Samdup watched a snow owl swoop into the valley and felt in his heart a sharp pang of hunger for the same boundless freedom the wild bird enjoyed.
Samdup was a Tibetan. No Tibetan was free, or had been since the Chinese People's Liberation Army had stormed in, killing the lamas, burning down the beautiful temples, and turning a land of peace into an outpost of barbarism. That was long ago.
Samdup was neither priest nor soldier. He was too young to remember the days of the gentle Dalai Lama, who once had exerted his benevolence over the mountain kingdom. The greatest destruction had occured before Samdup was born. The Tibet he knew was but a shadow of what it had been. So said the elders, whom Samdup revered.
The snow owl shook its dappled wings majestically, alighting on a high crag of snow and rock. When it seemed that it would not take wing soon, Samdup resumed his journey.
The high peaks of the Himalayas were quiet, with a lack of sound that a non-Tibetan would term loud. To a native, the mountains always expressed the silence in loud voices. It was a paradox, and imponderable. But it was pure Tibet.
So when strange sounds made the mountains ring like great gongs of brass, Samdup froze in his tracks.
The sound seemed to come from the east, moving west. It was a thunder of a sound. It began as a rumble. It continued as a rumble. A rolling, unending rumble. An eternal rumble.
And inextricable from that extended sound was another. It might have been the product of a thousand benevolent gods singing in chorus. The rising sun could conceivably author such a song, had the sun a throat. Beautiful maidens might produce such sounds, had they low, yet melodic voices.
It reminded Samdup of the lamas, whose surviving members sometimes congregated in the potala-the great temple of Lamism-to chant and pray to benevolent Buddha.
But this sound was so loud, so wondrous, that no ordinary lama brought it forth into the world, he knew.
It could mean only one thing, thought Samdup, his heart quickening. It was the song that heralded the return of the Dalai Lama.
Breaking into a run, Samdup ran to meet it.
After twenty minutes he was forced to slow to a walk. But it was a brisk walk, for his heart leapt high, his feet feeling as if they were encased in jade shoes.
The Dalai Lama had returned, and Samdup would be the first to greet him!
After many minutes of walking, a PLA truck column came up the road and roared past him, faces joyless.
Samdup stepped out of the way.
"Where are you going?" he shouted after them.
A young soldier only a few years older than he shouted back, "To defeat the aggressor."
And Samdup's brisk stride faltered. His wide peaceful face grew as dull as a weather-beaten gong. Tears started in a corner of one eye.
The Dalai Lama had come back only to fall before the godless Chinese barbarians, thought Samdup.
Still, it was a moment of high drama. Samdup quickened his pace. He must behold it. If only to tell the world of Chinese cruelty.
Only minutes later, the truck column roared toward him, in full retreat.
The looks of horror etched in the survivors' faces were shocking. The wounded were many. They lay about the back of the trucks like smashed dolls in green uniforms. Their eyes told of an encounter with a power greater than mortal man.
Samdup raced on, his heart straining as if to burst. Wild tears of joy streamed down his apple cheeks.
The Dalai Lama had returned in triumph! Not even the wicked Chinese had been able to turn him from the path of right.
On and on ran Samdup the Tibetan.
The thunder swelled and the song of the mightiest lama continued its bountiful ululations. Nothing so beautiful had ever been heard on earth, Samdup thought.
Soon he rounded a snow-dusted hillock, and there the road stretched out as straight as the spokes on a prayer wheel.
At first there was only dust. It swirled and roiled and was impenetrable to sight.
This was as it should be, Samdup thought. The coming of the Dalai Lama was too great a sight not to be obscured from men.
Samdup took a position in the center of the road and bowed twice. He stuck his tongue out as far as he could. This was the proper manner of greeting among Tibetans. He showed a good long length of tongue, did Samdup the Tibetan.
And through the swirling dust, a dark shape emerged. Mighty flanks rippled with unstoppable muscularity. A thousand remorseless eyes seemed to wink like stars that had hardened to black diamonds. And hooves of horn unlike anything Samdup had ever imagined could be discerned dimly.
And through it all, the song swelled until it filled Samdup's very soul.
He fell to his knees before the sheer grace of it all.
He was found in the center of the road two days later, stamped as flat as a dog under a PLA tank's tracks. No one could explain what had happened to him, and so his body was thrown to the dogs, as was the custom with the honored dead. The lamas prayed for his soul, and hoped that he had not suffered.
In truth, Samdup had died with his heart full of joy.
The quiet thunder continued to roll west.
Chapter 20
Don Cooder was angry. Really angry. He had not been so angry since the network had hired that Korean barracuda Cheeta Ching as weekend anchor. He wouldn't have minded a crack reporter in the slot. It would have been good contrast. But there was no way he could compete with hair like hers. Next contact, he vowed, he would have a best-hair clause written in.
"This is an outrage," he stormed, pacing the ill-lit dungeon room. "Who does Maddas think he is-William Paley reincarnated? I'm not just any old hostage. I'm the highest-paid anchorman in the universe. Even people who never watched me are in awe of Don Cooder. I get more respect that Superman." "Superman gets higher ratings and he's in reruns," put in Reverend Jackman sourly. "Maybe you should wear one of his sweaters."
Cooder shook a fist at the dripping walls. "Last time, I got a hotel room. Clean sheets. Room service. All the proper amenities."
"You got them because you were with me. Don't kid yourself."
"No way. Maddas is a Moslem. He's not kowtowing to you, a Baptist minister. Hell, those people talk about the Crusades like they happened last Tuesday." Don Cooder shook his wildly disheveled black hair. "No, you were treated good because they mistook you for my friend."
"So explain how we ended up in this fix.."
Don Cooder stopped pacing. He rubbed his blue-bestubbled jaw, bringing the bags under his eyes into sharp relief. He drove a fist into one palm, producing a meaty smack.
"It's fate. I was destined to be the world's witness to Maddas Hinsein's resurrection. I'd strangle puppies for a camcorder and a satellite uplink right about now. The greatest story in the world. And I can't broadcast it. I'll bet that sticky-haired Cheeta Ching has got my dressing room by now."
"She can have it. I want to get out of this heckhole alive."
"They won't kill us," Don Cooder said stubbornly. "I'm too famous."
"You got a short memory, gloryhound. They already tried to execute us once. We got a reprieve, is all."