vulture cleverly tuck in its wings.
He asked the old steward if he had received a sign at the altar.
‘The son of the deities, Joru, has found a new place for us,’ the steward replied.
‘Did the rocks on the mountain tell you so?’ Khrothung said, with a sneer.
‘We can take to the road once the snow begins to melt.’ Then, turning to the crowd gathered outside the fortress, he called, ‘Go back to your villages and prepare your people to follow you out.’
At this, even the steward’s own people began to wail, for they loved this place, which they called home. Admittedly, there had been summer snow, but now that it had stopped, the grass would soon grow again. And, it was true, many cows and sheep had starved to death but not all of them. When spring came, the survivors would give birth to more. Only Gyatsa Zhakar and the great general Danma supported Rongtsa Khragan’s plan; the others sat in blank silence like clay statues. Khrothung was among them, but he saw no need to speak since the silent people had done so for him.
The old steward realised he must describe what the Buddha had shown him, just as a booming voice sounded in his ears: ‘Heaven can help, but the people must come to their senses for themselves.’
With a sigh, he said, ‘Go home and talk it over with your people. You know that Joru has founded a new settlement along a bend in the Yellow river to the north.’
They had heard much about the banished Joru from caravans that brought tea. Now almost everyone in Glingkar drank it; their mouths no longer festered with cankers and their limbs had grown strong. More importantly, they were energetic and clear-headed all day long. On the caravans’ return trips, not all the horses carried pelts and medicinal herbs, such as the blue flowers of rosemary. Some were loaded with slabs of shale from the rocky cliffs to pay Joru’s rock tax on their return trip past the river bend. The merchants told them that Joru had built a tri-coloured fortress with the rocks he had collected so far.
‘Three colours?’
‘Rocks brought back by southern merchants are red, those by western merchants are copper-coloured, and those from the east are white.’
‘What is the colour of rocks from the north?’
The merchants shook their heads. ‘The north is still under the control of the savage leader of the Hor tribe, King Padrang, and the demon Lutsan, who has devoured countless people. We have no idea when King Joru plans to bring them under his rule.’
‘That will never happen. He will pretend that he has already subjugated the north by using the green rocks from Glingkar.’
‘Untrue. The king has said he will use them for the roof of the fortress as a sign that he never forgets his homeland.’
The girls, led by Brugmo, the prettiest, had something else in mind: ‘He devotes himself to warrior activities so he must have grown into a handsome young man.’
The merchants shook their heads slowly and said, as if in defence of Joru, ‘The greatest warriors are those who do not look like warriors.’
This was greeted with sighs of disappointment.
‘But he was so clever and comely when he was newly born,’ Brugmo said.
‘But did he not turn himself into a monster?’ Khrothung gloated.
Yes, he had cut a fine figure when he was first born, but by the age of three or four he had begun to dress in his strange rags, and in the end, his appearance had changed to match his odd attire and his nickname, Joru. People had forgotten that his real name was Gesar, although many were sure that he would one day regain his former looks. Gyatsa Zhakar said to the giggling girls, ‘One day my brother will look like a warrior.’
The twelve prettiest girls of Glingkar, including Brugmo, said, ‘If that is the case, then we twelve would willingly be his consorts.’
Stroking his oily black beard, Khrothung said, ‘Do not wait for him. We men could not bear to see you waste your beauty and youth and wither like flowers. Why don’t you all marry me? You will enjoy lives of wealth and glory, dine on delicacies and dress in the finest clothes.’
Like flickering fish that spot the shadow of a hawk, the girls fled.
The caravans left with their heavy loads of stone. As he watched them disappear, the old steward said softly, ‘Son of the deities, why will you not show your true image?’ A sense of powerlessness filled him, and he repeated his question. ‘Son of the deities, why will you not show your true image?’
Khrothung came to the old steward. ‘No one listens to you,’ he said, ‘because you are not the true king.’
‘I am not the king. I am just a steward elected by the tribes of Gling. We are waiting for the king to appear.’
‘If you cease to call yourself “steward” and replace it with “king”, you will be the true king.’
‘Return to your settlement. I am tired. Come back tomorrow when you have been able to think.’
‘You are older than I, so you will be the king and I will be your steward. With your benevolence and my powers, Glingkar will surely prosper and grow strong.’
‘Why don’t you declare yourself king?’
‘Why not indeed? Glingkar cannot go on without a king.’
The old steward waved his hand and said, ‘We shall wait and see what Heaven has in store for us.’
Khrothung mounted his wooden vulture and flew off to tell the tribal leaders, who were travelling in different directions, ‘Come back to the fortress tomorrow. We will not talk of moving. Instead, we will elect a king for Glingkar.’
As they trudged through the snow, the leaders followed the vulture with their eyes. ‘Perhaps he is the king, the one who will lead us through the difficult days ahead.’
The next day the sky shone bright and clear, when the old steward stood on a dais in front of the fortress. The snowdrifts were silently collapsing under the heat of the sun, with water gurgling beneath the white blanket. It was nearly noon, but not a single person could be seen on the roads that led to the tribal lands. The old steward sent soldiers to find them, while he sat on the top tier of the fortress, neither drinking tea nor touching the cheese that was brought to him. Eyes closed, he could hear the snow melting, and when he opened his eyes, he saw steam rising in the sun’s rays. Still no one came. The heat from the sun weakened and, battered by an icy western wind, the steamy vapours turned to grey mist and fog. He sank into gloom. Perhaps he had outlived his usefulness; perhaps he deserved to be abandoned by the people.
Suddenly, figures appeared on the road – Danma and Gyatsa Zhakar, who had suffered snow blindness on their return trip the day before and had lost their sense of direction. Then the soldiers returned with the tribal leaders, who had lost their way also after being blinded. The last to appear was Khrothung, who had ridden his vulture straight into a mountain and had had to limp his way back. The moment he entered the fortress, snow began to fall again.
The people, thirsty from their long walk, gulped tea.
‘The caravans cannot get through,’ the old steward said, ‘and I have
