words pierced Jigmed’s heart, like a gust of cold air. Why has someone like him been chosen as a narrator for such a story? The wind began to blow, and he began to shiver. Storyteller. The word rose in his head and startled him. Was he really going to be like that old man, wandering the land burdened with the ancient story of a warrior from Heaven?
When he got home, he looked at the moon through his window.
‘Storyteller.’
I’m a fool. The deities made a mistake in choosing me, and now that they know how stupid I am they’ll never let me see the extraordinary things in my dream again.
He looked at the moon, trying to stay awake. But as he did, it changed, and the shards of light became more solid than moonbeams and whiter than snow, drifting and settling from the deepest recesses of the sky. And then he heard a voice: ‘The story, its main direction, has been settled, but there will be differences.’
‘Why?’
Roaring laughter sent the snowflakes swirling, as if disturbed by wind. ‘People always see things differently.’
The Story Snowstorm
The son of the deities also dreamed about the snow. It was not the first time.
He put on a robe and walked out of his tent. There was no snow on the ground – it was summertime, and moonlight flowed like milk. He wondered if that was a manifestation of the will of the deities, a sign that one day this would be a blessed place, a place where livestock would thrive.
But what about the swirling snow in his dream? He received no response from the heavens. The celestial soldiers who were secretly protecting him ducked into the grey clouds with the moon, fearful of answering such a question.
Noisy migrating birds landed in the marshes at a bend in the Yellow river, on their way north. The wind did not change direction, but the south-easterly winds, usually warm and moist, brought the chill of the north-westerlies. Hearing the startled birdcalls, his mother put on her robe and came out to stand behind him. Joru was beginning to understand.
‘Heaven is going to punish Glingkar,’ he said.
‘Will that incur more anger towards my son?’ his mother asked, with a sigh.
‘No, Mother.’
‘Who made me come to this world to give birth to you and make you suffer so grievously?’
‘Dear Mother, I no longer see it so. And I do love you.’
‘That, it seems, is the only blessing Heaven has bestowed on me.’
Now he saw clearly. ‘Mother, it is snowing in Gling,’ he said sadly. ‘We must prepare to receive refugees from Glingkar’s disaster, it seems.’
It was indeed snowing in Gling. Danma went to tell Gyatsa Zhakar, who then went to the old steward.
‘Snow in summer, an extraordinary sign,’ the old man said. ‘I know this is for the crime of banishing the son of the deities, a crime committed by all the people of Glingkar.’
They came out onto an open field where snow swirled in the air, turning the green summer grass yellow. In the evening, the blizzard died down a little, as a faint sunset appeared in the western sky. ‘The snow is stopping,’ the people said.
But the old steward knitted his brow. ‘Yes, the snow is stopping. But even so, ignorant people, we must reflect upon our crime. This is a warning sign from Heaven.’
‘Old Steward, don’t frown like that. You will frighten the people.’ Khrothung had appeared, and as he dismounted he spoke loudly: ‘Fear not, citizens of Gling. When you get up tomorrow, you will see that the insects that fight for grass with cows and sheep have frozen to death. I sent the heavy snow with my magic.’
‘I do not believe that your magic is adequate to such a performance. In any case, we will treat the snow as a special favour from Heaven,’ snapped the old steward.
‘What, then, is the reason for bestowing such a blessing on us?’ asked Gyatsa Zhakar.
Unable to answer, the old steward walked back into the fortress with his hands clasped behind his back.
‘The snow has stopped falling!’ Khrothung shouted. It had indeed, and a great rent had opened in the thick clouds to the west, freeing the dying sun to send down its brightest light. With his hands raised, Khrothung went on, ‘The snow has stopped falling. Now do you see my powers? The snow killed the insects, which can no longer take grass from the cows and sheep.’ The herders cheered. To them, this man was better suited to lead Glingkar than the fretful old steward.
The farmers, though, were worried. ‘Our crops froze with the insects.’
‘They will come back to life tomorrow.’
When the people of Glingkar saw how composed and resolute Khrothung was, they said, ‘We have heard that Heaven is going to send us a king. Perhaps he is the one.’
But the crack in the west closed, and thick clouds darkened in the sky above them. Khrothung fled back to his own tribe on his flying horse. He knew that the people could turn away from him in an instant. As the saying goes, ‘Good people believe that kind seeds are sown in people’s hearts, while bad ones see only evil sprouts.’ To a man like Khrothung, the people were sheep one moment and wolves the next.
A new snowfall began, and lasted nine days and nine nights.
Then the sky cleared once more.
The old steward said to Gyatsa Zhakar, ‘I want to offer a reverential prayer at the mountaintop altar, for I believe that Heaven is going to send us a sign. But the heavy snow has covered the roads, and for horses it would be like falling into an abyss.’
Gyatsa Zhakar extracted an arrow from his quiver, drew his bow and shot. The arrow cleaved the snow on the ground, pushing it aside. He did it again and again, sending the snow rolling back in giant waves to clear a path. The old steward took a group of priests up to the altar. ‘Deities in Heaven, I should have brought a human sacrifice, but my people have suffered too much. I shall be happy to offer you my old body. You may open up my chest with a sharp knife. Some people in Gling call me king, but I know that I am not a king. Please dispatch me and give them a king who will lead them out of the abyss of misery.’
The reflection from the snow was so blindingly bright that the people below could not see what was happening.
The deities sent a Buddha down with the bright light; it was Avalokitesvara, the Buddha of Mercy and Compassion. ‘Heaven sent you a king, and he was among you, but you betrayed and deserted him. Now all of Gling must leave this place to follow him.’ The Buddha and the light disappeared.
‘May I tell the people?’ the old steward shouted into the sky.
‘The people must come to their senses for themselves. They must wake up.’
It was a loud, booming voice, audible only to the old steward. Even Gyatsa Zhakar, who was close by and saw the Buddha, did not hear a word, let alone the priests, who neither saw nor heard anything.
All the leaders of Glingkar’s villages came to the old steward’s fortress.
