would murder you without even thinking about it, men on this road, and me too if I’m caught with you. And in Tibet where I come from and where we are going there are men who believe all “phillings” are devils, and no one there minds killing devils.’
‘Phillings?’ I said.
‘Foreigners. Tibetans call them “phillings”. You must understand that all men of your race are not like your mother and father. Many of them come only to take what they can and leave. Such people are not welcome, not in China and not in Tibet.’ He made me walk away from him and turn round and walk back. ‘Now remember you must speak only when I say you can, when it is safe. You’ll do, Ho Zong,’ he said, ‘just as long as you don’t wash, you’ll do. We must go on now. I want to be a long way from here before dark.’
We rode out of the trees together into the frail light of dawn. ‘Goodbye Ashley Anderson,’ I said, ‘I’m Zong Ho. Zong Ho. Zong Ho.’ I liked the sound of the name and said it again and again until Uncle Sung stopped me.
‘You may be Zong Ho,’ said Uncle Sung, ‘but you’re not the son of Zong Sung.’
‘Why not?’ I asked.
‘Because Zong Ho, the son of Zong Sung, is dumb,’ he said. ‘He has been since birth, remember?’
I thought he would be smiling when I looked across at him, but he was not. As our eyes met I think I understood the seriousness of our situation for the first time. ‘You must never forget it, Ho. Never,’ he said.
I was used to riding, but I had never travelled far on horseback before, only to the town and along the river banks with Lin. By that first evening, after a day in the saddle, I was sore and stiff. As I dismounted, my leg must have touched the horse’s rump for he started forward suddenly and I was thrown off.
I fell on my side, my arm trapped underneath me. It was not a hard fall; but my chest pained me a bit as Uncle Sung helped me to my feet. My coat was torn. When he took it off to make sure I had not damaged myself I noticed that my arm was bleeding again. The old wound was open. Uncle Sung bound it up and we both thought no more about it. It did not trouble me much. It was a clean wound after all, and almost healed.
I remember well enough the heat and the flies and the dust as we rode across the plains that summer, the filthy water we had to drink, and the rats. I shall never forget the rats, nor the infernal dogs that leapt out at us at every farmstead we passed and threatened to tear us to pieces. Without Uncle Sung’s long staff to protect us I feel sure they would have done so. But at least no one appeared to doubt we were father and son. My disguise, renewed each morning, clearly worked. Our story seemed to be believed wherever we went. We were accepted as pilgrims and much compassion was expressed at my unfortunate disability. I began to feel comfortable in my new persona and confident enough to revel in the deception. But my arm was beginning to pain me now and I found it difficult to sleep at nights.
From time to time though I felt I was regarded with some curiosity – not least I thought because I was two or three inches taller than my father (something I could not disguise) – and indeed on one occasion we did come very close to discovery.
For the most part we kept away from others, but sometimes meetings on the road with traders or pilgrims or herders forced us into company. It was the hospitality of the farmers who took us in at night that proved the most dangerous, and it was on just such an occasion that I forgot myself once over supper. The soup on this particular evening was thick with barley and steaming hot and I was famished. I ate ravenously and made the mistake of licking my fingers when I had finished. The eyes of the little girl standing at my elbow should have warned me. I saw the inquisitiveness in her face turn to a look of alarm, and only then realised that my fingers were licked quite white. Uncle Sung had noticed and kicked me hard under the table. Either the girl was too young to speak or too terrified because she ran across the room and buried herself in her mother’s skirts, sobbing hysterically. I sat on my hand until I had collected my thoughts and prayed that the little girl would not find her tongue. She kept looking back at me from over her shoulder and then she began to babble incoherently to her mother. Uncle Sung kicked me again and I looked across at him. He was reaching down and rubbing his hand on the sole of his boot, feigning a fit of coughing as he did so. By the time the little girl dragged her mother over to look at me my hand was grimy with the dirt from my boot and quite as dark as the other. She took one look at it, screamed and ran out of the door, her bewildered mother in hot pursuit. I never licked my fingers again.
As we travelled westwards Uncle Sung taught me to understand Tibetan well enough not to look stupid if I was spoken to. I remembered a little of what he had taught me when I was younger, but now I think I was quicker to learn. To speak it though would have betrayed me at once. I was happy enough to be dumb. He taught me how to blow my nose with my fingers as all Tibetans do, and to spit like a Tibetan herdsman, long and loud and often, to click my tongue as he did to show amazement – a practice I did not find difficult for I had in the past often mimicked Uncle Sung’s own peculiar way of expressing himself. It did not matter yet, he said, but once we were amongst Tibetans I would need to be more convincing if I was to be accepted as one of them.
We had to walk a lot now as we left the plains behind us that autumn and began to climb higher into the hills. The horses were sturdy, thickset creatures but hardly bigger than donkeys, and with our packs we were a heavy load. To rest them we dismounted at the foot of every hill and walked up. I remember that I found it difficult to keep up with Uncle Sung on the hills and that my arm still would not heal properly despite all Uncle Sung’s efforts. It ached continuously now and throbbed down to my finger-tips. I knew I was getting weaker but did not want to admit it either to myself or to Uncle Sung. It was not courage, just obstinacy.
I have a clear picture in my mind of Uncle Sung walking ahead of me, one arm on the neck of his horse and leaning on his staff. Beyond him the sun came up over the mountains and set the peaks on fire. They were the first high mountains I had ever seen. ‘Tibet?’ I called out. ‘Not yet,’ said Uncle Sung. ‘But soon. Soon now.’ And suddenly my legs gave way and I found myself on my hands and knees incapable of moving. Uncle Sung was helping me to my feet, but I was too feeble even to stand. There was not enough strength in my arms to hold on to him. I looked up. Uncle Sung’s face glowed copper gold and flames from the mountains licked about his head.
That is all I can honestly say that I remember of the first stage of our journey. For the missing months of winter I must rely on Uncle Sung’s account of my illness and the trek up through the mountain passes of Tibet onto the plateau. The horses were sold and he bought a yak and a cart to carry me and the baggage – a horse cannot negotiate snowdrifts as well as a yak. I have only incoherent flashes of recollection, the stifling smell of smoke, greasy sheepskins, the rocking of a cart and the swaying vision of white mountains against a grey pall of sky, and a cold whining wind biting at my face. I remember, or rather I think I remember because my grip on reality was so tenuous I may well have dreamed it, but I recall lying at night with the stars so close I could almost reach out and touch them; and then there were the strong colours of the high plateau with its dark, deep skies and everywhere rocks of red and yellow.
It seems it was the poison in my arm that nearly killed me. Unnoticed it had affected my whole body. For nearly two months, Uncle Sung told me, I hovered near to death. He found refuge for us in a disused butcher’s house in a mountain village, built entirely of bones and horns. The people of the village were used to pilgrims and treated us with great kindness. The house was dry and warm. The yak dung for the fire was brought to the house every day by the villagers, who prayed as Uncle Sung did for my recovery. More than once, Uncle Sung told me, my feverish ravings had almost given us away. Many was the time he had to clap his hand over my mouth in case someone passing by outside the house should hear me. English or Chinese – I raved in both and both were equally dangerous. After all I was supposed to be dumb. Somehow I survived. Uncle
