you cease to call yourself “steward” and replace it with “king”, you will be the true king.’
‘Return to your settlement. I am tired. Come back tomorrow when you have been able to think.’
‘You are older than I, so you will be the king and I will be your steward. With your benevolence and my powers, Glingkar will surely prosper and grow strong.’
‘Why don’t you declare yourself king?’
‘Why not indeed? Glingkar cannot go on without a king.’
The old steward waved his hand and said, ‘We shall wait and see what Heaven has in store for us.’
Khrothung mounted his wooden vulture and flew off to tell the tribal leaders, who were travelling in different directions, ‘Come back to the fortress tomorrow. We will not talk of moving. Instead, we will elect a king for Glingkar.’
As they trudged through the snow, the leaders followed the vulture with their eyes. ‘Perhaps he is the king, the one who will lead us through the difficult days ahead.’
The next day the sky shone bright and clear, when the old steward stood on a dais in front of the fortress. The snowdrifts were silently collapsing under the heat of the sun, with water gurgling beneath the white blanket. It was nearly noon, but not a single person could be seen on the roads that led to the tribal lands. The old steward sent soldiers to find them, while he sat on the top tier of the fortress, neither drinking tea nor touching the cheese that was brought to him. Eyes closed, he could hear the snow melting, and when he opened his eyes, he saw steam rising in the sun’s rays. Still no one came. The heat from the sun weakened and, battered by an icy western wind, the steamy vapours turned to grey mist and fog. He sank into gloom. Perhaps he had outlived his usefulness; perhaps he deserved to be abandoned by the people.
Suddenly, figures appeared on the road – Danma and Gyatsa Zhakar, who had suffered snow blindness on their return trip the day before and had lost their sense of direction. Then the soldiers returned with the tribal leaders, who had lost their way also after being blinded. The last to appear was Khrothung, who had ridden his vulture straight into a mountain and had had to limp his way back. The moment he entered the fortress, snow began to fall again.
The people, thirsty from their long walk, gulped tea.
‘The caravans cannot get through,’ the old steward said, ‘and I have no more tea for you.’
‘Are you saying that whoever has the most tea can be the king?’ Khrothung spoke half in jest.
‘You do not understand,’ the old steward snapped. ‘Listen . . . the snow is falling again. We have missed another chance given us by Heaven.’
The snow grew heavier, and its strange weight now seemed to settle not on the ground but in people’s hearts. At last they pleaded, ‘Old Steward, let us go to this other place.’
The old steward fell to his knees: ‘Bodhisattva,’ he prayed, ‘they have come to their senses at last.’
On the fourth day, the blizzard eased, and the people of Gling left their snow-covered fields and villages, taking only their meagre belongings with the sheep and cattle that had survived the snow. As they walked they wept, until their voices reached the sky and changed the wind’s direction.
It was late spring at the bend of the Yellow river. Lambs gambolled and wild strawberry flowers blanketed the roadside. The old steward knelt facing their homeland, which lay far in the distance beneath snow, and looked up into the sky. ‘The people of Gling have arrived in their new home. I have brought them to the one you have chosen.’ He hesitated, turning to his people. ‘Yet you must go on alone. I am ashamed to face Joru.’
The Story The Bend in the Yellow River
They travelled for three more days before the stone fortress appeared before them, its roof glistening with the dark green rock of Gling, laid like dragon scales.
Joru stood before the people, who touched their foreheads as a sign of celebration. He did not ride upon his stick, as he had done in his former playfulness, or wear the robe with those strange antlers on its hood. His eyes shone bright and clear in his unmarked face. After he had kissed the Han consort on the forehead, he and his brother embraced, tears streaming down their faces. Then he cast an admiring glance at the twelve beauties of Glingkar.
‘Joru!’ they called.
‘Not Joru, it’s Gesar.’
‘His name matters little,’ Khrothung said. ‘Remember, he is just an eight-year-old boy.’
The girls retorted: ‘But he’s already broader and taller than you.’
‘Already his glance makes our cheeks burn.’
‘He has given us a new place to live.’
Danma led Joru through the crowd to the old steward, who was hiding in shame. Once he had made sure that the people were fed, Joru took his brother and the old steward by their hands and extended an invitation to his tent to all the tribal leaders, including his father, Senglon, the warrior heroes, priests, sorcerers and Buddhist monks who had recently been disseminating the Buddhist teaching in Glingkar. It was the tent that had accompanied Joru when he was banished from Glingkar, and the sight of it rekindled remorse in Gyatsa Zhakar, who fretted, ‘How can such a small tent accommodate so many honoured guests?’
‘The fortress is much larger and more impressive,’ the old steward said.
As though he hadn’t heard them, Joru parted the tent flaps to reveal an enchanting scene. It was roomy and airy, with a pleasant fragrance. Everyone was given a seat on a Persian rug, facing a table made of precious stones and sandalwood set with golden goblets, silver cups and long-stemmed red carnelian glasses filled with fruit. The people of Glingkar had never tasted such fruit, which came from distant lands.
Picking up his wine glass, Joru said, ‘I thank the heavens for bringing my family and kinfolk to me. This is the happiest day of my life. Drink, all of you.’
They drank, all but the old steward, who approached him. ‘I have a request on behalf of the people of Glingkar, and I will not drink until you agree.’
‘Please speak.’
‘A calamity has descended upon our beautiful land, owing to our many crimes, of which chasing you and your mother out was the most serious. I beg you, for the well-being of the people of Glingkar, let them spend three years on the land you have opened.’
‘Why three years and not three days?’ Joru was feeling mischievous.
The old steward bowed low. ‘The severity of our crime was as deep as the snow at home. It will take three years for the snow to melt and for life to return to the land.’
A pain, as sharp as a pinprick, shot through Joru’s heart as he heard the old steward shoulder the blame. He escorted him to the seat of honour and held out his own wine glass. ‘Old Steward and tribal leaders, I, Joru, built this place because I wish to help Glingkar prosper for millennia.’
As he spoke, the top of the tent disappeared, and their seats seemed to rise. They heard Joru’s booming voice: ‘See for yourselves. This beautiful and broad section of the Yellow river is curved like a precious sword, its blade facing India to the south, its tip pointing at China, the sword plunging into Mount Nyenchenthanglha. I built the fortress here because Yulung Kulha Sumdo is the future centre of Gling. Once our nation has achieved great things, we will send some of our people back to our homeland.’
Overjoyed, the old steward picked up his glass and drained it three times. A banquet was served and when the people had eaten they began to sing and dance. All night long the thousands of bonfires lit outside their tents burned so brightly they outshone the stars in the sky.
The next morning Joru took the tribal leaders up a hill, where he pointed out their surroundings. ‘Look at the river,’ he said. ‘The warriors have open spaces to gallop their horses, the people have