The White Mirror (3 page)

They emerged into a courtyard, and were once again engulfed in snow. Li Du discerned vague shapes of buildings, and glimpsed their ornamented exteriors. Vivid medallions in rows of alternating colors winked at him through the snow like hundreds of eyes.

“Welcome, brothers!” The salutation came from their right.

They followed the sound into a long barn open to the courtyard. Its back wall was formed by the same solid fortification that they had seen from outside. As Li Du caught his breath and stamped snow from his boots, he felt his chest and shoulders relax involuntarily at the warmth surrounding him. It was the heat of living animals, of their breathing flanks and fur and dung. The space smelled of sweet hay and milk and manure, and was populated by the hulking shapes of yaks and the comforting silhouettes of horses and shaggy ponies.

A low, masculine voice repeated the welcome, and a man strode out from among the animals. He was of such unusually large stature that he made the yaks seem suddenly smaller. The expansive shoulders of his black goatskin coat were flecked with snow. He held his hands outstretched, palms upward, in greeting. As he came closer, Li Du saw gray hair at his temples and a looseness in his cheeks and jaw that suggested he was older than his strong, upright gait implied. Even Kalden, who was tall, had to look up to meet their host's eyes.

“You are to be congratulated,” announced the man. “The way to my family's land is not easy even in good weather. I, too, have only just come in from the storm.” He gestured behind him at two yaks whose backs were beaded with melting snow. “I am Doso Targum. It is the tradition of my fathers to offer largesse to tenants when a child is born. Fortunately, I set out before the storm became serious—we will be cut off from the village for several days at least.”

Doso ushered them deeper inside the barn. Something in his enthusiastic welcome struck Li Du as forced. His behavior reminded Li Du of an inexperienced actor who is too aware of his audience. Doso continued. “Please settle your mule here in the stable. I am sorry that there is not room for all your beasts. But do not be concerned. I will give you good hay for them. This storm will pass quickly. It is not winter yet.”

It was Kalden's turn to speak. Li Du had seen him navigate tense interactions with other caravan leaders on narrow bridges, officials inspecting permits and tax receipts, and soldiers on patrol. Kalden was a taciturn man by nature, but he had an innate ability to balance deference and confidence when speaking to powerful strangers. He gave his name, his place of birth, and a description of his caravan. He offered formal thanks for Doso's hospitality.

Doso waved a hand. “Only my duty, only my duty,” he said, sounding pleased. “But come upstairs. My wife, Kamala, will make you butter tea, and I will introduce you to my children.”

Kalden had a hand on the bridle of Li Du's mule, and she began to dip her head restlessly. Li Du guessed that she perceived Kalden's apprehension. “We came across the bridge,” said Kalden.

Doso nodded. “That is the easiest crossing. The others are only notched logs that would be treacherous in the snow. That water is deeper than it appears and the current is violent. Your company are all safe?”

Kalden cleared his throat. “We found a body there.”

“A body.” Doso stooped and cocked his head a little to the side as if he had not heard correctly.

“A man is dead there on the bridge,” said Kalden. “A monk.”

Doso's demeanor changed instantly. His affable mien vanished, and a hand shot forward to grip Kalden's sleeve. “What monk? A young man?”

“No—he is not young.” For the second time, Kalden gave an account of what they had seen. He acquitted himself well, and Li Du observed with some relief Doso's apparent willingness to believe what Kalden was telling him.

When Kalden finished, Doso looked out at the gusting snow. It was difficult to see across any distance, but there was still light. “You left him there?”

“We did not want to interfere.”

Doso nodded his approval. “It is the province of a monk to help a dead man.”

A silence fell between them. Doso appeared to be gathering his thoughts. When he addressed Kalden again, his voice was stern. “You and I will go together to the bridge,” he said. “And I will give you fair warning. We know the tricks of thieves on our roads. If this is treachery, the men of the village will not spare you. We know the paths through this valley even when the snow covers them. You do not.”

Kalden held Doso's stare. “We are not thieves,” he said. “You have met our ambassador.” He looked at Li Du. “And here is a librarian from the court of the Chinese Emperor himself. Show him the letter.”

Grateful for the warmth of the barn that had thawed his numb fingers, Li Du deftly lifted an oiled leather flap on one of his mule's saddlebags and drew from the pocket beneath it a document wrapped in silk. He handed it to Doso, who unrolled it. Li Du could see the fiery red ink and the great seal of the Emperor through the back of the paper.

Doso returned the document and bowed to Li Du. “I am honored to host a guest of such high nobility and reputation,” he said. His voice was distracted, but he seemed determined to be solicitous despite the circumstances. He switched from Kalden's language to slow, formal Chinese. “Tell me what you require, and I will provide it.”

Li Du returned the bow. “The warmth of your home has already brought me comfort. And my mule will be grateful for the shelter tonight.”

Doso looked faintly surprised by this humble response. “My home is your home,” he said. “There is a room prepared for you. When you have unburdened your animal, my wife will attend you in the kitchen.” He gestured toward an open staircase that led from the barn up through a cutout in the ceiling to the second story. Li Du heard light, pattering footsteps—children's footsteps—above.

Doso glanced up at the ceiling. “I will speak with her.”

He climbed the staircase. Li Du and Kalden heard something drop with a clang on the floor, followed by a muffled conversation. They exchanged glances. “This is not so bad,” whispered Kalden, with obvious relief. “It could have gone much worse for us.”

Li Du agreed. “Be careful on your return to the bridge,” he added. “We do not know what happened there.”

Kalden looked at him. “The monk held the knife's hilt as if he had thrust it into himself—I have heard of it being done that way before.” Kalden lifted his eyes to trace the faint outlines of buildings through the snow as if he was searching for something. He shifted his shoulders uncomfortably. “We must hope that the storm is brief,” he said.

They heard footsteps on the stairs, and looked up to see Doso descending. He went to the back wall of the barn, against which an assortment of gleaming weapons was arranged. He selected a sheathed sword and fixed it to the wide belt at his waist. Then he slipped a bridle over the head of a sturdy mule and turned to Kalden. “Let us go now,” he said, “before we lose the light.”

*   *   *

Li Du's mule was a gentle, steady animal not in her first youth. He had a rule that whenever he enjoyed a comfortable room he did his best to secure her a place in a dry barn. He led her to an open corner. Once he had unburdened her of bags and saddle and examined her hooves, he used the blunt edge of a blade to scrape the melting snow and water from her back. He looked for signs of injury or inflammation where the saddle had rubbed.

Who was the man on the bridge, and how had he come to such an end? In these mountains, from what Li Du had seen, village monks and lamas were present at every birth, at every death, and on all the ritual days between. They were there to celebrate the beginning of the harvest and the end of it. To lose by violence someone so integral to family life would, Li Du thought, be devastating. Yet neither Yeshe nor the manor lord had displayed the emotional reaction that Li Du might have expected.

Over the years, Li Du had learned to enter each unfamiliar village, inn, and estate with a flexible attitude and an acceptance of his own ignorance. No books he had read had prepared him for the variety of traditions scattered through the hillsides, valleys, mountains, and forests of the borderlands. Each high pass or wide river was a barrier behind which languages changed and religions evolved. And then there were marriages and wars and traveling teachers to change everything like a child shaking a jar of colored pebbles.

He removed a pot of mayvine salve from his bag and smoothed a layer of it over a raw spot on his mule's flank. He glanced around for a cloth to wipe the thick oil from his hand. Behind a small bamboo screen where he expected to see barrels or bales or stacked saddles, he found himself instead in someone's room. A low bench covered with furs was balanced on large stones. A butter tea churn and a bowl rested against a wall beside a blackened, dented pot. There was a basket full of rawhide strips on the floor. On the bed, among the furs, were several lengths of twine braided and tied into knots. Aware that he was intruding, Li Du stepped away and returned to his mule. He knelt and wiped the salve from his hand on a bit of clean hay.

For an isolated manor that did not often see caravans passing through, the barn was well stocked, filled up with sacks of barley, maize, and peas, and tea bricks wrapped in bamboo sheaths. A bright row of pots sat against one wall ready to be filled with fresh milk each morning. There were racks of saddles on the wall beside the numerous bows, arrows, and blades of various sizes.

Li Du was just about to climb the stairs to the upper floor when a young man, stooped under the weight of bundled firewood, hurried into the courtyard. He dropped his hands to his knees as he tried to catch his breath. His hat fell into the snow, but he did not pick it up. He made his way to the barn where Li Du stood, hidden from the young man's view by the animals and the thick painted columns.

As soon as the young man was under the shelter of the roof, he let his burden fall to the ground. It was only then that he caught sight of Li Du and stopped. Confusion competed with distress in his expression.

“I am a guest here,” Li Du said quickly, silently amending his first impression. This was not so much a man as a boy. He was thin, the last roundness of childhood just recently gone from his cheeks, the left of which was twisted by a long scar. His eyes, when he was close enough for Li Du to see them, were very dark, the expression in them elusive. His hair was roughly cut and stood up from his head in matted clumps.

“You came with the caravan?” he asked nervously.

“Yes.”

The young man's hands toyed with the fraying cuffs of his sleeves. “Then you saw—” He stopped, uncertain. “—on the bridge?”

Li Du nodded. Interpreting the youth's apparent distress as grief, Li Du spoke gently. “I am sorry,” he said. “Was he from this house?”

The young man seemed to close in upon himself. He shook his head, then looked behind him. His hat was a black spot in the center of the white courtyard. He said, “I must go up to the temple. I have to bring the Chhöshe to the bridge.”

A woman's voice called from upstairs. “Is that Pema who has come back?”

They looked to see the lady of the house descending the staircase into the courtyard. She did not come all the way down, but paused and bent slightly to address them. Li Du observed a round, smooth face and fastidious attire. Her dress was so neatly arranged that she resembled the painted latticework that decorated the manor. Her forearms were wrapped in cloth to protect her sleeves from becoming soiled in the kitchen.

“Pema,” she said, addressing the young man, who winced slightly in response. “The children are frightened,” she said. Then her voice became hushed. “Is it Dhamo who died?”

Pema nodded.

“What happened to him? Why was he at the bridge?”

“I don't know.”

The woman made a sound of impatience. “Where are you going?”

Pema pointed upward toward the mountain. “To bring the Chhöshe.”

The woman nodded and waved her hand, ushering Pema away. “Hurry then.”

Pema looked as if he might say more, then dipped his head and ran out into the courtyard. He scooped up his discarded hat and left the manor.

The woman's glance took in Li Du standing with the saddlebags on his back. “I will show you your room.”

*   *   *

The building housed the family's animals in the barns on its lower level, and the family itself, as well as their guests, in the rooms above. It comprised two wings of equal length joined at a right angle to enclose the courtyard on two sides. The guest rooms were connected by a hallway that ran the length of the building adjacent to the courtyard.

Li Du's room was a large, spare chamber located at the far northern end of the wing. Dim light entered through gaps in the shuttered windows. The bed was heaped with wool and yak fur blankets. A candle stood on the table beside it. A copper brazier hung from a ceiling made from slats separated enough to allow smoke to be drawn up and out from under the raised roof.

Shelves attached to the wall were stacked with wooden bowls and ornaments. As he explored the space, out of the corner of his eye Li Du glimpsed his own reflection, warped and spectral, moving through the polished lid of a copper pot. He set his saddlebags down in a corner beside a small shrine, a silver statue and an unlit butter lamp arranged in front of a painting mounted on black silk. He put his mule's bridle on the table by the bed. Its bells clicked into silence one at a time as they hit the wooden surface.

A voice startled him. “I had charmed the whole household, and then you bring them a dead man.”

Li Du turned to see a familiar figure in the doorway, a man with a black pointed beard and a graceful set to his shoulders. He wore a blue hat brightly embroidered with birds and leaves.

“Hamza,” Li Du said. “I am very relieved to see you.”