spoke half in jest.
‘You do not understand,’ the old steward snapped. ‘Listen . . . the snow is falling again. We have missed another chance given us by Heaven.’
The snow grew heavier, and its strange weight now seemed to settle not on the ground but in people’s hearts. At last they pleaded, ‘Old Steward, let us go to this other place.’
The old steward fell to his knees: ‘Bodhisattva,’ he prayed, ‘they have come to their senses at last.’
On the fourth day, the blizzard eased, and the people of Gling left their snow-covered fields and villages, taking only their meagre belongings with the sheep and cattle that had survived the snow. As they walked they wept, until their voices reached the sky and changed the wind’s direction.
It was late spring at the bend of the Yellow river. Lambs gambolled and wild strawberry flowers blanketed the roadside. The old steward knelt facing their homeland, which lay far in the distance beneath snow, and looked up into the sky. ‘The people of Gling have arrived in their new home. I have brought them to the one you have chosen.’ He hesitated, turning to his people. ‘Yet you must go on alone. I am ashamed to face Joru.’
The Story The Bend in the Yellow River
They travelled for three more days before the stone fortress appeared before them, its roof glistening with the dark green rock of Gling, laid like dragon scales.
Joru stood before the people, who touched their foreheads as a sign of celebration. He did not ride upon his stick, as he had done in his former playfulness, or wear the robe with those strange antlers on its hood. His eyes shone bright and clear in his unmarked face. After he had kissed the Han consort on the forehead, he and his brother embraced, tears streaming down their faces. Then he cast an admiring glance at the twelve beauties of Glingkar.
‘Joru!’ they called.
‘Not Joru, it’s Gesar.’
‘His name matters little,’ Khrothung said. ‘Remember, he is just an eight-year-old boy.’
The girls retorted: ‘But he’s already broader and taller than you.’
‘Already his glance makes our cheeks burn.’
‘He has given us a new place to live.’
Danma led Joru through the crowd to the old steward, who was hiding in shame. Once he had made sure that the people were fed, Joru took his brother and the old steward by their hands and extended an invitation to his tent to all the tribal leaders, including his father, Senglon, the warrior heroes, priests, sorcerers and Buddhist monks who had recently been disseminating the Buddhist teaching in Glingkar. It was the tent that had accompanied Joru when he was banished from Glingkar, and the sight of it rekindled remorse in Gyatsa Zhakar, who fretted, ‘How can such a small tent accommodate so many honoured guests?’
‘The fortress is much larger and more impressive,’ the old steward said.
As though he hadn’t heard them, Joru parted the tent flaps to reveal an enchanting scene. It was roomy and airy, with a pleasant fragrance. Everyone was given a seat on a Persian rug, facing a table made of precious stones and sandalwood set with golden goblets, silver cups and long-stemmed red carnelian glasses filled with fruit. The people of Glingkar had never tasted such fruit, which came from distant lands.
Picking up his wine glass, Joru said, ‘I thank the heavens for bringing my family and kinfolk to me. This is the happiest day of my life. Drink, all of you.’
They drank, all but the old steward, who approached him. ‘I have a request on behalf of the people of Glingkar, and I will not drink until you agree.’
‘Please speak.’
‘A calamity has descended upon our beautiful land, owing to our many crimes, of which chasing you and your mother out was the most serious. I beg you, for the well-being of the people of Glingkar, let them spend three years on the land you have opened.’
‘Why three years and not three days?’ Joru was feeling mischievous.
The old steward bowed low. ‘The severity of our crime was as deep as the snow at home. It will take three years for the snow to melt and for life to return to the land.’
A pain, as sharp as a pinprick, shot through Joru’s heart as he heard the old steward shoulder the blame. He escorted him to the seat of honour and held out his own wine glass. ‘Old Steward and tribal leaders, I, Joru, built this place because I wish to help Glingkar prosper for millennia.’
As he spoke, the top of the tent disappeared, and their seats seemed to rise. They heard Joru’s booming voice: ‘See for yourselves. This beautiful and broad section of the Yellow river is curved like a precious sword, its blade facing India to the south, its tip pointing at China, the sword plunging into Mount Nyenchenthanglha. I built the fortress here because Yulung Kulha Sumdo is the future centre of Gling. Once our nation has achieved great things, we will send some of our people back to our homeland.’
Overjoyed, the old steward picked up his glass and drained it three times. A banquet was served and when the people had eaten they began to sing and dance. All night long the thousands of bonfires lit outside their tents burned so brightly they outshone the stars in the sky.
The next morning Joru took the tribal leaders up a hill, where he pointed out their surroundings. ‘Look at the river,’ he said. ‘The warriors have open spaces to gallop their horses, the people have a market for trade, and the herders have grassy plains to graze their flocks. I am giving the fortress, built with the rock tax, to our beloved old steward. It has a capacious meeting hall. When you summon us, Old Steward, the sound will travel far from the high tower.’
‘It is your fortress and you are our king,’ the old steward said.
‘King Joru! King Joru!’ the people cried.
‘He is not Joru, he is Gesar,’ his father shouted.
The people changed their chant: ‘King Gesar! King Gesar!’
Joru used his magic power to stop the people’s cheers before he brought the old steward into the fortress and set him on a throne that was covered with a tiger skin and had golden armrests carved with dragon heads.
‘Sit here, Old Steward.’
‘Heaven has shown its will. You are our king.’ He struggled in vain to get up.
Khrothung walked up. ‘He is right. Only you are qualified to be our king. Why don’t you sit on the throne and give each tribe a new place to live? It makes us uneasy, dallying in your fortress and eating your good food.’
‘I know that Uncle Khrothung wants to find land for farmers to till and pasture for the shepherds to graze their cows and sheep,’ Joru agreed.
‘Now, that is being a good nephew! I shall not fill your ears with pleasantries, as the old steward has done. My dear nephew, there are high places and low. Soil can be fertile or barren. You know that in Glingkar my Tagrong tribe occupied an area near a good river.’
‘Not everyone can feel shame and not everyone can change from bad to good,’ the old steward said, sighing over Khrothung’s words.
‘Old Steward,
