do you need?’
‘If you could tame them . . .’ The leader pointed to wild horses galloping on the grassland.
‘Of course.’
Then the leader turned to gaze at the torrential mountain streams, under which precious gold was buried in silt.
‘Gold.’
The leader now looked towards the rare flowers and herbs on the grassland, all useful medicines for illness.
Joru was displeased. ‘Enough! I asked for only one thing, but you are greedy.’
The merchant laughed. ‘Everyone says that of us, but as time goes by, the people in the world find it harder to live without us. So you may refuse our demands, but if you do, we will not give you what we have.’
‘I want what you have.’
‘The road you opened did not attract only the greedy. Many destitute and homeless people have also come to be your subjects, Great King.’
‘I am not a king.’
‘One day you will be the king of a nation, unless you seal the passes between the snowcapped mountains, then burn the vine bridges and ferry boats on the river.’ Joru knew he could not do that now, and felt regret. When he had opened the roads, he had brought peace and wealth to a deserted, barbaric land. He had been powerful. But now he felt that he was under the control of something even more powerful, not demons, nothing he could see or kill, yet it drew closer and closer.
‘Have some tea.’ The merchant handed him a jade cup filled with a clear brown liquid.
‘Isn’t it a leaf?’ Joru asked.
‘This liquid is brewed from the magical leaves.’
He took a sip and found it bitter, but then his mouth filled with a lingering aroma. He was suddenly refreshed. The merchant gave him a bag of dried leaves from the magical tree, and Joru sent the roaming peregrine with the bag to Glingkar.
Now, Khrothung had lately fashioned a vulture out of a light wood and daily rode it haughtily across the sky, to demonstrate his powers to all of Glingkar. When he saw the soaring peregrine, he yelled, ‘Dog of the sky, where are you going?’
‘I am following Joru’s command to fly to his elder brother, Gyatsa Zhakar,’ the peregrine replied.
‘What is that in your bill? Let me see.’
‘You are not Gyatsa Zhakar,’ the peregrine said.
Khrothung recited a spell to incite his vulture to snatch the bag. But Gyatsa Zhakar had witnessed this scene: he fitted arrow to bow to shoot down his uncle’s wooden vulture. The peregrine landed on his shoulder and cried, ‘Tea! Tea!’ then flapped its wings and flew away.
Gyatsa Zhakar looked into the bag. It was not fresh cha from a green branch, so he said nothing when he returned to the fortress. Yet when the Han consort smelt the wondrous aroma her headache all but vanished. ‘How lucky I am to smell the fragrance of cha!’
Gyatsa Zhakar was overjoyed: he had the right leaf after all. He presented the bag to his mother.
After the old steward had tasted the cha his wife brewed for him, he announced, ‘From now on, my mind will be clear and my eyes bright. I will never again be deceived by illusions and my heart will always face in the right direction.’
The people began to murmur to each other: ‘Joru is thousands of miles away, but he has changed leaves into medicine to send to Glingkar, whose people cruelly banished him.’ And the good name of the son of the deities began to spread again among the people of Glingkar.
That evening a canker sore erupted on Khrothung’s mouth and kept him awake. General Danma said, ‘That is his punishment for spreading rumours.’ Khrothung sent someone to the Han consort for some cha. But when her maid brought him a pot of the aromatic brew, he was suspicious: ‘This may be a trick of Joru’s. If he can change a leaf into medicine, he can change this bowl of cha into a magic potion to steal my powers.’ So his maidservants shared the drink instead, and soon an exotic fragrance oozed from their pores. Grinding his teeth, Khrothung snarled, ‘I could kill you all!’
Gyatsa Zhakar dreamed that same night of a world of white, covered with snow. Cows and sheep could not find grass to eat, shivering people could not find kindling and travellers could not find their way. When he awoke, he led a group of people to the mountaintop to pray at an altar made of nine layers of stone. They sacrificed an animal, but the shamans said they saw no sign from Heaven.
The Storyteller Fate
His listeners looked up to the heavens.
Nothing except flickering cold stars showed in a sky that people had been gazing at for thousands of years. They felt someone should have been there to announce a miracle, so long had they been waiting for one. True, miracles did occur sometimes, but only for a handful of people.
It took the old storyteller a long time to look up, as though he were slowly awakening from his own story. People quietly approached and placed gifts on the blanket before him: coins, dried meat, flour cakes, dried apples, cheese, salt and snuff. Then they walked away, their shadows elongated in the moonlight.
Jigmed was the only one still sitting there; his shadow and his body remained together, a solid dark shape. He watched the old man put away his lute, pick up the money and tuck it away. Then, breathing hard, the old man rolled his blanket into a bundle so he could take the other gifts with him.
‘Are you leaving now?’ Jigmed asked desperately. ‘I thought you’d come with me. What you sang was different from what I saw in my dream.’
A bright light seemed to burn in the old man’s eyes. ‘Maybe Heaven wanted to change the story and let you see that in your dream. So, tell me, young man, how are they different?’
‘They’re different from the beginning. The son of the deities didn’t let himself be exiled. The people banished him because they didn’t know who he was.’
‘In your dream, who told you this?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Then tell me what he looked like.’
‘It wasn’t a person who told me. It was like seeing something in a film.’
‘Tell me exactly how they differ.’
‘I told you. They were different at the beginning.’
‘Was everything the same after that?’
‘After that . . . I haven’t dreamed what happened after that. You sang so much in one night that you’re already far ahead of me.’
The old man slung the rolled blanket over his shoulder and cradled his lute. ‘The story will sprout new branches, young man. I’ll return to hear your version if I don’t starve or freeze to death on the road.’ With that, he hobbled off into the moonlight, and just before his shadow disappeared, Jigmed heard him say, ‘Why doesn’t this story end? Then ill-fated people like me would not have to spread it for ever.’
His
