yet it could explain much. Shan had not heard Tibetans speak of the earth taming temples since prison, where they had been woven into the tales told by the oldest lamas on winter nights. Centuries earlier, the construction of Tibet’s monasteries, once numbering in the thousands, had begun with the building of a series of temples in far-reaching concentric rings centered on the country’s most sacred temple, the Jokhang, in Lhasa, over a hundred miles to the northwest. The Jokhang has been built to anchor the heart of the supreme land demon, which had first resisted the introduction of Buddhism. Each of the outlying temples had been constructed on the appendages of the vast demon, some located hundreds of miles from Lhasa. The network kept the land and its people in harmony. Surya had spoken about being nailed to the earth. Shan had not connected the words to the old tales. It was part of the tradition, that the earth temples kept evil demons at bay by pinning them to the earth with sacred nails or daggers.
Though once considered the most important places of spiritual power in Tibet, earth taming temples were a thing of ancient history to most. But they would not be to Gendun, or Surya, or Lokesh. Though some of the locations were still known, most were lost, although he now recalled debate in prison about the old legend that one was located in the region of Lhadrung. Why would Surya suddenly speak of Zhoka as an earth taming temple, Shan wondered. Because, he suddenly recalled, Surya had found an old book in a cave.
* * *
Ten minutes later Shan was walking at the edge of town, watching for a truck that might be heading toward the mountains, when a sudden clamor rose from past the market. He heard applause, and a voice speaking from a public address system. It took him only five minutes to reach the crowd assembled on the athletic field used by the local school. A podium had been erected in front of the small cinder block bleachers, by another bust of Mao on a cement pillar, and a man in a suit was introducing a special guest from Beijing, a renowned scientist, the youngest director ever of his famed institution. A banner ran from the flagpole by the podium to the bleachers, announcing a tribute for Director Ming of the Museum of Antiquities in Beijing, presented by the Chinese Tibetan Friendship Society.
As the assembly of perhaps a hundred people, nearly all Han Chinese, applauded, a man in a blue suit climbed to the podium, his back to Shan. He accepted the microphone from his host. “It is I who applaud you,” he said in a polished voice, once in Mandarin and again in Tibetan. “You are the true heroes of the great reform, you are the ones who have learned how to blend the strengths of all our great cultures.”
Shan stared in disbelief as the man turned and showed his face. It was the tall, well-groomed man from the steps, one of those Tan had tried to avoid. He was the head of the most prestigious museum in Beijing, perhaps in all of China. What was he doing in Lhadrung? Shan listened for several minutes as Director Ming spoke in an earnest voice about the need to meld the great cultures of China, of how the effort was no less a challenge for those in Beijing than for those in Lhadrung. He spoke of how he had decided to locate his summer workshop in Lhadrung due to the fertile ground it represented for that effort, because it was a county where so few Chinese to date had come to live, and which still had much history to share. To emphasize his point he produced a white silk cloth, a khata, a ceremonial Tibetan scarf, raised it with both hands, and with a dramatic air tied it around the neck of the Mao bust. The assembly broke into another round of applause.
Shan retreated, wary of the soldiers who always watched over public assemblies, but as he stepped away from the field he saw the auburn-haired woman sitting in the driver’s seat of the silver car, leaning back, reading a book. He looked to make
Though once considered the most important places of spiritual power in Tibet, earth taming temples were a thing of ancient history to most. But they would not be to Gendun, or Surya, or Lokesh. Though some of the locations were still known, most were lost, although he now recalled debate in prison about the old legend that one was located in the region of Lhadrung. Why would Surya suddenly speak of Zhoka as an earth taming temple, Shan wondered. Because, he suddenly recalled, Surya had found an old book in a cave.
* * *
Ten minutes later Shan was walking at the edge of town, watching for a truck that might be heading toward the mountains, when a sudden clamor rose from past the market. He heard applause, and a voice speaking from a public address system. It took him only five minutes to reach the crowd assembled on the athletic field used by the local school. A podium had been erected in front of the small cinder block bleachers, by another bust of Mao on a cement pillar, and a man in a suit was introducing a special guest from Beijing, a renowned scientist, the youngest director ever of his famed institution. A banner ran from the flagpole by the podium to the bleachers, announcing a tribute for Director Ming of the Museum of Antiquities in Beijing, presented by the Chinese Tibetan Friendship Society.
As the assembly of perhaps a hundred people, nearly all Han Chinese, applauded, a man in a blue suit climbed to the podium, his back to Shan. He accepted the microphone from his host. “It is I who applaud you,” he said in a polished voice, once in Mandarin and again in Tibetan. “You are the true heroes of the great reform, you are the ones who have learned how to blend the strengths of all our great cultures.”
Shan stared in disbelief as the man turned and showed his face. It was the tall, well-groomed man from the steps, one of those Tan had tried to avoid. He was the head of the most prestigious museum in Beijing, perhaps in all of China. What was he doing in Lhadrung? Shan listened for several minutes as Director Ming spoke in an earnest voice about the need to meld the great cultures of China, of how the effort was no less a challenge for those in Beijing than for those in Lhadrung. He spoke of how he had decided to locate his summer workshop in Lhadrung due to the fertile ground it represented for that effort, because it was a county where so few Chinese to date had come to live, and which still had much history to share. To emphasize his point he produced a white silk cloth, a khata, a ceremonial Tibetan scarf, raised it with both hands, and with a dramatic air tied it around the neck of the Mao bust. The assembly broke into another round of applause.
Shan retreated, wary of the soldiers who always watched over public assemblies, but as he stepped away from the field he saw the auburn-haired woman sitting in the driver’s seat of the silver car, leaning back, reading a book. He looked to make
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