The Magician of Lhasa by David Miche

Author:David Miche [David Michie]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Hay House
Published: 2020-11-04T00:00:00+00:00

Six hours later, we approach the village of Tang. Utterly exhausted, we have walked through the night, our exertions made all the more difficult by the rope that binds the three of us together—Lama in front, me in the middle, Paldon Wangpo behind.

Even when the soldiers had stopped for a rest, they wouldn’t let us sit. When Paldon Wangpo had said he needed to go to the toilet, one of the soldiers told him, sneering, to soil his robes.

Feet aching and faint with fatigue, my wrists chafed raw, I am well over the shock of what has happened. As I watch my teacher grow weaker and weaker in front of me, stumbling as he slips on the rocks, I think how foolish we were not to overpower that first Red Army soldier, when his colleagues were both asleep. How our surprise and obedience has made fools of us. How much all three of us stink of urine.

I also wonder why we are being taken to Tang. Is it only a stopping-off point towards a further destination in some remote jail? Or are we being taken there for a specific and horrifying purpose? Most of all, what will happen to our priceless cargo?

I get my answer soon enough. Although it’s just after dawn, as we stumble down the path towards the settlement, the sky is dark and the air thick with smoke. I wonder where it’s coming from—in this part of the mountains, there is not enough vegetation to create such an acrid pall. But as we get closer, I realize with horror what has happened.

Tang has been ransacked. Most of the houses are smoldering ruins. Some are still ablaze, flames leaping from their smashed windows. The small village we passed earlier in the night, that seemed such a haven of rural contentment, has been torched and vandalized.

A single Red Army soldier is guarding a group of disheveled villagers, most still in night dress, huddled in front of one of the few buildings that hasn’t been destroyed. Strewn around them are smashed crockery, stray pieces of furniture, a smashed transistor radio—the few possessions from their humble dwellings. Sheer terror is etched on their faces.

Two more soldiers appear through the smoke. Between them is the girl I noticed the night before, draped in nothing but a torn, bloodied sheet, her hair matted and head hanging listlessly. There is no doubt what she has been subjected to. For all my tiredness, anger burns in my stomach like molten lava—it’s as though my own sister, Dechen, has been raped.

Is it really possible that three soldiers have done so much damage in such a short space of time? Three evil beings with guns have ripped the heart out of a village which has been here since Padmasambhava’s time.

The soldiers are about to throw the girl to her fellow villagers when we appear. Instead, they hold onto her, yelling boastfully towards our own three captors. Despite the arduous journey, our soldiers are quick to approach, grabbing the girl and dragging her into the darkness to further violation.

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