“It is important to identify well the object of negation, for if it is not identified, you will unquestionably generate either a view of permanence or a view of annihilation.”
- The Lam-rim chen-mo____________________
Tibet
Three men lay by the river-side, in only their clothes as the sound of the gently streaming water washed over the pebbles and stones in the river's bed. Nearby, two stout horses grazed from the scraggly grass that grew between the rocks as the waited, tied to the earth, for their masters to stir. The remnants of last night's campfire smoldered in a bed of ash, smokey tendrils rose through the cold morning air to be caught by their impermanence and swept up by the alpine winds.
Steely gray clouds loomed overhead, lit by the rising sun as it crested the Himalayan mountains. Basking in the golden and pink rays of a fledgling sun the darkness and the shadowy blues of night were gently brushed aside as the cycle of continuance marched on. The light glowed in the icy frost covering the rocks and the grass. As the light widened its rule from under and behind the thin rain clouds overhead so to did the three men stir in their sleep.
The first, feeling the warmth of the morning warm his cheek rose from the ground. A wind battered face looked up into the morning sky behind narrowed sleep designed eyes. A rudy head packed with a head of a messy black hair fell onto his shoulders packed with dry stalks of grass and motes of sand and dirt. Rising to his feet he brushed from his wool coat the dust and brambles of sleeping on naked ground and moved to the smoldering fire-pit. With gentle fingers he coaxed from the ashes the feeble infant flames of life and fed it with dry grassy timbers until a healthy smoldering burn was alight. And with the care of a young mother he opened a satchel at the ground alongside of it bricks of yak dung until the awoken fire was lapping and smoldering around the brick of shit.
As he cared for the fire, the second man stirred asleep, coaxed to wake by the bitter smell of the fire. Wiping the sleep from his eyes he turned to the fire and starred sleepily into it. He was an older man, the climate and the inhabitants of the world had not done well to his face or his body either. Nearly every conceivable point of his features were broken, cut, or worn to a hard leather. He glowered sleepily at the flame through pale brown eyes before sitting up right.
“It will be another several hours to Lhasa.” said the simply weathered man, “Should we warm tea now and eat, or wait until we are within site of the palace?”
His maimed contemporary held his silence to consider. A deeply tired air hovered heavily over him. He stood without talking for a long while. Perhaps he had not understood the question to early in the morning?
“Go ahead.” he bid sleepily, his voice tremored like the earth. And perhaps it would have if he shouted at mountains.
The other nodded, and rose from the fire to sift through the saddlebags that lay on the ground nearby. Made of the worn and beaten polyester of the yester-years before the war, the fabric and condition of the bags were that of something well beyond their original use. Large patches of wool or leather held the fraying the aging sacks together. Likewise, the kettle he pulled from them was not much better.
Walking towards the stream he stopped before the third man and looked down. He shown no pity towards him. A hood obscured his face and his hands and feet were bound by hide ropes. Already the flesh at his wrists and bare ankles were glowing a bloody red from abrasions. Likewise his calloused and scarred feet were beginning to open up from a long march across the plateau. The skin rubbed so thin in places it glowed pink as they threatened to tear open.
With a sharp kick from his boot the man woke the sleeping prisoner and he shot awake immediately with a dry gasping breath. Reeling on the ground his bound hands clutched for his stomach as he rolled. “Wake up.” the man ordered, “We're almost there.”
The captive was too windless to answer as he reeled in the dirt gasping for air. He had done more than simply wake him. But unconcerned the man turned away from him and kept to the river. The man was a bastard, and a criminal anyhow. There was no pittance to afford to him.
Crouching at the river's edge he opened the kettle and filled it with the crystal water that flowed from off of the mountain peeks. The glaciers would shine like diamonds and white-gold in the afternoon sun. And in the morning light they would glow like fire and gold. But they were not there, and as much as it would have been a sight to enjoy he could not dwell on the imaginary wants.
With the kettle full he capped it with a lid and turned back to the fire as their captive struggled to their feet. Sitting by the fire his partner was already fully awake as he pensively nibbled on the dry crumbs of wafer biscuits, no doubt more than stale.
He put the tea on the fire, and in silence joined his partner in breakfast. With the water inside finally came to a boil and whistled out from the neck he went to the packages again, bringing back a glove, a brick of tea, and cups. With steady hands he broke the brick of pressed tea and added the dried leaves to the cups that he split between he and his partner. Then poured for the both of them a full cup of piping, steaming tea. The leaves inside bubbled and stewed in the warm water, slowly turning it a soft amber color.
The morning sun rose up higher into the sky and the early morning chill dissipated. As the morning sun reached higher the frost of the earth warmed and soon bloomed with a white mist as the ground was steamed back to life.
“We should be on our way.” the older of the two hunters said. He drew a dry stare to the captive man that sat hunched in the rocks and the moss. His hands lay limp between two spindly legs.
The other nodded in agreement. “I'll prepare the horses.” he answered.
With a brisk wave, the rough-faced hunter brushed him off as he went to the horses. Whistling and singing softly he called for their attention as he collected their saddlebags and weapons. As the ponies were saddled the rougher individual stood up and walked to the prisoner sitting on the ground.
He was a sad shape of a man, worse off than most. His body was frail and his clothes hung off in broken rags. Even the mountain coat of yak hide was cut and frayed. Traces of blood were packed into the fur. And it was no wonder from the bandage around his arm.
“It's really amazing what you did,” he told him in a low voice, “To stir the hive as you did. Even if delayed, you really lit a fire.” the prisoner only wept quietly into his bound hands.
“Fucking pussy.” the old hunter spat, pulling him to his feet by the neck. Turning and pushing him to the horses he lead him towards the waiting mounts. Already his younger counterpart was waiting with a sword strapped across the back of his hip and a weather-beaten rifle hanging on his back. With a trained toss he passed to the elder his own gun and he swung it over his shoulders.
Taking hemp rope and leather bounds he tied the captive to his saddle before mounting. “Let's move.” he croaked. The younger obliged and kicked his horse to a slow trot. The other followed impatiently.
The hooves of the horses cracked and popped over the loose barren rocks as they trotted along. Every so often they would veer over the remnants of a broken and ancient asphalt road that wound through the landscape and the rocks, always with the river at its side. On either side the barren and gray hills of Tibet grew upwards, sliding them into the bottom of a soft valley between the bosoms of the Himalayas.
As they rode along and in the last breath of the languid still air of morning they heard the distant call of Lhasa over the hills. A low long note that echoed across the mountains peaks and through the valleys and gorges. It sang through the rocks, the grass, the sky, and the bushes. Even the river seemed to moan that long croaking song.
While it made the prisoner scarred, it was a cause of vigor to the riders. It was the sound of their end-goal and they kept riding.
Soon pillars of rocks began to line the road. Tied to the masts of these beacons yards of banners hung from hide and woolen ropes and fluttered in the cool Tibetan breeze. These prayer flags splashed bright colors across the sullen heights of Tibet. Exploding in a forest of red, yellow, oranges, blues, and greens. Lining the roads they even spanned into the distance and up the hills, so that even the grass and the rocks were lost amid a canopy of flowering color.
Continuing on further the outer sights of Lhasa became evident amid the forest of prayers. Shepards herding their goats and sheep among the hills. Observant pilgrims prostrating their way along the road, displaying their devotion every few steps as they bid the mountain spirits for their blessings. Or sought the outer light of enlightenment between their muttered chants. Few turned their heads up to the travelers as they trotted by, prisoner in tow. Fewer yet seemed to care. With cottage rifles on their shoulders, they were important men.
Finally the forest of prayers broke as the terrain suddenly opened up before them. A wide green valley shone in the late morning sun, dotted by still glistening lakes between fields and pastures of emerald greens, dotted and populated by the decay of an older world, graying buildings lining fading streets with twisting trees and herds of yak mulling between them. Where it was most open, farmers toiled in fields flush with the city's crop. And at the center of it all: the Potala Palace, a great monument of white, red, and wide-overhanging roofs and turrets. Within those walls the monastic power of Lhasa, and its secular political ruler shared tentative space within halls of yak-butter candles.
Justice, law, and interrogation would be served there as they rode to it. And so would reward. There was no greater greeting than to behold the great palace at the center of the city. Neither was the declaratory roar of its horns as the monks stirred about their morning rituals and called it out to the city from the high walls of the palace.
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