Free Bone Mountain by Eliot Pattison

horse forward.
    Three hours later Dremu waited for them at the crest of the lowest ridge in the second range, their mounts following a winding goat trail through patches of snow. The air beyond still shimmered, as Shan had seen from a distance, and as they reached the crest he discovered the reason.
    “Lha gyal lo!” Lokesh called out with a boyish glee as he rode up behind Shan, pointing to the vast flat expanse of turquoise that dominated the landscape below them. “Lamtso!”
    Shan stared at the distant water. It looked like a long jewel inlaid between the mountains. Lamtso was one of Tibet’s holy lakes, its waters known as the home of important nagas, its shores a favorite grazing ground for the dropka herds.
    From a bag tied to his horse the Golok produced a large plastic water bottle filled not with water but with amber chang, Tibetan barley beer. He did not open it, but quickly surveyed the faces of his companions. “We sleep there tonight,” he announced with a gesture toward the water. “If we move fast enough,” he added with a frown toward Lokesh. The Golok paused and squinted toward the horizon behind them. Shan followed his gaze toward the valley they had just traversed. A small band of horsemen was pursuing them. Or perhaps not pursuing them, he realized, for they had stopped as well and had spread out, watching behind them.
    “Those dropka,” Dremu said. “They are worried about you, Chinese. They think they can try to guard your back but they don’t know the kind of trouble that follows. How many Tibetans are you worth, comrade?” he asked, aiming a bitter glance at Shan, then kicked his horse into a gallop and disappeared around a bend in the trail.
    They caught up with him a quarter hour later, waiting at a huge outcropping of rock, a leg draped over his horse’s neck, nearly half the bottle gone. As Nyma and Tenzin began to ease their mounts around him, the Golok raised a hand in warning. “Wouldn’t if I were you.”
    “I think we can find the lake from here,” Nyma declared impatiently.
    Dremu pointed toward a small dust cloud on the rough track in the low rolling hills that led toward the lake. Shan reached into the drawstring sack tied to his saddle and produced his battered pair of field glasses. He focused on the cloud a moment and sighed, then handed the glasses to the nun.
    “Army!” Nyma gasped.
    “One truck,” the Golok grunted. “No more than five or ten soldiers.”
    With a sudden tightening in his stomach Shan studied the approaching vehicle. It was still over two miles away, speeding not toward them but toward the lake. As he watched, however, the truck stopped. The nun cried out and bent down as though to hide behind his horse’s neck. “I saw a glint of something. I think they’re searching the mountains with binoculars!”
    The Golok scowled at the nun. “That’s what soldiers do. Could mean a hundred things. Could be escorting a birth inspector,” he said, referring to the hated bureaucrats who enforced China’s birth quotas. “Could be out hunting wild goats. Could be searching for something stolen from them,” he added with a meaningful gaze at Shan, then reached for the glasses. “The way that truck is painted in shades of grey, could be mountain troops,” he added in a tone like a curse. “I’d rather go against the damned knobs.”
    Shan looked back down the trail. Lokesh had lingered behind again, stopping his horse to stare down at a pattern of lichen on a rock face. Since their pilgrimage his old friend had particularly sought out self-actuated symbols of the Buddha—meaning elements of nature that had assumed the shape of a sacred object. More than once he had abandoned a piece of clothing or some food from his own drawstring sack in order to make room for a rock with lichen in the shape of a sacred emblem, or a weathered bone shaped like a ritual offering.
    The Golok pointed with his bottle toward a shadow below an outcropping a hundred feet