Chapter 183

Circumambulating the mountain or walking around the lake is a unique form of worship practiced by those living on the roof of the world, a nature-based animist belief expressing the sentience of all things, a continuation of the original religious concepts of the Tibetan people; the standard practice can be divided into two types, the most ordinary being walking on foot, while another more devout method involves strapping wooden boards to one's hands, raising them overhead, then drawing them to the chest before prostrating the entire body forward, touching the forehead to the ground in a full five-limbed obeisance, using one's own body to gradually measure the circumference of the sacred mountain and holy lake; each full circuit reduces sin and accumulates merit, and if one dies while circumambulating the lake, it is considered a form of transcendence.

The Iron Staff Lama's actions did not resemble circumambulating the lake but reminded me of the Northeast spirit-jumping rituals; during my time stationed in Inner Mongolia, I had seen spirit mediums and shamans engaged in such practices—was he perhaps performing an exorcism? But what demons could there be in this holy place? Thinking this, I quickly stepped forward.

The Iron Staff Lama also recognized me, ceased his strange movements, walked over, and greeted me; after more than ten years apart, the lama seemed unchanged, only his clothes were more ragged; I told the lama about the current status of my two comrades, and he sighed deeply: "Those who have disturbed the tomb of demons, if they can survive, it is already the Buddha's grace; I hope that in my remaining years, I may accumulate more merit by the lake and pray for them."

For these years, the lama has never left Lamu La Co; each day he chants sutras and walks around the lake, his food and clothing provided by the offerings of pilgrims who come to worship by the lake; indeed, those pilgrims who have prostrated themselves all the way here also receive alms along the road, and offering to the holy ones is itself a form of accumulating merit.

I asked the lama what he had just been doing, and the Iron Staff Lama explained: originally, he had been divining before the Medicine King Bodhisattva, because two poachers from inland had come to hunt near Naguxi Jie, but these two were novices, having waited five days without seeing any decent game; finally, they spotted a small beast they had never seen before and immediately shot it, then, while fresh, skinned and boiled it to eat.

After the two poachers finished eating, they immediately began rolling on the ground in abdominal pain; when the Tibetans found them, they were already unconscious, frothing at the mouth; there is no hospital or temple here, and the monastic doctors in Tibetan temples are responsible for treating the common people; though the Iron Staff Lama is a dharma protector, he once worked as a monastic doctor in his youth, frequently treating illness and dispelling calamities for the lakeside Tibetans and pilgrims, so the Tibetans came to ask him to save these men.

Upon hearing it was poaching, the lama initially did not want to get involved, but boundless compassion in Buddhism demands that even those at death's door must be saved, so he agreed and instructed the Tibetans to bring the two poachers; he then chanted from the "Ganju'er" to beseech the Medicine King Bodhisattva for a method to save them.

As we were speaking, six Tibetans had already carried the two poachers over; the lama ordered them laid flat on the ground, and I saw that both men's faces were as pale as gold paper, their breath like gossamer threads, white foam flowing from the corners of their mouths, their bellies swollen large; to me, these symptoms did not seem particularly strange—after all, eating unclean food or suffering severe food poisoning could produce such reactions, which are extremely dangerous and require immediate hospital emergency care; I wondered whether the lama could save them with just a few Tibetan medicines.

The lama examined the patients' symptoms, immediately furrowed his brow, and said to the several local Tibetans: "One of them ate too much and is beyond saving; the other still has a chance—go to the edge of the holy lake and find some dead, rotting white fish scales."

The Tibetans followed the lama's instructions and immediately split up to search the lakeside; one of the two poachers had white foam flowing from his mouth that had already turned purple-red, and shortly afterward he stopped breathing; the lama urgently had me and Wangdu help pry open the other man's jaws, gave him two Tibetan medicines mixed with water to swallow, and the man, his consciousness hazy, managed to swallow only half.

This Tibetan medicine has the power to prolong life; after taking it, he immediately vomited violently, expelling much black water; the poacher who had been at death's door but survived, though still suffering agonizing abdominal pain, had regained consciousness; the lama asked him what he had eaten.

The poacher said that he and his deceased companion, having heard in inland China that hunting in Tibet and selling pelts could bring great wealth, had been dazzled by the prospect and wanted to come make a fortune, but neither had hunting experience, the uninhabited regions teemed with animals, and they dared not recklessly enter, so they merely wandered through the forests at the base of the snow mountains, hoping to get lucky—even shooting a Tibetan blue bear would be acceptable.

Thus they wandered the forest's edge for five days, catching nothing, and their carried dry rations were eaten first, so they prepared to pack up and return home; but just as they were about to leave, they saw a large black mountain cat, its size not much smaller than that of a sheep, extremely ugly, utterly unafraid of people; at first they even mistook it for a leopard, and relying on their firearms, they fired several shots in succession, killing the black mountain cat on the spot; their stomachs burned with hunger, they did not bother to consider whether the cat meat was edible, hastily skinned it, boiled water in a pot, and ate half of it; the meat's fibers were coarse, seeming no matter how cooked it would not become tender, so they ate it half-raw.

The poacher wept tears and snot, claiming that he and his brother, though momentarily stirred by greed to poach for money, had in fact caught nothing but this one mountain cat, and begged the lama-doctor to show great compassion and save their lives, promising to reform entirely thereafter; he haltingly recounted the events, when suddenly abdominal pain flared again, and he oscillated between life and death.

I recalled hearing a Tibetan legend on Kunlun Mountain: that kind of huge black mountain cat is not a cat at all, but a vengeful spirit formed from the newly dead—of course it cannot be eaten; I asked the lama what to do, and whether this man still had a chance in court?

The lama said: "They probably ate a Himalayan musk rat, which is edible, but they ate it too soon—Tibetans never eat animals slaughtered the same day, because the animal's soul has not yet fully departed the body, and if one eats it, trouble follows; I once served the Buddha and learned some secret formulas; as for whether they will work, it depends on their fate."

The Tibetans sent to find rotting fish scales by the lake returned one after another, having together gathered about a large handful; the Iron Staff Lama placed the fish scales around the patient, then found a piece of rat-repelling bird-forest burned into charcoal, mixed it with the rotting, foul-smelling fish scales, and gave it to the poacher to eat.

After this series of strange actions, the poacher again began vomiting violently, this time even more intensely, expelling everything from his stomach, until finally he vomited only clear water; then the lama gave him Tibetan medicine to stop the vomiting.

The lama watched as the man expelled his filth and said his life was now preserved, but he must never eat meat again—if he does, he will vomit incessantly; I leaned in to look and saw that within the great heap of vomit, something seemed to be writhing; upon closer inspection, they were clumps of hairless baby mice.

The poacher knelt and kowtowed, thanking the lama for saving his life, and asked whether the lama could bury his deceased companion by the lakeside; the lama said absolutely not, for Tibetans believe only criminals should be buried in the earth, and burial in a grave traps the soul forever, unable to escape; under the daytime sun, the soul in the grave feels as if boiled in a hot pan, tormented; under moonlight, it feels as if in an ice cave, shivering unbearably; if it rains, it feels as if pierced by ten thousand arrows; when the wind blows, it feels as if a thousand steel knives are scraping and chopping the bones—this suffering is beyond words; not far from this lakeside, on the mountain, there are eighteen sky-burial platforms—let his body be placed there so his soul may be freed.

The poacher was reluctant to do this, as it differed greatly from inland customs; the lama explained that in Tibet, all methods of handling corpses except earth burial are prevalent, but due to lack of fuel for cremation, bodies are generally carried to the stone cairns on mountain peaks for sky burial, where they are chopped up and fed to birds and beasts (similar to the practice of the Parsi community in Bombay); if the death resulted from a dangerous contagion through contact, earth burial is also customary.

Generally, Tibetans oppose earth burial, believing it disturbs the peace of the departed, and even turns corpses into stiffened things; if forced to bury here, locals would also feel uneasy.

The poacher was finally convinced by the lama, and so, following local custom, with the help of several Tibetans, he lifted his companion's body to prepare for the mountain-top sky burial platform; I noticed his luggage bag was slightly longer than ordinary, surely containing weapons and ammunition; our expedition into Tibet had not yet been equipped with arms, and now that we had the chance, we certainly would not miss it, so we detained him, intending to negotiate a purchase.

The poacher told me these two guns were bought from poachers in Qinghai; after handling his companion's body, he would return home to live an honest life, and keeping the guns would be useless; since you are a friend of the Iron Staff Lama, I will give you these guns as a token of gratitude for saving my life.

I looked at the two guns in the pack—turns out they are shotguns, Remington, model 870, 12-gauge, police-equipped version, a product from the 1950s, but well-maintained; no wonder even such agile creatures as musk rats fall to its fire, and there are still over seventy rounds, separately loaded in two single-shoulder ammunition belts; this type of firearm has astonishing power within fifteen meters, though using it for hunting seems inappropriate—long-range targets are better engaged with assault rifles, which have greater range; shotguns are suitable for close-range self-defense; in the end, I still slipped him some money, and I kept the guns, ammunition, and the luggage bag they came in.

After these miscellaneous persons had dispersed, I then explained my purpose to the lama: I wished to seek the ancient tomb of the demon kingdom's evil god, and asked the lama Ak to, for our expedition team, select a person familiar with the history of the demon kingdom and the inner regions, a bard and guide.

The Iron Staff Lama said that excavating ancient tombs, with oxen plowing, is a violation of heavenly harmony, but digging up the tombs of the demon kingdom is different, for their tombs seal demons, a great threat to the people; throughout history, many highly accomplished monks have wished to subdue demons and protect the dharma, to utterly eradicate the demon kingdom's tombs, lest the evil god return to torment humanity; but lacking any clues, since you are willing to go, this is an act of boundless merit; those who know Tibet's ancient affairs are all heaven-granted bards, who do not acknowledge father-to-son or master-to-disciple transmission; they are individuals who, after suffering a great illness, suddenly gain the ability to chant millions of characters of poetry; before I took monastic vows, I myself was such a heaven-granted person, though I have not spoken in nearly thirty years; the World-Conquering Treasure Pearl Heroic King, and the poems of the Reincarnated Jade-Eye Treasure Pearl—ah… I can barely recall them now.