like the edge of a sword, pure, bright, and terrible.
I am afraid . Tarim said the wagons took a quarter moon to come from Salt Lake City. It will take me a full moon to walk .
Would she get lost? Would she starve? Would the sheriff catch her? She was a thief, with that gold coin hidden in her knapsack. Would some white man kill her casually for sport?
She had planned as best she could. She would walk on the wagon road, but only at night. During the day she would hide in the sagebrush, eat, sleep. Can I really walk all the way to the Salt Lake? So far, so hard . Though she’d spent her childhood on horses in Tibet, she wouldn’t ride—that would look far too suspicious for an Asian.
She breathed the night air in deep. For another long moment she permitted herself to think of home. Tibet. Her convent. Her studies. Her bed. Her peace, her freedom from violence. All lost, lost forever .
She stepped into her room for the last time. She had drilled a hole through the altar box and run a leather thong through it. Now she hung the altar around her neck and under her arm, like a monk, wore a reliquary box. In the box was cedar, and a little butter for torma . It felt lumpy under her arm, but comforting.
She stepped out into the darkness.
All night she walked through the brush, parallel to the trail. Before starting she had quailed at the thought of the darkness, the shrubbery, the animals, the shadows, the uncertain footing. Now, in fact, she felt calm. After her eyes adjusted, the moon lit the way well enough. The sagebrush was easy to walk through, the road in plain view to her left.Sometimes her shoulders protested against the weight of the pack. Sometimes a patch of giant sagebrush seemed dark and frightening. Sometimes she wondered about small noises out in the brush. But the terrors of the wilderness were less than the terrors of Tarim’s household. She breathed in and out. Occasionally it seemed that her chest might relax, her throat open. But not yet. Not safe yet .
At dawn she spread her coat behind some rocks, covered herself with her nun’s robes, and slept. At midday she ate. For the rest of the day she watched the trail. Some traffic moved northwest toward Hard Rock City, none southeast. That night she walked through the brush again. When she saw no one following her, she decided to keep walking at night, but on the trail.
That was her pattern. Walk all night. At dawn, sleep, exhausted. About noon build a fire, make tea, and eat tsampa . Spend the afternoon in meditation, or in prayers to Mahakala. Day by day, it seemed to get easier.
Touching the altar box with one hand while walking helped her keep her mind off what she asked herself. The questions were relentless as her footsteps:
Are they looking for me on the Oregon Road? Or this trail?
Who is after me? Where? Ahead or behind?
What beasts are out there in the dark?
Have I wandered onto the wrong trail?
How many more days? How many more weeks?
Will I starve?
By the time of the three-quarter moon she saw that she would starve. The jerky was gone, the tsampa nearly gone. If I must choose between going hungry and making food offerings to Mahakala, I will go hungry .
She was well into the part of Idaho Territory dominated by the Mormons, maybe even in what the map called Utah Territory. She knew little about Mormons except that they and the Americans disliked each other. The Mormons called other Americans “gentiles,” and the gentiles mockingly called them “saints.” No one knew much about how Mormons would treat Chinese people, because Chinese people flocked to mining camps, away from the Mormon city by the Salt Lake.
I know how Porter Rockwell would treat me .
The sky was beginning to get light—the road rising to a crest ahead of her was beginning to glow. Time to get off the road, time to sleep. She turned uphill through the sagebrush.
At the top she found a flat place between the bushes to spread her coat. Just before she lay down,
I am afraid . Tarim said the wagons took a quarter moon to come from Salt Lake City. It will take me a full moon to walk .
Would she get lost? Would she starve? Would the sheriff catch her? She was a thief, with that gold coin hidden in her knapsack. Would some white man kill her casually for sport?
She had planned as best she could. She would walk on the wagon road, but only at night. During the day she would hide in the sagebrush, eat, sleep. Can I really walk all the way to the Salt Lake? So far, so hard . Though she’d spent her childhood on horses in Tibet, she wouldn’t ride—that would look far too suspicious for an Asian.
She breathed the night air in deep. For another long moment she permitted herself to think of home. Tibet. Her convent. Her studies. Her bed. Her peace, her freedom from violence. All lost, lost forever .
She stepped into her room for the last time. She had drilled a hole through the altar box and run a leather thong through it. Now she hung the altar around her neck and under her arm, like a monk, wore a reliquary box. In the box was cedar, and a little butter for torma . It felt lumpy under her arm, but comforting.
She stepped out into the darkness.
All night she walked through the brush, parallel to the trail. Before starting she had quailed at the thought of the darkness, the shrubbery, the animals, the shadows, the uncertain footing. Now, in fact, she felt calm. After her eyes adjusted, the moon lit the way well enough. The sagebrush was easy to walk through, the road in plain view to her left.Sometimes her shoulders protested against the weight of the pack. Sometimes a patch of giant sagebrush seemed dark and frightening. Sometimes she wondered about small noises out in the brush. But the terrors of the wilderness were less than the terrors of Tarim’s household. She breathed in and out. Occasionally it seemed that her chest might relax, her throat open. But not yet. Not safe yet .
At dawn she spread her coat behind some rocks, covered herself with her nun’s robes, and slept. At midday she ate. For the rest of the day she watched the trail. Some traffic moved northwest toward Hard Rock City, none southeast. That night she walked through the brush again. When she saw no one following her, she decided to keep walking at night, but on the trail.
That was her pattern. Walk all night. At dawn, sleep, exhausted. About noon build a fire, make tea, and eat tsampa . Spend the afternoon in meditation, or in prayers to Mahakala. Day by day, it seemed to get easier.
Touching the altar box with one hand while walking helped her keep her mind off what she asked herself. The questions were relentless as her footsteps:
Are they looking for me on the Oregon Road? Or this trail?
Who is after me? Where? Ahead or behind?
What beasts are out there in the dark?
Have I wandered onto the wrong trail?
How many more days? How many more weeks?
Will I starve?
By the time of the three-quarter moon she saw that she would starve. The jerky was gone, the tsampa nearly gone. If I must choose between going hungry and making food offerings to Mahakala, I will go hungry .
She was well into the part of Idaho Territory dominated by the Mormons, maybe even in what the map called Utah Territory. She knew little about Mormons except that they and the Americans disliked each other. The Mormons called other Americans “gentiles,” and the gentiles mockingly called them “saints.” No one knew much about how Mormons would treat Chinese people, because Chinese people flocked to mining camps, away from the Mormon city by the Salt Lake.
I know how Porter Rockwell would treat me .
The sky was beginning to get light—the road rising to a crest ahead of her was beginning to glow. Time to get off the road, time to sleep. She turned uphill through the sagebrush.
At the top she found a flat place between the bushes to spread her coat. Just before she lay down,
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