Taklamakan            The Land of No Return      © 2001, John A. Schettler

In this scene Artuk the Wend is asked to preside over the rite of the Tibetan Sky Funeral, the burial ritual of Tibet that is still practiced today. The scene presents some of the Bon and Buddhist religious elements and also begins to reveal dimensions of Artuk’s character that have been hidden up until now. - JS

37

Sky Burial

            Three men lay upon the high brow of Yalghuz-dong. The lonely hillock was little more than a small, brown knob on the edge of the desert that had been eroded and worn down by the ceaseless winds. Perhaps it had been the proud peak of some low-lying range of hills that crossed this region years ago, but now it was worn and tired, beaten down by the wind—a weary old man hunching over the fringe of scattered shrub on the north bank of the Charchan River. All about the brow of the hill the airs were still heavy with the dark breath of dust and sand. The simpering winds still droned about the place, plaintive and empty, like the voices of vagrant spirits.

            There were many others gathered about the three still forms, which were now naked and wrapped in white funeral shrouds that stirred in the restless wind. Close by the men, a squad of six armed soldiers knelt in full battle armor. The dark mail of the army of Tibet covered their bodies completely and made them seem as if they had grown up out of the earth itself. They sat in absolute stillness, their eyes fixed fast upon the three men who lay shrouded in white. They feared that some evil demon might seize upon the bodies and give them new life as the dread Ro-lang, the animated corpse of the zombie that was so feared in these first and most critical moments after death. The soldiers brandished their lances at the empty sky to ward off the coming of demons or evil spirits. To aid their defense, a small shrine called a Lü had been built to distract the demons and entice them away from the bodies of the men who had died. The flame they built there was guttering on the wind, and the tang of dark wood smoke added to the brooding darkness about them. In this way a last guard was set upon the men, and right preparation was made for the ancient rituals that would guide them in the impending transition they must make to the otherworlds.

            Beyond this inner guard, a circle of spears had been thrust into the brown earth and festooned with colorful prayer flags that waved and snapped in the breeze. A man stood at each flag, silent and solemn, six in all. At the head of the circle stood Omu Seng Tu, his squat, stocky form silhouetted by the wavering firelight of the Lü. Two Khur Kan leaders held the flags to either side of Omu. Rana Tenpai, Keemah and Artuk the Wend occupied the remaining positions on the circle. They were greeting the laboring of the dawn after a wild night in the throes of the Buran.

            The wrath of the storm had lashed the column for hours, sending wave after wave of stinging sands against them as they huddled behind gaunt trees, broken branches and dry upturned roots—anything that might give shelter. The sound of the wind had been deafening at times, and a blindness was forced upon them when the sands made it impossible to open their eyes. Artuk had been very close to Rana’s party when the first wave of wind-blown sand swept over the column. The general was watching his guard set standards at the base of the lonely hillock. He was still mounted and Artuk shouted warning when he saw the dark front approach. Rana was not yet in the lee of the hill. He would be exposed to the full fury of the blast as it swept over and around the hillock with increased energy. There was a blurred moment of breathless motion and he saw the Tibetan general swept from his horse. Then the blast of the winds was upon him and he instinctively fell to his knees, his back to the blowing gale.

            Artuk wore the Chadda cape and hood of the people of Khotan, offering good protection from the blowing sands. Though the chaos of wind and wild dust obscured everything in front of him, his face was sheltered beneath the deep hood of the cape and he could still open his eyes. His heart pounded with the rush of adrenaline, and he forced himself to crawl forward toward the place where he thought Rana had fallen. His uncanny sense of direction served him well, even in the near total darkness of the first wave of sand. He soon stumbled upon the toe of a boot, then the foot and leg of a man lying prone on the wildly churning ground. The smooth, finely woven texture of the man’s garments told him at once that this must be Rana.  He crawled to position his own body as a break against the wind, embracing the Tibetan and throwing the body of his cape over the man to further shield his face and head from the sands.

            The form stirred in his grasp, struggling to get free from the drifting sands. Artuk whispered a prayer of thanks to any god who would listen. Rana was alive! He helped the general roll on his side to aid breathing, and they huddled together, waiting out the first terrible assault of the wind. Thankfully, the leading edge of the storm was short-lived, and the winds abated somewhat as the front swept away to the east.

            “Quickly!” Artuk had shouted. “We must reach the shelter of the hill.”

            Rana blinked and stuttered, his face and mouth soiled by the dust and sand. He nodded that he understood as Artuk helped him to gain his footing. Together they lurched toward the base of the hillock, where they soon came upon the stunned forms of Rana’s personal guard. The men were struggling up from the ground, shaking off the blowing sands and recovering fallen spears and swords before they were buried in the drifts. When they saw Artuk and Rana they shouted harsh warnings, hastening to their leader’s side as if to fend off an attack. But Rana held up an arm to ward them off. They soon saw that Artuk had come to the aid of their general, and meant him no harm. Three men rushed to assist them, and both men were helped into the protective shelter of the hillock.

            “It will come again,” Artuk breathed heavily. “That was just the first lash of the Buran. Come, we must gather close together in a circle and place our backs to the wind!”

            Keemah emerged from the haze and drew near, clasping Rana’s arms. “Are you injured, lord Rana?” he asked, his face pressed with concern.

            “I am well, Keemah,” Rana coughed, but forced the words out. “But I may owe this man a life!” He pointed at Artuk. “ I was swept off my horse and it was he who first came to my aid. You have my thanks for that, Wending Scout!”

            The droning wind grew louder, until their speech was drowned out in the din. At Artuk’s direction, twelve soldiers formed two tight lines in an arc about Rana and the others. He showed them how to stand with their backs to the wind, their long sturdy spears thrust into the ground so they could brace themselves. He had them place their shields behind their legs and feet as a further barrier. This formed a human shield against the wind, and that, with the added protection afforded by the hillock, was enough to give some semblance of shelter in an otherwise barren stretch of land beneath the hill. The second wave of the Buran struck with equal fury. Rana could hear the panicked shouts of his men and the neighing of horses. For two hours they endured the lash of the Buran, until the winds grew less and it was once more possible to speak and move about. A silted mist-like haze still moved over the land. The skies were totally fogged over with a pall of amber and auburn dust that deepened toward the night. By the time it ended Artuk saw that the shield of guards behind them were knee deep in wind blown sand.

            “It is passed,” he managed to squawk, though his throat was choked with dust. “We must get water to the men and try and set a camp.”

            Rana looked at him through bleary eyes as he struggled to clear his vision. This man has given me a life, he thought. I fell hard when my horse bolted, and the winds were seeking my soul. I could barely breathe! I am certain death would have found me here if this man had not come upon me as he did. Now his first words are bent to give aid to my fallen soldiers! I have chosen well.

            Slowly, the scattered elements of the column began to coalesce once again. Rana and Keemah led efforts to organize the Khur Kan leaders and round up any stray animals they could find. Many of the donkeys had fled in terror when their Tibetan porters rushed to safety, heedless of the welfare of the beasts. When they came upon the center of the supply company, Rana was pleased to find that all of Tando’s camels were arrayed in a neat line, their backs to the wind, with all their supplies bundled close by the animals on the ground. Tando was in the midst of the group, directing his porters as they doled out water from the bags to lines of grateful soldiers. The men were washing the soot and soil from their faces and taking long draughts from their wooden bowls. Rana grinned at the sight of the man. Tando was completely self-possessed, his blue turban tilting comically to one side as he shouted orders to the porters where they set down a new water bag on a low yellow dune. Rana was greatly pleased.

            “You see, Keemah,” he pointed at the scene. “Here is another who had kept his wits about him and sees to the welfare of my men and animals. Did I not choose wisely when I swore them to my allegiance? Think what might have befallen us here if these animals had bolted like the others, and we were left without this water and the stores of food this man saved. Remind me that they must be given just reward for this service. Their courage is a mark for all to see here. Look how my men draw strength from this place.”

            A long, fitful night passed in the cold wind off the desert. They managed to set fires and Tando got the porters to learn how to make T’sampa for the soldiers. It was a meager meal, for sudden gusts of wind kept dousing the flames and blowing sand into the firepots. The men’s bowls were soiled with dust and sand, which got into their food and mouths and throats in spite of every effort to wash it away. In time the men huddled together in groups against the night, and here and there, they sang clan anthems to bolster their courage and keep the dark wolves of the desert wind at bay. Having felt the terror of the desert for the first time, many still quailed at the sound of the wind if it rose up again, and buried their faces in their arms.

            Long hours later the men began to struggle up from their restless sleep. Some began gathering broken bits of toghrak in the dark and trying to get fires started for the morning brew of mutton teas. Rana had called both Tando and Artuk to the circle of his camp, where his guards had at last managed to set out the rudiments of his tent. They sat at Rana’s fire pit with Keemah and a few chosenKhur Kan leaders, feeling very proud at the praise Rana offered, and privileged to be granted this honor.

            “I must say that was a fearsome storm,” said Rana. “It was one to rival the great winds of the high mountains!”

            “Even worse, I think,” said Keemah. “The mountain winds are fierce, but they have only sleet and snows to hurl at us. Here the desert does battle with the earth itself! How the sands can move! They were like a living thing, oozing and crawling and howling on the wind.”

            “This was not the worst I have seen,” said Artuk. “My people have lived at the edge of the Taklamakan for long ages. I have seen many storms devour whole villages and bury them head deep in drifts of sand. North of my city—not but a hundred li or less—the sand is piled high in great dawan ridges crested by dune-capped peaks that glow in an thousand hues of yellow and gold. The great sand sea of the Taklamakan is the real desert, the deep desert that gives birth to all the legends that haunt this land.”

            “Would you still dare to enter such a place?” Rana asked Tando. “What was it you called it…an empty house? It does not seem empty by this account. Have you ever been there?”

            “Not to the deep desert, lord,” said Tando. “It is the land of no return. It is the place where men go to become lost, or to die. Oh yes, there are those that skirt the fringes of the desert, and sometimes ride in a ways to satisfy their curiosity. But do they ever dare to chance a serious march? Would they set course into the very heart of the dunes? I think not—at least I have never heard of such a journey. No lord, I have never been there willfully, though I was lost there once. I saw things that I still wonder at, even though I fear the Taklamakan, as any man should.”

            “It could be done,” said Artuk. “I do not boast, lord, but if one is careful, and well prepared; and if one makes offering and shows respect for the place, the desert may bear his path, and let him live. I have heard tales of ancient cities that once sat in the very heart of the desert.”

            “Yes,” said Tando, “Where are they now? Ancient Niya? Endére? Old Domôko? Even these are not that far north and men are long since driven from those places. Where are these hidden cities, I wonder? Or are they merely legends told by grandfathers for the amusement of their young ones.”

            “Perhaps,” said Artuk. “But you forget the rivers, Tando. The Kara Kash and Yurung Kash join arms north of my city and form a new watercourse we call the River Khotan. Some years the flow of waters from the mountains is very great on that course, and even on the Keriya River farther east near Domôko. On good years the waters have a long reach, and they all flow north into the heart of the desert. Where they die, I cannot say, but while the rivers are full there is good water for many li—and the way is open north. A man may walk that road, if he dares. He may see much that is hidden for long months of the year, and seldom disturbed by the doings of men.”

            Rana was listening to the men with keen interest. Tando’s eyes were alight as well while Artuk spoke of the lands north of his city. This was just the place where the silent figure of the Buddha had been drawn in the center of Tando’s map. He suspected that the legends had been born of some truth hidden there, as a grain of reality seeded all stories.

            “Two names return in all the old tales,” Artuk went on, his audience spellbound. “First we hear of the Kings of Mazar-Tagh, and then of the ancient fastness of Kara-Dong. Both lie somewhere north of my city, or at least they were there in days of old. The cities are gone now, though the names remain. Both may yet be reached in a good spring when the waters are full, if a man dares. I would not advise it.”

            “So, lord Rana,” Keemah put in. “The waters from our mountains reach even to the heart of the desert. Perhaps this is an omen for us—that we are meant to rule that land as well. For without the gift of our mountains, there could be no kingdoms in the sand seas of the north, and no road there along the River Khotan, as this man has said.”

            Before Rana could give answer he was interrupted by shouts from the fringe of his campsite. It was soon evident that the guards there were embroiled in some conflict. A messenger hastened up to Rana’s fire, bowing deeply, and clearly out of breath. “My Lord,” he wheezed. “The lord Omu Seng Tu is come and he demands audience at once.”

            “He demands?” Rana was clearly displeased, and gave Keemah a knowing glance. “The lord Omu has yet more demands to make of me? Will there be no end to this? Very well, have him sent to me at once!” He waved the man away, and Keemah stood up, making himself ready to greet the general. The others moved carefully to one side and soon they heard the gruff sounding voice of Omu as he tramped angrily into the circle of the fire, his hand hovering menacingly near the haft of his sword.

            “Three of my men are dead,” he said without even offering a greeting, or even the formality of a bow. “You must make recompense! It was you who led us this way by the edge of the desert! You are too much deceived by these commoners!” He pointed at Artuk and Tando who would not look at him, remembering his anger on their first meeting. “Did they not choose this path?  Is not that one a captain in your scout guard?  It is he who was responsible!”

            “Surely you cannot fix blame on this man,” said Rana. “For as you have said, he is only a scout. These men died by the third cause. It was their time; it was an act of misfortune, and nothing more.”

            “It was an act of treachery! This man is an enemy!” Omu would not be satisfied, and Keemah thought it wise to intervene before the situation got out of hand.  “Lord Omu,” he said, “please calm yourself and tell us the tale before you accuse others or make threats here against these men.  We have been waiting long for news of you and your men. Now it is come. Please, say on.”

            Omu glared at all the men in the circle of the fire.  “What is to say?  These fools have led us to the edge of the desert and when the winds came three of my men were buried beneath the sands. Is that not treachery?  Should not this one bear the blame?  Should not payment be made here today?”

            “Your eyes see too much, lord Omu.  Your voicesays too much, and you ask too much!” Rana was very angry himself. He was tired of Omu’s brash and discourteous manner, he was weary after the long day’s march, and he would not have this man shame him so before his guards and honored guests. Keemah knew his manner well, and he could see that the situation was growing very serious. Before he could speak Artuk stood up and bowed low.

            “My lord,” he said. “Where are the bodies? Are they not watched?  Has no place been set aside for their passage?”

            “Be silent!” Omu turned on the man with renewed anger.  “How dare you speak!”

            “Forgive me, lord, but am I not accused?  If that is so, then is my place to speak. You have said that I am responsible for the deaths of these men, but how it is that I command the winds and the desert?  This, at least I do know. These men no longer walk among us, but they are not dead! They wait now for the time of the bardo, and is no preparation made for them? Has no place been selected for their passage? Are the bodies made ready? Are they being watched? Do you not fear the Ro-lang? Or will zombies soon walk among us!”

            Artuk knew that the people of Tibet had many strange beliefs concerning death. For them death was not a finality but merely a transition from one state to another.  Soon after death the deceased would enter a dream like realm where they would float, entranced in the sublime reverie of the bardo state. During this time he would be treated to visions of both peaceful and wrathful deities. Devils would appear in the shape of flesh-eating demons and attempt to confuse and disorient the deceased.  It was his task to see through the veiled guises worn by these entities and realize that they were only representing aspects of his self.  If he were to do so successfully he might be spared the labor of rebirth in the endless round of samsara. But if he were to fail to understand these visions he would fall deeper, descending once again into the ‘bardo of becoming’ and re-enter this life as one of the many forms of being. It was also vital that the body was closely watched in the first crucial moments after death, so that demons lurking nearby would not become jealous and try to enter the corpse and re-animate it.

            Omu was caught off guard by Artuk’s words. This one knows our ways, he thought! He speaks our language as well.  No wonder he has beguiled Rana so easily.  Yet his words are true. The bardo waits for these men and I am remiss in my duty here. All the more reason to take his head, now that he’s shamed me in front of these others.  But all things in time. Now I must see to my men.

            Artuk spoke again. “I ask your pardon, lord, if you believe that I have done any harm here willfully.  I ask your forgiveness, and beg permission to stand in the circle of six.  Allow me to select a place of honor for these men so that we may begin the ritual of the sky funeral, as is your way.  I must at least do this much, and when these men are seen safely through the time of bardo you may again have words with me, and I will accept whatever fate you decree.”

            There was a moment of silence and no one spoke. Keemah and Rana were stunned, for truly this man spoke of their ways as though he had been born to them. Even Omu’s temper was quelled, and he folded his arms staunchly on his barrel chest, waiting.  Then he fixed Artuk with an evil stare and pointed a solitary finger at him.

            “So be it,” he said. “You will stand in the circle of six, but if the offering is made and the sky does not take back what was given in the shape of these men, then you too will make your way to the Chö-nyi Bardo, and see what the visions may tell you. Choose the ground, and choose wisely. The bodies will be brought here within the hour. ”

            Then he turned and strode away, rudely shoving a guard aside who had pressed close when it seemed that Rana might draw his sword, and that the long enmity between the two men might lead to bloodshed. Keemah let out a long sigh of relief, for it had very nearly come to that. He regarded Artuk with renewed interest and some suspicion.  It seemed that with each passing day a new layer was revealed, and the man was much more than he seemed to be, not a simple scout of Khotan as he would have others believe. Who was this man, he thought?  How is it that he speaks the language of our fathers?  How is it he knows the ritual of the sky funeral and the dream of the bardo?  He wanted to ask these things, but this was not the time. Now he looked only at the Lord Rana, with a knowing glance, waiting for some reaction.

            At last Rana stood up and spoke to Artuk. “The sun is near, and it is given to you to select the place of the burial.” He met the man’s eyes, studying him deeply for the first time. He could see that his advisor was also keenly aware that this man was somehow different from all the other traders, layered with a certain mystery about him that Rana would now set himself to uncover—if the man lived. “It was not wise to speak so directly. In fact it was not wise to speak at all! I did not interfere, for in truth the matter was between you and the lord Omu. You spoke well, but you have also taken a heavy burden upon yourself.  Choose the site carefully.” Then he too turned and strode into the night, and Keemah soon followed in his wake.

            Tando sat with a bemused look on his face, for the entire exchange had been spoken in the language of Tibet, and he could only follow by noting the tone of voice as each man spoke. “It looked like there was bound to be sword play a moment ago,” he said.  “What did you say to the man?  Why was he pointing at you?  And why did the Lord Rana and Keemah leave so suddenly?”

            Artuk told him all that has been said, explaining what was meant by the time of bardo, and telling him of the ancient Tibetan ritual of the sky funeral. “Now I must choose a place where the bodies will be laid,” he said. “But the sky is still angry, and the wind still drives the sand and dust, and obscures much. I can only hope now that the desert birds will brave the winds and yet still be seeking to feed on all the dead claimed by the sands this night past. Have you any incense? I may have great need of it soon.”

            Tando told him he would find something appropriate in the camel stores. Then Artuk went off to select the only suitable place where the ritual might be held.  He climbed atop the lonely hillock and selected a stretch of bare open ground. While the souls of the men would be far from Great Tengri, the God of the Sky, this would have to do. When the skies began to lighten Rana sent a funeral detail to him and Artuk gave orders that they were to search the ground for any large stones that they might find and bring them to this place. The men seemed to know on instinct why he needed them and moved silently about the grim business at hand, laboring up the hill moments later with handfuls of slate gray rock.

            While they were away Artuk slipped a coiled rope out of his cape pouch and fixed something fast to one end.  He stood in the middle of the hill, and began to whirl the rope about him in a wide circle.  As he did so, the odd fixture at the far end of the rope emitted a strange trilling sound. Some of the men who heard it looked up at the skies with fear in their eyes. Others covered their ears afraid that some evil spirit had come down upon the top of the hill to set its bare white teeth in the flesh of any it found there. But it was not to call an evil spirit that Artuk now labored. Instead, it was his hope that he might summon any hawks or vultures that might be riding on the morning airs of the desert and bring them here to this place.  Indeed, his life now depended on it. To this end Artuk also set a small fire and began burning the remains of several rinds of fat from the company stores. The thick, greasy smoke would also help to attract the desert birds.

            Artuk had set the six prayer flags in a circle. It was not long before the lord Omu was seen to return at the head of a small column of ten men.  The bodies were wrapped in plain white garments and were carried by six of the men. Two others beat solemnly on large, leather skinned drums, timing out a doleful march. The remaining two stood a watchful guard, their swords drawn; their eyes fixed fast upon the bodies of the dead. All the soldiers struggling up from their fitful sleep stood back from them, turning their faces away, and fearing that they should see the dead move at the hand of some malevolent ghoul.

            Soon they were gathered atop the lonely hillock and joined by both Rana and Keemah.  Now six men stood on the crest as the sun labored to rise, burning up through the brown haze on the wind and casting a somber light over the whole scene. Each man stood by one of the prayer flags, and the funeral detail moved slowly into the circle to the place where the three bodies lay, wrapped in white. They chanted prayers in low breathy voices. Omu’s lids were heavy, and his features were pressed taught with a mixture of both anger and revulsion as he regarded the Wend. Artuk tried to ignore his threatening gaze and focus on the task at hand. He searched his memory for the words he knew must be spoken, and then his eye fell upon the circular mirror of armor that emblazoned Omu’s chest. He noted the curious amulet that hung from a woven metal chain there. The broken cross! Omu was a follower of the Bön! He had thought to follow the Buddhist ways here, but now he realized that he must dig yet deeper. His mind raced, reaching for the memories of the ancient ways, and slowly he drew upon the old strands of ritual and a vision clarified in his mind. A moment of fear and hesitation gave him pause. Would he offend any of the others if he enacted the rituals of the Bön Po? Did he dare?

            First the cleansing, he thought, his mind considering elements that might be common to both the old ways and the new. He stepped forward to the edge of the ceremonial fire pit where thin tongues of flame burned in a circle of stones. Reaching into his pocket he drew out leaves of sage that Tando had given him and the licorice and sweet grasses that he had gathered and bound together with a thin twine of hemp. He bowed low to the fire and extended the herbs to the flames, chanting silently to himself until the smudge stick began to burn. Then he stood up, and went first to the lord Omu, extending the herbs and bathing him in the sweet smoke as a ritual of cleansing. Omu seemed pleased that this commoner had the good sense to single him out first, among all others, for the ritual of cleansing. But then he wondered if the man had intended him an insult, indicating that it was he who carried guilt to this place. Artuk moved next to Rana, Keemah and the two Khur Kan leaders, until all the members in the circle had been smudged with the fragrant, sweet smoke.

            He cast the remnant of the herbs into the fire pit as he knelt before the bodies. Omu watched carefully, though his gaze was less harsh now, tinged more with an element of curiosity and suspicion. He dares sit in the speaker’s place, he thought? What would this heathen know to say?

            Artuk touched his forehead to the ground, then rose, looking up at the dust ridden skies, straining up to catch a glimpse of blue there. Then he spoke, his voice halting at first, but gathering strength as the memories returned to him, brightening his mind with a vision. “From Great Tengri, the sky, we are come to this place to walk the Narrow Path. For were not the old ones, in the time of the Yarlung come down from the sky itself? Did they not return to the heavens by climbing the sky rope until it was cut by Dri gum btsanpo? So now men must return by other means, and so these rites were set down long ago. Let all present see the way, and know by these cuts, the path of their own return.”

            He lowered his head, and drew out a long knife, setting it before him on his knees, and bowing to the blade. Omu was watching him very carefully, as were both Rana and Keemah. They were all stunned to see how this man could have such knowledge and understanding of the old ways and the rituals of the sky funeral. The Wend spoke again, his voice low and solemn.

            “So, the way is prepared by many means. From the land of Olmo Lun-gring came the unborn, the undiminishing and the prophetic word first spoken by Tonpa Shenrab. From the place that holds a third of all that is and yet may be, and from the high mount of Yung-drung, spring four rivers flowing each to the four directions. South lies the Barpo Sogye, where Tonpa Shenrab was born, West lies his palace where the wives and children lived, East lies the temple of Shampo Lathse, where his word was first heard, and North the waters flow that reach the city of my kinfolk in Khotan, where they give life, even to the emptiness of this desert.”

            Now Omu’s face grew grave and solemn. He looked at the stranger with new eyes. He speaks of the Bön, he thought! How can he know the ancient ways? Is this man a priest? A lama that Rana has taken under his wing? Or is he a sorcerer? Could it be that he did call down the winds upon us? But why? Listen to the sadness in his voice.

            “And so the Bön hold out nine ways, and one is the way of returning.” Artuk raised his arms to the sky, gazing up again, hopeful, but yet seeing only the emptiness of hazy blue above. “Other beliefs hold to this as well,” he said. “For did not Buddha say that all life is a dream? While we live, we walk the Narrow Path, and see but darkly. Now these men are called to the dream of the bardo. May they find there a lamp that illuminates their way. It is given to us to speed them as they go, and to speak to them, so that they might hear us now, and better understand the visions that come to them. But first, we must know they are empty…”

             He stood up and approached the small effigy of the Lü that had been set upon the brow of the hill, facing the desert. It was a simple shrine, but Artuk approached it with reverence, chanting audibly and gesturing at the sky as he did so. As if on cue Omu began to shout at the skies as well, and the two Khur Kan leaders that held the prayer flags followed in turn. Only Rana and Keemah remained silent, a fact that did not go unnoticed by Omu, though he tucked it away within him, noting that he would have his just vengeance on another day. It was strange, he thought, to suddenly feel more kinship with this commoner and stranger, than he did with one of his own people. But he put that thought aside.

            Artuk was calling on demons and spirits to lure them into the shrine of the Lü, so they would not find the three bodies, and leave them pure. It was thought that the Lü would trap and hold the hungry ghosts and spirits that lusted after the dead. When enough time had passed he fetched a brand from the fire pit, and set the Lü aflame, watching it carefully as the thick black smoke billowed up on the wind, and casting on more of the purifying herbs and fats to sweeten the smoke, and cleanse it of any evil. Then he returned to his place before the three men and nodded to the funeral detail.

            “I sense no evil here,” he said. “Unless it is brought here by any who now stand in the circle of six. If that is so, I bid them to cast it away as we make this offering.” He turned and looked briefly at each of the men in the circle. Then he rose and took up the long glistening blade, walking first to Omu, and presenting him the haft with a reverent bow.

            Omu breathed in deeply, waiting for the Wend to rise and extend the blade to him. Then, to the amazement of both Rana and Keemah, he proffered a bow to Artuk in return, and took the blade. The Wend stood aside, and Omu walked slowly to the three men. He signaled to the waiting attendants that the bodies were to be laid bare, and the men slowly unwrapped the white cloths until the men lay naked. Omu took the blade and scored each of the three men on the right leg, murmuring in a low voice. “So they marched well for the house of Seng Tu. Strong legs carried them here, but greater strength has taken them to another place. May they find there a lamp that guides their way.”

            He returned to the Wend, handing him back the blade, who gave it in turn to each in the circle of six. Rana’s cut was made at the throat, and he said that he had never heard an evil word spoken by these men, and that now their voices would be stilled, and they would say no more. Keemah cut on the arms, and thanked the men for deeds accomplished, and enemies felled by the strength of their hands. And so it went, until the Wend made the last cut, just over the fleshy meat above the heart, until he had sheared away a piece of flesh, which he tossed down the slope of the hill, looking at the skies and making a strange trilling call. Now the men of the funeral detail each drew out long sharp knives, and began to cut at the bodies, slicing off the flesh and skin and tossing chunks out onto the scattered rocks on the hillock. They too, began to coo and call at the sky, the Wend loudest of all, as he kept on, his eyes searching the haze for any sign.

            An interval of time passed, but soon Artuk breathed an inner sigh of relief. High above, he spied a dark shape circling on the winds. Soon it was joined by another, and then a third, until a flight of gaunt desert vultures were circling overhead. The men called to them with renewed vigor until one of the birds swooped low, landing on the bare slope and picking at a chunk of flesh that had been thrown there. In time the other birds descended as well, and the Wend returned to the circle of six. Each man seized the haft of one of the prayer flags, uprooting it and stepping back, away from the bodies to widen the circle, opening it in the direction that faced the desert, until the flags were brought back into a line behind the men, and the burning fire pit. The cutters increased their work, dissecting the bodies until Rana could see the bright white bones emerging from beneath the blood-red flesh. It was an old, and long practiced ritual, though in some ways he found it disturbing. Still, he thought, no tomb, however strong it was built, could stay the eventual decay of these men, and prevent their bodies from being infested by worms and maggots. So why not return them to the skies in this manner, feeding their flesh to the hawks and vultures that would carry it up to Great Tengri? This way the bodies would not bear the insult of the worm.

            More birds joined the feeding, and at one point Artuk stepped forward again, taking one of the knives and cutting away a rib from each of the dead. His hands were bloodied as he carried the pink-white bones to a flat stone that had been set aside for just this purpose. There he took other sharp stones, and cracked them down upon the bones, breaking and grinding them for long minutes. His breath came heavy with the work, and then the Lord Omu walked to his side, stooping, and holding out a broad wooden bowl with the Tsampa mix of oats and barley and yak butter. Artuk took the bowl with some reverence. He mixed in the powdered bone he had been crushing so diligently. Then he swilled the brew about, and tossed a ladle full onto the flames until they hissed and sputtered. The rest he set aside.

            Now hawks and ravens swooped down to join the milling vultures, not many, thought Artuk, but enough to give the ritual its proper end. The men stooped down onto their haunches, and sat, some silent, and others murmuring whispered prayers and invocations to the dead, bidding them not to fear the wrathful demons of the bardo, or to be lulled even by the images of the peaceful deities who would visit them there. In time the birds had taken their fill, some flying off with bits of bright red flesh clasped in their sharp beaks. Artuk stood up and gestured to other men who waited with armfuls of gathered wood. The men came forward and set the branches by the remnants of the bodies, and Artuk lit a brand from the ceremonial flame, using it to set the makeshift pyre alight. He stepped back, taking now the incense Tando had given him and lighting sticks, which he gave to each in the circle of six.

                        The dark smoke rose to the heavens mixing with the brown haze of the wind blown dust and sand.  When the ritual had concluded, Artuk went to Omu’s side and knelt before him, his head bowed low as if waiting for some judgment that was to befall him.  Omu stared down at the man thinking hard. He considered his accusations—that this man had summoned the winds himself, and dismissed them. Would he have led them here only to kill these three? He did not think so. But what of the insult at the lord Rana’s fire? Yes, he thought, I will avenge that some day, but not by a death, and not here. His hand rested on the haft of his long cutting sword, but as he stared at the blooded hands of the Wend, thinking of how the man had stood so proudly and so reverently in the circle of six, and how he lead the ritual of the burial rites with such keen understanding, he decided to stay his hand.  Instead he extended an arm and clasped Artuk on the shoulder, bidding him to rise.

            “You have spoken well,” he said.  “So now you have my judgment.  It shall be as the lord Rana suggested—that these three men died by the third cause. It was nothing more than unfortunate circumstance that gave them to the desert.  I shall fix no blame upon you here, and I grant you a life.”

            It was said that there were three ways that death might be brought to a man.  The first cause was that the term of his life had come to a natural end, and old age would take him.  The second cause was that he had exhausted all of his meritorious actions in this life, and so would go now to seek another. But the third cause arose through no misdeed of his own. It was an unfortunate occurrence, or a mere circumstance of fate, and usually such deaths would be held blameless.

            The Wend bowed low again, then rose, meeting Omu’s eyes for the first time.  Omu looked back at him, and Artuk saw that his eyes granted a measure of respect for the first time.  “I thank you, lord, for this life,” he said. “I beg leave now to return to my duties here.”

            “Then beg leave of the lord Rana,” said Omu. “You are sworn to his house, and your fate shall be bound by that choice.”  He turned and strode away into the gray dawn. One by one the men of the funeral detail accompanied him; only this time their drums were silent.

            Yes, Omu thought. Your fate is cast with lord Rana—He who remained silent in the circle of six; he with his blue-shawled lackey always at his side. Perhaps they lie with one another, and suckle at each other’s stalks, yes?  Well, it will be my pleasure to repay their insults one day. But all in good time. A man must be patient, and a man must think and plan. I must first read what the Tark may say on this. Then I will know better. One day my hand may strike at Rana Tenpai. If any who are sworn to his fealty stand too close on that day, then they too will die. Such is the way of it. For the house of Seng Tu is fated to rule these lands, and the house of Rana Tenpai will be cut to pieces, as these men were cut here today, and fed to the vultures. I swear it!

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Taklamakan            The Land of No Return      © 2001, John A. Schettler