That was in the Fire Hog Year. By that time Lobsang Drom had lost track of the passing years. In the Earth Hare Year, the same farmer reappeared to speak tearful words.
"There is word from the West that the exiled Dalai Lama speaks of eventual surrender to fate. He mouths words that are impossible to accept, predicting that he is destined to be the last Dalai Lama, and there will be no more after him."
"The Dalai Lama has been corrupted by the West," intoned Lobsang Drom. "It is no more or less than my honorable father warned."
"There is only the Bunji Lama left. Will you not seek him out, Most Holy?"
Lobsang Drom shook his shaved head. "He does not wish to be found."
"Then Tibet is forevermore a vassal of China."
"It is the fault of Tibetan mothers, who refuse to bear flame-haired children, or surrender them if they do."
But that was the past.
It was now the Year of the Earth Dog, but Lobsang Drom had no way of knowing this. He sat in a puddle of melted snow practicing the art known as Tumo, which kept his naked body warm without benefit of sheepskin garments, listening to the thunder that was not thunder when, in a lull between peals, a snow leopard growled.
The growl was long and low and was answered by the nervous whinny of a pony. Having had no entertainment in many years, Lobsang Drom lifted his lowhanging head and cocked it to one side.
The snow leopard growled anew. Abruptly its sound was stifled. There had been no other sound. It was as if the leopard had been conquered by a magician.
Presently the soft squeaking of desultory hooves in snow approached the cave where Lobsang Drom nursed his bitterness.
"A thousandfold fruitful blessings upon you, traveler," Lobsang Drom called in greeting.
The one who approached replied only with the squeakings of his coming.
"If you are a Chinese soldier," Lobsang Drom added, "I am not afraid to die."
"If I were a Chinese soldier," a brassy voice called back, "you should not be a man unless you strangled me with your bare hands."
"I am a monk. Violence is not my way."
A thick shadow stepped into view, leading a pony by its reins.
"You are a failure, Lobsang Drom," the shadow accused.
"With those words, I have no quarrel," admitted Lobsang Drom.
The man stepped into the cave, and Lobsang saw that his face was like a flat gong of brass set on a treestump neck. Not Tibetan. A Mongol. He wore the black leather vest and quilted riding pants of a horse Mongol. A dagger hung from his waist by a silver chain. Across the wooden saddle of his war pony was slung the ghost-gray shape of a dead snow leopard, its pristine pelt unflecked by blood.
"How did you slay that?" Lobsang asked.
"I spit in his eye," laughed the Mongol. "He is only a cat and so he died. Where I come from, the suckling wolf cubs would tear him to rags in play."
But Lobsang saw the Mongol's pole lasso hanging from the pony's saddle and understood that the snow leopard had been snared and strangled in one expert cast.
"Why come you here, Mongol?" asked Lobsang Drom curiously.
"I was dispatched by Boldbator Khan to seek out your lazy bones."
"Why?" wondered Lobsang, not taking offense.
"The new Panchen Lama has been found."
Lobsang Drom spit into the snow by way of answer.
"Well, have you nothing more to say?"
"The Panchen Lama is not worth the breath required to curse his name," said Lobsang Drom.
"And you are unworthy of even living in a cave," grunted the Mongol, planting one boot on Lobsang Drom's chest and giving a hard push. Lobsang Drom was sent sprawling into his pile of barley.
Calmly the Mongol pulled the dead snow leopard off his mount and, taking his dagger from his belt, began to skin it.
"What are you doing, Mongol?" demanded Lobsang Drom, sitting up again.
"Wasting a perfectly good pelt," growled the Mongol, who then proceeded to cut the magnificent silver-gray pelt into bolts and strips of fur.
When he was done, Lobsang saw that he had fashioned a crude robe, which landed at the Tibetan's naked feet. It steamed with the dead animal's fading warmth.
"Put that on," the Mongol commanded.
"Why?"
"So that I am not offended by your nakedness during the long journey that lies before us."
"I cannot leave this cave until I have proven to the Bunji Lama by my iron will that I am worthy to be his discoverer."
The Mongol's eyes narrowed at that, and when he spoke again, there was a hint of respect in his tone.
"You cannot obtain the Bunji Lama's respect unless from his very lips. Come, I will take you to him."
Lobsang Drom blinked. "You know where he is to be found?"
"No, but there is one who, among men, can find him if anyone can."
"How can that be? I am the last of the Worshipful Nameless Ones in the Dark Who See the Light That is Coming."
"Which is why I am about to dishonor my fine pony by letting you mount him, unwashed one," returned the Mongol. "Now hurry. We have only fourteen or fifteen years to find the Bunji Lama. Otherwise, the damned Panchen Lama will ascend to the lion Throne, and the thrice-damned Chinese will control Tibet until the Kali Yug comes."
Striding stiffly because he was unaccustomed to walking and not due to the bitter cold that had long ago settled into his bones, Lobsang Drom donned the rich snow-leopard pelt. It steamed as if cooking, and felt comfortingly warm against his wind-dried skin.
Mounting the wooden saddle chased with silver filigree, Lobsang Drom struggled to retain his balance as the Tibetan led the pony around in a circle and started down the precarious two-foot-wide mountain pass.
"Mongol, what is your name?" he asked after a time.