Chapter 170

The company commander didn't buy it, saying: "What ancient tomb? In Tibetan areas, they practice sky burial—where would there be any tombs? It must be those spy turtles stirring up trouble. You guys wouldn't use your brains a bit, damn it, I just don't believe it."

The old lama, accustomed to dealing with Han people, spoke clear Han Chinese. Seeing the army officers disbelieve, he decided to follow us to avoid disturbing the evil mountain ghost lake. Tibetans worship high mountains and lakes; to them, mountains and lakes are embodiments of deities. Besides sacred mountains and holy lakes, there are also evil mountains and inauspicious lakes, but these places are all subdued by Buddhist dharma. The lama worried we Han people, unaware of the truth, might cause trouble, but he couldn't say it outright, so he only offered to guide and assist the army.

Seeing the old lama volunteer to lead the way, the company commander naturally agreed, saying: "All right." He then led our hastily assembled reinforcement detachment out from the "Unfrozen Spring" supply depot.

Listening nearby, I thought our company commander was a capable fighter. Before coming to Kunlun Mountain, though he had received ethnic policy training, his understanding of this ancient, mysterious Tibetan region was still too shallow.

At the time I was young too, only superficially familiar with tomb culture and feng shui secrets, but I knew that in Tibet, the five burial practices—fire, water, earth, sky, and stupa—have coexisted for thousands of years. Earth burial isn't absent, just extremely rare; in Tibet it's the most inauspicious burial, taboo for ordinary people. Only those who committed grave sins are buried after death, forever barred from reincarnation. Perhaps in the abandoned Great Phoenix Temple, there truly is such an ancient tomb.

Only ten years later did I fully understand: Tibetan earth burial wasn't as simple as I once thought. In ancient times, many nobles influenced by Han culture also embraced earth burial. On Mount Muji southwest of QiongJie, there are numerous tombs of successive Tubo kings from around the 7th–8th centuries CE—about thirty in total. Collectively known as the "Tombs of the Tibetan Kings," they are square with domed roofs, towering tens of meters high, built of rammed earth and stone. The most famous interred there is Songtsen Gampo. Many claim this is a stupa burial form, but essentially it's no different from Tang dynasty mountain tombs.

But back then, such talk naturally couldn't be voiced in the troops. As a revolutionary soldier, one must obey orders and follow commands—do whatever superiors say.

From our starting point to the "Great Phoenix Temple" at the mountain pass, the distance wasn't far, but there was no road—rugged ridges, extremely difficult terrain, great elevation changes. A thousand miles, different skies: snow still fell on the mountain ridges, while below it was spring-like year-round. The desolate area around the Great Phoenix Temple was originally uninhabited, except that before its gate lay a year-round green meadow of coarse grass. Occasionally, Tibetan herders came to cut winter grass for emergency use, since the mountains were bad, the lakes bad, and people and livestock often vanished mysteriously there. So herders avoided it if they could.

The lama led his old pack horse at the front, guiding us. After walking nearly half a day, we rounded several mountain bends when snow suddenly intensified—low leaden clouds, goose-feather flakes blanketing heaven and earth. The endless, undulating Kunlun range looked like layers of frozen white waves. Gazing out, everywhere was draped in silver and jade, frost hanging, snow falling—magnificent yet burdensome for those trekking the ridges.

Xu Gan Shi and Lu Weiguo, the terrain specialist, were the two less physically fit members of our team. As the path climbed higher and the sky darkened, they both began showing mild altitude sickness symptoms, seemingly needing to cross the ridge ahead before reaching the Great Phoenix Temple pass. The company commander then ordered: first find a sheltered spot for everyone to rest briefly, eat something to replenish strength, then push forward in one go to the destination.

So our small detachment halted temporarily. The female military doctor accompanying us, Ga Hong—ethnic Tibetan from Deqin, originally named Gema, meaning "star" in Tibetan—examined Xu Gan Shi and the others. She said it was nothing: just prolonged walking had reduced cardiopulmonary function, causing this. Here in a mountain hollow, altitude wasn't too high; drinking a few bowls of butter tea to ease altitude sickness, then resting a bit, would resolve it—no medicine needed.

The old lama found a large stone, built a stove on its leeward side with rubble, lit a small fire with dried yak dung, heated the butter tea, and served it to us—last to me and the big guy. The lama held a prayer wheel in one hand, a tea kettle in the other, poured tea into bowls, then said: "May auspiciousness be with you."

I was already frozen stiff. After thanking the lama, I tilted back my neck and drained the whole bowl of butter tea, wiped my mouth. Previously I'd never thought this mix of sesame, salt, butter, tea leaves, and other odds and ends, boiled into a drink, could be tasty. But now, in this ice-and-snow wilderness, drinking this steaming hot bowl, I suddenly felt nothing in the world could taste better.

Seeing me drink quickly, the female medic Gema asked the lama for the kettle and refilled my bowl: "Drink slowly, don't scald your mouth. Tibetan custom: when drinking tea, don't drain the bowl completely—leave some at the bottom, so the host appears generous." After saying this, she smiled at me and turned to help the lama brew tea.

Watching her retreating figure, I told the big guy beside me: "I think Medic Gema is wonderful—treats comrades like spring warmth, especially like my older sister."

The big guy wondered: "You still have a sister back home? Why haven't you mentioned her before? What does she look like? Show us a photo."

Just as I was about to tell the big guy I only had such a lovely, affectionate sister in my dreams, the sentry radio operator suddenly shouted: "Situation!"

Those gathered around the fire for warmth instantly sprang up as if electrified—kicked snow, stomped out the fire, quickly dropped prone, simultaneously producing a series of sharp, forceful bolt-action sounds. Yet all around, only white snow drifted, the night deep and silent, save for the lonely wind whistling wu-wu.

The company commander lay prone in the snow, vigilantly scanning surroundings, and barked: "What situation? Chen Xing, you turtle, dare falsely report military intel? I'll shoot you first—believe it or not?"

Radio operator Chen Xing whispered his protest: "Company commander, I stake my head on it—I didn't missee. Just now, on that mountain peak ahead, several green lights suddenly flashed on."

I said to the company commander: "Could it be like the hidden posts in Yangcheng—enemy spies sending contact signals? We don't know if we've been exposed. Better let me go scout."

The company commander nodded: "All right. When you go, crawl forward, be careful. Best to bring back a live one… eh… not quite right."

Only then did we see, dozens of meters away, five small green lights suddenly appear. With darkness fallen and the barren mountain surface covered in white snow, terrain ahead was hard to discern. These five green lights drifted slowly with wind and snow, flickering like ghost fires, circling us.

We all raised our semi-automatic rifles, aiming at the target, but the commander said no one should fire until the situation was clear. At that moment, the lama's old pack horse suddenly neighed, kept bucking. The lama hastily grabbed the reins, stroked its mane, chanted sutras to calm it, then told us: "The guardian deity of livestock has been startled—it's a wolf pack."

I gazed at those drifting, flickering five green specks—could there be a one-eyed one? Just entering Kunlun Mountain, I'd heard old soldiers at the depot say: nearby Mo Zhan grasslands had a one-eyed white-furred wolf king, but recent military-civilian wolf hunts had been extensive, wolf packs nearly vanished. Who'd have thought they'd hidden in the mountains? Their sudden appearance bodes ill—no telling what disaster they'll bring.

Three wolves circled us several times; the commander had the big guy fire a shot into the air to scare them off, lest more hungry wolves come and cause unnecessary trouble. Our immediate task isn't wolf hunting but urgently rescuing missing comrades. So the big guy fired into the air—the domestically produced Type 56 semi-automatic rifle, its unique report tearing through the night.

The few surrounding wolves, seemingly aware of our weapons' power, dared not linger; soon, under cover of night, they vanished into wind and snow. The commander speculated perhaps that squad ahead, returning, had been ambushed by wolves—but then thought it unlikely: a dozen semi-automatic rifles could keep any number of wolves at bay. Now, with foul weather, infiltrating enemy spies in the mountains are far more frightening than wolves, with many hidden threats—we must immediately locate that missing squad.

We immediately set out, crossed a major ridge, descended a steep slope—below lay the meadow. No snow here, temperature slightly higher, still bitterly cold. Everywhere withered grass, decay— the desolate Great Phoenix Temple half-hidden among weed clumps.

Ancient wolf-infested woods encircled the meadow, substantial in area. With few of us, searching such a vast area was no easy task—so we split into two teams: the commander led the radio operator, cook, terrain specialist Lu Weiguo, and medic Ga Hong as one team; the rest—big guy, lama, Xu Gan Shi, and myself—formed the second team, with the commander assigning me temporary charge of it.

The two teams searched from left and right flanks. I led my team, pushing aside waist-high tangled grass, rifle at the ready, feeling our way forward. Parting the grass revealed stretches of blurred ancient stone paving beneath—remnants of Qing dynasty temple construction. I thought these ruins could help confirm direction, so I wanted to press on, but the old lama grabbed me, saying: "Hey, Puscolor army, this path isn't for people to walk on." (Puscolor: youth)

I thought: if not for people, is it for ghosts? I told the lama: "The people's江山 belongs to the people; the people's roads are walked by the people. In China, whether big road or small, all are socialist roads—why not let us walk?"

Xu Gan Shi felt I spoke too rashly, so he intervened: "Local comrades are assisting our mission—I think we should heed their advice more."

The lama produced from his multicolored satchel an ancient iron staff, saying: "I served as the iron-staff lama for two living Buddhas for forty years—I know this temple inside out. That path is absolutely forbidden—just follow behind me. This abandoned temple's origin is no ordinary matter." Having said that, he detoured sideways, walking while chanting: "Homage, Vajra subduer of demons, miraculous goodness and power forty-five—grant me accomplished true practice, to all enemies emit appearance—all magical obstacles thus cease..."

None of us understood his chant's meaning, thinking: if this were inland, the Red Guards would've dragged him out for struggle sessions. But here in Tibetan areas, I had no choice but to follow behind, making small talk: "Old comrade… Lama Ake, since you know this ruined temple so well, could you tell us why it was abandoned soon after completion?"

Hearing this, the lama stopped, turned, and on his weathered face a shadow crossed: "Legend says the last ghost mother of the Demon Kingdom and the great cicada—Dharma-subduing demon-subduing bowl—are buried here. Even the temple's enshrined Vajra of Mighty Power couldn't contain it. Things got fierce—people and livestock died in droves—so it had to be abandoned."