Free The White Mirror by Elsa Hart

summits. Ahead of him in the snow, strands of fluttering prayer flags stretched from the top of a pole to the ground, to which they were pinned by rocks. Many of the flags were faded and threadbare. Others glowed like liquid glass against the gray sky. Like the red plumes on the bridle of the lead mule, the flags asserted human presence in an inhospitable landscape.
    Beyond them stood a modest temple with a sloping roof. Two sets of stairs led up to two separate doors, one at the far left of the building, the other at the far right. A narrow porch, from which the snow had been swept, extended between the doors. Set into the outer wall was a row of weather-beaten prayer wheels.
    Seeing that the leftmost door was ajar, Li Du climbed the corresponding stairs. At the top, he touched the handle of a prayer wheel. He spun it a quarter turn clockwise, and by doing so exposed a section that had been turned toward the wall. It was blackened and traced by an irregular grid of cracks. His gaze moved to the building’s columns. Beneath their peeling paint, they too were charred. He went to the door and, without stepping over the lintel, peered inside.
    *   *   *
    The temple’s interior was initially so dark that Li Du could see nothing but flames floating in the blackness. As his vision adjusted, he saw the rims of copper chalices cradling each flame—butter lamps in a row on an altar. The eight identical butter lamps looked duplicated, like a trick of mirrors, differentiated only by the flames that moved independently, intent on their unique conversations with the air.
    Prostrated in front of the central altar was a monk. Li Du could make out nothing about his appearance except for his shaved head, broad shoulders, and robes of crimson and saffron. The Chhöshe, he thought. Between the huddled monk and the altar was a recumbent figure—a human body—covered by a sheet of rough cloth.
    Bending over the monk was another man, who appeared to Li Du as a pale face bobbing atop a black robe. This man was speaking, but just as his eyes struggled to adjust to the darkness, Li Du’s ears fought to understand the sounds. Slowly the syllables formed sense in his mind. The man was speaking Latin.
    â€œIt is a holy and salutary thought to pray for the deceased so that they may be released from their sins.” The man gesticulated like a performing dancer, as if by the extension and movement of his arms he could amplify his speech. He pronounced his syllables slowly and with emphasis. “But the words you speak are whispered by the devil. Cease your false prayers. Cease them.”
    Li Du stood transfixed as the man raised his hand to his mouth and gestured as if he were pulling an object from between his lips. “Words,” he said to the monk, who showed no sign of response. “Do you understand? I am speaking to you of words, of speech.” He gestured at the shrouded form in front of the altar. “You think that you guide his soul to heaven, but you are leading him instead to the inferno. You condemn him.”
    Still there was no answer. The man raised his arms to encompass the wall behind the altar. “Do you venerate these demons?” he asked. Li Du raised his own eyes to the wall. Behind the flickering butter lamps, color coalesced in the darkness. The wall was covered in paintings. Hundreds of faces stared out from within frames of gleaming silk. There were entities seated and standing, their smoke-darkened features outlined in red and blue and green. Tongues emerged from fanged jaws. Heads were crowned in rows of skulls. White eyes stood out like snowflakes against dark earth. Figures in crimson sat on floating clouds.
    Li Du stepped carefully over the high wooden threshold into the room. The standing man had begun to repeat his entreaty, as if time had completed a circle. “It is a holy and salutary thought to pray…” He reached out a hand as if to place it