“Abhiseleka, it’s the end of the road for today,” said Pomdrakpa. “We’re going to stay here tonight.” Abhiseleka sat upright, facing the corner with his hands still clenched over his eyes. “What are you doing? Are you hurt?” Asked Pomdrakpa. He climbed into the wagon and Abhiseleka shrieked.
“Get away from me!” He said. Pomdrakpa grabbed his thrashing body into his arms and began to recite a mantra in a very deep voice, over and over. He stroked Abhiseleka’s hair and he was docile. He carried him to the edge, dismounted the wagon, and pulled Abhiseleka out as well. Pomdrakpa was still reciting the mantra as he stood him up. He acted drunk until the lama clapped his hands three times, and ceased the mantra.
Abhiseleka felt as if a fog had lifted. He did not know where he was. There were colorful and loud people everywhere. It was some kind of market, smoky with fires over which large meat sticks roasted. The shopkeepers who turned the meat sticks were mainly elderly women with wrinkled faces. They smiled while they did their work. Many of them recited mantras as they turned the meat. They were Tibetan women. There were also loud men calling out in Tibetan, which Abhiseleka understood, though he did not yet speak the language himself.
Overall, it was a filthy place. Abhiseleka was repulsed by the smell, but it was the din of haggling voices that threatened to bring him to his knees. Pomdrakpa and Drogon Renchen looked around the market. Abhiseleka followed. Deeper down the smoky stone corridor began the skin trade. Naked women, men, and children stood in the dark cages lined with straw. They wore metal collars that had chain connected to them. Abhiseleka wanted to cover his eyes. He could not believe what he saw. The lamas walked hurriedly ahead, desperate to find something.
“Drogon, my friend,” said a voice from behind one of the cages. A Turkish merchant emerged from the shop behind a caged little Ethiopian girl. She sat in the corner, huddled with her hands around her knees. Her body was propped up against the back wall of the cage. The shopkeeper, upon seeing this, slammed the bars of the cage.
“Get up, you lazy girl! How will I ever sell you if you act sick? You must stand and look longingly in the customer’s eyes, like this,” he said. He clasped his hands together and cocked his head to the side. He batted his eyelashes. She did not move. The girl continued to stare off into nowhere. A small tear emerged silently from her right eye. He opened his palms and beat on the bars. She still did not move. He turned his head away from her and to the lamas.
“What good fortune has brought you men to my shop today?” He asked. The lamas remained silent. Abhiseleka looked up at them, anxiously awaiting their answer. He looked back towards the Ethiopian girl, then back to the shopkeeper. A new idea dawned on him. His face lit up.
“You have brought me a prize,” he said. He walked up to Abhiseleka and stroked his cheek with the back of his hand. “He is beautiful. What is his price?” He asked.
Drogon Renchen face reddened. Pomdrakpa stepped forward and pulled the boy away from the shopkeeper.
“He is not for sale,” said Pomdrakpa. “You couldn’t afford him anyway,” he said further.
“Oh really? Try me,” replied the shopkeeper.
“He is technically worth twice his weight in gold,” said Pomdrakpa. A middle aged Indian slave, a man wearing a dirty linen outfit stood at attention. The shopkeeper clapped his hands three times and he ran off. Less than a minute later, he emerged with another slave who was dressed identically. They toted a mid-sized wooden trunk, each holding a handle from either side. They dropped it at their master’s feet.
“Open the trunk,” he said. One of the slaves unlocked the lock, pulled it off, and threw back the lid of the trunk. It shone brightly with small gold coins, full to the brim. He smiled at the lamas, then at Abhiseleka.
“This boy is not for sale,” said Drogon Renchen. “We have come only to replenish our supplies, and to garner a guide to help us navigate the passes. We are headed to Lhasa,” he said. Drogon handed a small rolled up scroll of paper to him. The shopkeeper winked twice at him, bent down, and whispered in one of his slave’s ear. He ran off and emerged with a beautiful Persian woman. They were dressed in long and brightly colored dress, blue and purple. She smelled heavily of Frankincense.
“This is Kimiya. She will take you to your lodgings for the night. In the meantime, we will exchange your cart with a full one, equipped for the journey east, and your mules for yaks. It will all be ready by the morning,” he said, and extended his hand to Drogon first, then Pomdrakpa.
“This way please, dear Sirs,” she said. She clasped her hands together and bowed down to her waist, then began to walk back down the bazaar in the direction of their wagon. Once out of the range of her Master’s hearing, she began to speak.
“I am no concubine. I am the Master’s Dakini,” she said. Drogon and Pomdrakpa looked at each other. “Don’t play stupid with me, you old men. He, this boy, is no ordinary child,’ she said. She laughed. It bubbled up from her until she was nearly doubled over and unable to walk. “The look on your faces,” she said, “when Kamran tried to buy him,” she gestured towards Abhiseleka, “was priceless,” she said. She abruptly stopped her laughter, and a grave look fell over her face. “That man in there, Kamran, he is not my master. This boy is Vajrasattva, my master and teacher. I will never leave his side,” she said.
She stopped walking abruptly. Drogon and Pomdrakpa almost ran into her. She bent down and touched her forehead to Abhiseleka’s, holding the back of his head in her hands. She closed her eyes. The tumult around their party faded away for just that moment, at least for her. Abhiseleka seemed unperturbed and put his hands on the back of her skull as well. “Where have you been?” She asked Abhiseleka. She then continued walking. Their carriage was now in sight. “You cannot trust that man,” she said. The lamas hesitated. “You tell them, Vajrasattva. We must go to someone else,” she said.
“I thought you were showing us to our room,” said Drogon Renchen. “I am not joking. Kamran will kill you in your sleep and take the boy, along with all your merchandise,” she said. “Ask him and he’ll tell you.” She motioned to Abhiseleka with her head. The lamas looked at him and he nodded his head once. “You see! He knows I’m right. He recognizes me,’ she said. “Let’s get out of here,” she said. All four of them squeezed into the front of the carriage. Drogon held the reins. To his left was Kimiya. To his right were Abhiseleka, then Pomdrakpa. He snapped the reins down on the mules and they pulled the wagon, back towards the road that headed out of town.
