with the bright light; it was Avalokitesvara, the Buddha of Mercy and Compassion. ‘Heaven sent you a king, and he was among you, but you betrayed and deserted him. Now all of Gling must leave this place to follow him.’ The Buddha and the light disappeared.
‘May I tell the people?’ the old steward shouted into the sky.
‘The people must come to their senses for themselves. They must wake up.’
It was a loud, booming voice, audible only to the old steward. Even Gyatsa Zhakar, who was close by and saw the Buddha, did not hear a word, let alone the priests, who neither saw nor heard anything.
All the leaders of Glingkar’s villages came to the old steward’s fortress. Khrothung rode up on his wooden vulture. He circled the fortress three times before landing and, reciting an incantation, made sure that everyone saw his vulture cleverly tuck in its wings.
He asked the old steward if he had received a sign at the altar.
‘The son of the deities, Joru, has found a new place for us,’ the steward replied.
‘Did the rocks on the mountain tell you so?’ Khrothung said, with a sneer.
‘We can take to the road once the snow begins to melt.’ Then, turning to the crowd gathered outside the fortress, he called, ‘Go back to your villages and prepare your people to follow you out.’
At this, even the steward’s own people began to wail, for they loved this place, which they called home. Admittedly, there had been summer snow, but now that it had stopped, the grass would soon grow again. And, it was true, many cows and sheep had starved to death but not all of them. When spring came, the survivors would give birth to more. Only Gyatsa Zhakar and the great general Danma supported Rongtsa Khragan’s plan; the others sat in blank silence like clay statues. Khrothung was among them, but he saw no need to speak since the silent people had done so for him.
The old steward realised he must describe what the Buddha had shown him, just as a booming voice sounded in his ears: ‘Heaven can help, but the people must come to their senses for themselves.’
With a sigh, he said, ‘Go home and talk it over with your people. You know that Joru has founded a new settlement along a bend in the Yellow river to the north.’
They had heard much about the banished Joru from caravans that brought tea. Now almost everyone in Glingkar drank it; their mouths no longer festered with cankers and their limbs had grown strong. More importantly, they were energetic and clear-headed all day long. On the caravans’ return trips, not all the horses carried pelts and medicinal herbs, such as the blue flowers of rosemary. Some were loaded with slabs of shale from the rocky cliffs to pay Joru’s rock tax on their return trip past the river bend. The merchants told them that Joru had built a tri-coloured fortress with the rocks he had collected so far.
‘Three colours?’
‘Rocks brought back by southern merchants are red, those by western merchants are copper-coloured, and those from the east are white.’
‘What is the colour of rocks from the north?’
The merchants shook their heads. ‘The north is still under the control of the savage leader of the Hor tribe, King Padrang, and the demon Lutsan, who has devoured countless people. We have no idea when King Joru plans to bring them under his rule.’
‘That will never happen. He will pretend that he has already subjugated the north by using the green rocks from Glingkar.’
‘Untrue. The king has said he will use them for the roof of the fortress as a sign that he never forgets his homeland.’
The girls, led by Brugmo, the prettiest, had something else in mind: ‘He devotes himself to warrior activities so he must have grown into a handsome young man.’
The merchants shook their heads slowly and said, as if in defence of Joru, ‘The greatest warriors are those who do not look like warriors.’
This was greeted with sighs of disappointment.
‘But he was so clever and comely when he was newly born,’ Brugmo said.
‘But did he not turn himself into a monster?’ Khrothung gloated.
Yes, he had cut a fine figure when he was first born, but by the age of three or four he had begun to dress in his strange rags, and in the end, his appearance had changed to match his odd attire and his nickname, Joru. People had forgotten that his real name was Gesar, although many were sure that he would one day regain his former looks. Gyatsa Zhakar said to the giggling girls, ‘One day my brother will look like a warrior.’
The twelve prettiest girls of Glingkar, including Brugmo, said, ‘If that is the case, then we twelve would willingly be his consorts.’
Stroking his oily black beard, Khrothung said, ‘Do not wait for him. We men could not bear to see you waste your beauty and youth and wither like flowers. Why don’t you all marry me? You will enjoy lives of wealth and glory, dine on delicacies and dress in the finest clothes.’
Like flickering fish that spot the shadow of a hawk, the girls fled.
The caravans left with their heavy loads of stone. As he watched them disappear, the old steward said softly, ‘Son of the deities, why will you not show your true image?’ A sense of powerlessness filled him, and he repeated his question. ‘Son of the deities, why will you not show your true image?’
Khrothung came to the old steward. ‘No one listens to you,’ he said, ‘because you are not the true king.’
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