hurry, seemed not frightened but curious about the troops. Suddenly Lokesh, three steps in front of them, halted and stared back at the old stone tower.
Shan turned too, confused. The troops were not chasing anyone, not even Gendun, who wore a robe. Surya was standing on the open ledge, facing the helicopter, arms still raised, palms open, as if in greeting. The soldiers surrounded him, rifles at the ready, pausing as one soldier pressed his hand to his ear. Then, as Shan watched in horror, the soldiers closed about Surya, breaking off the leather neck strap that held his paints, pulling him from the rock and shoving him toward the helicopter, lifting him roughly into its bay. A moment later the soldiers had followed Surya inside the machine. It ascended, veering northward.
The panic did not depart with the soldiers. No one stopped running. The cries of fear did not cease. Some figures resumed their flight down the slope to the west, others retreated toward Zhoka. Dawa was alone, high on the opposite slope now, not bothering to stop to look for her family, running frantically toward the snowcapped mountains on the southern horizon, her uncle now sitting on the ground far behind her, holding his ankle as if he had injured it.
Shan walked in a daze toward the rock where Surya had stood, staring numbly at the heavy bootprints in the soil around the rock and the pigment vials that had been crushed by the boots, stepping past them to gaze over the dropoff. The helicopter was out of sight. The army had struck like lightning, then vanished into the sky.
“No one will ever see him again,” a thin voice said over Shan’s shoulder. Liya turned, dropped to one knee, and began scanning the southern landscape with her battered binoculars, as if looking for someone who would be climbing the slope above Zhoka. After a moment she rose and sighed. “Two months ago in Lhasa a man unfurled a Tibetan flag outside the military headquarters,” Liya said. “A Public Security helicopter took him over the mountains and when it landed he was not inside. It’s a way they have for dealing with political embarrassments. They don’t bother with trials for people like Surya. He is a…” Her voice drifted away.
He is a what? Shan wondered. Shan had known Surya as a monk artist, an old Tibetan with a joyful, serene smile like that often worn by Gendun. But Surya had called himself a killer.
“It was as if he were waiting for them,” Shan said. “As if he expected soldiers.” Surya had run to the tower, obliterated something written under the old painting, and waited for the troops. Yet even if a murder had occurred, the soldiers could not possibly have known.
Liya wiped a tear from her cheek. “It’s my fault. I told those strangers about the festival and the army came searching. They found one of our illegal monks.”
But Shan wasn’t so certain. Troops had come, but they had ignored Gendun, had ignored the illegal festival, the fleeing Tibetans. Surya had indeed seemed to have expected them, and they him. The hermit artist who knew nothing about the outside world, who had spent all the years since his boyhood inside Yerpa, without seeing modern machines or soldiers or guns, or even a Chinese until Shan had arrived a year earlier, had let Chinese soldiers take him into a helicopter. “They didn’t take him because he was a monk,” Shan said. “He had no robe on.”
Liya looked at Shan with pain in her eyes, as if his words only added to her despair. Shan studied her a moment. “When that herder wanted to take me for the bounty what did you mean when you said I had the protection of your clan?” He knew nothing of her family.
“The people of these hills share many things,” Liya said in a tight voice.
Shan recalled how Liya sometimes stared at the distant mountains with a haunted, lonely expression and realized how little he knew about her. “Have you been inside, in the tunnels of Zhoka?” he asked.
But Liya stepped
Shan turned too, confused. The troops were not chasing anyone, not even Gendun, who wore a robe. Surya was standing on the open ledge, facing the helicopter, arms still raised, palms open, as if in greeting. The soldiers surrounded him, rifles at the ready, pausing as one soldier pressed his hand to his ear. Then, as Shan watched in horror, the soldiers closed about Surya, breaking off the leather neck strap that held his paints, pulling him from the rock and shoving him toward the helicopter, lifting him roughly into its bay. A moment later the soldiers had followed Surya inside the machine. It ascended, veering northward.
The panic did not depart with the soldiers. No one stopped running. The cries of fear did not cease. Some figures resumed their flight down the slope to the west, others retreated toward Zhoka. Dawa was alone, high on the opposite slope now, not bothering to stop to look for her family, running frantically toward the snowcapped mountains on the southern horizon, her uncle now sitting on the ground far behind her, holding his ankle as if he had injured it.
Shan walked in a daze toward the rock where Surya had stood, staring numbly at the heavy bootprints in the soil around the rock and the pigment vials that had been crushed by the boots, stepping past them to gaze over the dropoff. The helicopter was out of sight. The army had struck like lightning, then vanished into the sky.
“No one will ever see him again,” a thin voice said over Shan’s shoulder. Liya turned, dropped to one knee, and began scanning the southern landscape with her battered binoculars, as if looking for someone who would be climbing the slope above Zhoka. After a moment she rose and sighed. “Two months ago in Lhasa a man unfurled a Tibetan flag outside the military headquarters,” Liya said. “A Public Security helicopter took him over the mountains and when it landed he was not inside. It’s a way they have for dealing with political embarrassments. They don’t bother with trials for people like Surya. He is a…” Her voice drifted away.
He is a what? Shan wondered. Shan had known Surya as a monk artist, an old Tibetan with a joyful, serene smile like that often worn by Gendun. But Surya had called himself a killer.
“It was as if he were waiting for them,” Shan said. “As if he expected soldiers.” Surya had run to the tower, obliterated something written under the old painting, and waited for the troops. Yet even if a murder had occurred, the soldiers could not possibly have known.
Liya wiped a tear from her cheek. “It’s my fault. I told those strangers about the festival and the army came searching. They found one of our illegal monks.”
But Shan wasn’t so certain. Troops had come, but they had ignored Gendun, had ignored the illegal festival, the fleeing Tibetans. Surya had indeed seemed to have expected them, and they him. The hermit artist who knew nothing about the outside world, who had spent all the years since his boyhood inside Yerpa, without seeing modern machines or soldiers or guns, or even a Chinese until Shan had arrived a year earlier, had let Chinese soldiers take him into a helicopter. “They didn’t take him because he was a monk,” Shan said. “He had no robe on.”
Liya looked at Shan with pain in her eyes, as if his words only added to her despair. Shan studied her a moment. “When that herder wanted to take me for the bounty what did you mean when you said I had the protection of your clan?” He knew nothing of her family.
“The people of these hills share many things,” Liya said in a tight voice.
Shan recalled how Liya sometimes stared at the distant mountains with a haunted, lonely expression and realized how little he knew about her. “Have you been inside, in the tunnels of Zhoka?” he asked.
But Liya stepped
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