Black Flame Read online

  He was a fine example of a Tibetan mastiff. Heart-shaped ears hung on either side of his head, and now that he had lost his puppy fur, his coat was a crow-colored black with flecks of metallic blue. Even though he was only three or four months old, he was already showing signs of what was sure to become a frighteningly large frame.

  Despite the difficulty of communication across the northern plateau, word spread in only a couple of weeks of the mother mastiff whose strength had equaled that of a snow leopard. A number of herdsmen spent days driving their horses across the grasslands in the hope of acquiring one of her offspring. They sincerely believed that such ferocity and courage were passed down through the blood.

  Kelsang had few memories of his mother, and of the two siblings who had been carried away by the visiting herdsmen. He couldn’t know that his master, Tenzin, had kept him because in just two short months his four paws had grown to be as big as a child’s fists. He was an unfinished giant. Tenzin knew that he would grow so big that people would stare at him in amazement. Such a mastiff was necessary in a camp on the Tibetan plateau. He would protect the livestock, guard the yurt and even deliver messages when the camp was shut in by snow.

  “Kelsang!”

  The little dog heard his master’s shout as he chewed on a piece of sheep shoulder. Although he wasn’t sure that this was his name, every time Master made this sound he stared at him expectantly. And whenever Kelsang responded by trotting over, Master would do something that he found pleasing, like softly stroking his fur or fishing out a piece of dried meat from his sheepskin robe to give to him. As he chewed on the deliciously flaky meat, which had been left to hang in the dark all winter, his master would crouch down beside him and gaze out at the flock in front of the yurt.

  But this kind of affection didn’t happen every day, and aside from the extra ladle of milk his mistress gave him after she’d finished milking, he wasn’t spoiled. Still, he didn’t feel hard done by. He had mastiff blood in his veins, and mastiffs are not accustomed to having intimate contact with humans.

  After the other two puppies were taken away, Kelsang was sent out of the yurt. The first night, he stubbornly paced in front of it, wailing to go back to the warmth inside. Suddenly Master pulled back the rug and struck him on the head with his baiga, a weapon made of a leather strap and pouch in which the herder places a stone or small pellets. Kelsang shrieked in pain and escaped in the direction of the livestock in an attempt to find some warmth among them.

  The yaks began to stamp their excrement-encrusted hooves before he could get close. The sheep, in contrast, huddled together silently, their eyes shining in the dark like a galaxy reflected in a lake. Kelsang had no way of penetrating the flock and becoming one of them. He turned and went back to the yurt. A chink of warm light shone through a crack in the doorway, and he could hear the sound of Master’s cheerful laughter. The young mastiff tried wailing again, but Tenzin replied with an angry shout, and so Kelsang went away, not wanting to suffer another blow to the head.

  He nuzzled into the pile of sheep’s fleeces, drinking in their familiar fragrance. He recalled the night his mother had been attacked by the snow leopard, and trying to suppress his fear, he started howling again.

  From now on, he would no longer think of the warm fleece by the fire in the yurt. Far in the distance, a snowy peak radiated unnerving rays of silver moonlight like a rare jewel. Still howling, he wriggled deeper into the fleeces to escape the cold and then drifted off to sleep, enveloped by the smell of fresh grass.

  Early morning on the plateau. The night’s frost melted in the rays of the rising sun, turning into sparkling dew, like discarded pearls. Kelsang crawled out of the fleeces, crushing the pearls with each step as he scuttled toward the yurt.

  A few dozen sheep had been tied horn to horn with a leather cord and were standing silently in front of the yurt, a drowsy look in their eyes, their udders swollen with milk as they waited for the mistress to milk them. Those who couldn’t wait until after they’d been milked stuck their tails up in the air and discharged clusters of oily black excrement.

  In the distance, a mass of gray clouds was being swept across the dark blue sky by the wind, leaving a shifting shadow as it flew over the grasslands. The shadow moved over the snowy peak like a tidal wave in retreat, and the sun’s rays spread into every corner of the landscape. Master had already lit the mulberry embers in front of the yurt, and a curl of smoke was rising into the clear sky.

  Kelsang sensed that something was different today. Usually Mistress would busy herself around the camp after giving him his milk, but today she and Master stood near him, whispering. Even though he could guess that whatever was about to happen had something to do with him, he was still a dog, and to him the most important thing was to gulp down the warm milk that had been placed before him. When his stomach rumbled, nothing else mattered, so he lowered his head and began slurping it up. By the time he had licked his way to the bottom of the bowl, Master had gone.

  Just like every day that had come before this one, Kelsang had nothing to do after his meal other than to circle the yurt, then lie down near the pile of fleeces and stare blankly at the snowy peaks in the distance. He knew that soon Master’s child would start gabbling, then scramble out of the yurt to play with him. But today the little boy followed Master around instead. Tenzin was carrying the fleece bag that he used for his lunch when he went out with the herd. When the child finally did run toward him, chattering merrily, Kelsang felt agitated. He stood up, preparing for a tussle, but Master barked a warning that sent the reluctant child off to one side.

  Tenzin swung his baiga upward, and it let out a strong, crisp sound as it cut through the air. The flock of sheep in front of the yurt clambered to their feet. It was time to go out to pasture, just as they did every day.

  “Kelsang!” Master called, turning around after walking a few steps.

  Kelsang had been about to lunge at the child, but now he froze and without further hesitation followed his master. He didn’t know why he did this, but he had a feeling that something was waiting for him. Every day, after strolling around the yurt in mind-numbing boredom, he would lie down on the grass and take a nap. Deep within each pore he could feel a hunger growing, as if he were searching for something, but for what he couldn’t be sure.

  Carefully matching his master’s pace, Kelsang walked with him into the grasslands. The wailing child had long since been pulled back into the yurt. Even though Kelsang was only a puppy, he suddenly realized that the days of playing with the child were over. He raised his large head, and relaxing his pace, followed his master, neither overtaking him nor falling behind. This was the beginning of his nomadic life, of moving in search of pasture.

  As the black shadow of the yurt sank into the ashen horizon, Kelsang and his master finally reached a low-lying patch of lush grass. Master drove the sheep down into the depression, then leaned back against its slope, facing the sun. He took a clump of wool and a spindle, made from sheep thighbone, from the front of his robe and began to spin. The two hundred or so sheep spread out across the meadow and began their most important task of the day — eating.

  Kelsang had never been this far away from the campsite before. The smell was completely different from the warm fragrance of burning dung that surrounded the yurt. It seemed that the brief but beautiful northern Tibetan summer had arrived. The sunlight was ample, the grass an exuberant green. Yet Kelsang still felt a tremble rise from deep within him. The grass beneath his feet was unfamiliar, the wind was blowing from a snow-capped mountain in the distance, and everywhere the air was full of the smell of the wilderness.

  He lay down beside his master — the only place where he felt safe — and dozed, bathed in the sun’s warmth. By the time he awoke, the sun had risen high in the sky, and Master had spun his thin strands of wool into thick thread, which he wound into a ball. Some of the sheep had taken a break from eating and were ly
ing on the grass. The quiet was overwhelming, the sky a bright azure.

  Suddenly a flash of gold started to make its way across the opposite slope. It was just the tiniest glint, but it was a vivid sight against the tranquil surroundings.

  Kelsang launched forward, hearing his master’s call but not yet used to obeying him unconditionally. He preferred to follow his own instincts, and he ran off, barking in pursuit.

  But the small golden object suddenly disappeared. This was something Kelsang’s young mind couldn’t yet comprehend, and feeling confused, he slowed down. Whatever it was had left its trace, for a strange smell hung in the air. Kelsang’s sense of smell was his most powerful tool for processing the world around him. This golden thing reminded him of the first time he had stepped out of the fleeces and seen the snow. A snowflake had fallen on his wet black nose, and within a moment it, too, had disappeared.

  Kelsang carefully pressed his nose to the ground. He couldn’t tell how far away it was, but the smell remained strong. Bit by bit, he was collecting and storing in his brain the many smells he encountered. This one was marmot, a rodent of the high plateau.

  Following the smell, Kelsang came across a small hole in the ground. The scent was so strong, he felt as though it would swallow him whole. He was so excited that he nearly fainted — there was no doubt the creature was hiding in there. He dug away at the loose soil beside the hole. It wasn’t that deep. He began to paw at the earth again when the marmot shot out through his legs, and before he knew what had happened, whizzed into the depths of the grasslands like a fat spinning top.

  Kelsang ran after it, barking happily.

  Maybe the marmot was a pioneer on these grasslands. It hadn’t had enough time to dig a hole every ten yards or so, to pockmark the meadow so that when it was out hunting it had someplace to take refuge.

  Marmots hadn’t yet accumulated much fat by this time of year. This stubby little rodent was no real match for Kelsang, and after a while, it realized it was a mere plaything for the large dog. Kelsang knocked it over a few times with his paw but stopped short of killing it, even though he had many chances. Instead he let it get back up and run on.

  Tenzin watched as Kelsang chased the marmot in circles. He wasn’t going to stop him. He knew the only reason Kelsang was so engrossed in playing like this was because he was still young. He would soon learn how to guard the flock. It was in his blood.

  Eventually, the marmot ran full circle back to its hole and slipped in, sticking out its head, baring its teeth and letting out a squeal that sounded like a wild bird. Kelsang adjusted his pace as he ran toward it. Just as he was about to bite the marmot’s nose, he jumped over its head, turned and began another attack. This was a game Kelsang would never tire of — every time his teeth were about to sink into the nape of the marmot’s neck, he leapt overhead.

  The marmot didn’t know what to do. It had come to these grasslands to live a peaceful life. Unable to bear such bullying, it sprang out of the hole it had been trying to shrink back into.

  Kelsang hadn’t realized that his body seemed to be waiting for this moment. His blood raging, he instinctively jumped to his feet and bit hold of the fleshy marmot, twisting its legs with all his strength.

  The marmot thrashed and struggled.

  Although Kelsang had strong neck muscles, he was still only a puppy. His paws gripped the ground tightly, and his teeth now held just as tightly to the marmot’s throat. Then he felt something break, and a warm liquid flowed down the marmot’s glossy fur, trickling into his mouth. He snorted with pleasure as the marmot’s wriggling body slowly went limp, until it stopped moving altogether.

  Kelsang placed the marmot’s plump little body in front of his master.

  But Master simply patted him on the head, then took a piece of dried meat from his fleece bag and put it in Kelsang’s mouth. Kelsang lay down as Master took the knife tucked into his waistband and began carefully skinning the marmot. That afternoon, before they drove the sheep back to camp, Master took the marmot fur, which was already half-dried by the sun, and hung it from his waist.

  As soon as they returned, Master’s son ran out and tried to grab hold of Kelsang. But even though there was nothing else to play with on this bleak scrap of grassland, Kelsang ran away. He wasn’t going to let Master’s son grab hold of the fur on the back of his neck anymore. Those kinds of games no longer interested him.

  The weather was unusually fine when Kelsang followed his master to put the sheep out to pasture for the third time. As soon as they found some good grass, Master took out his ball of wool and spindle. Kelsang lay down beside him. He began to feel dizzy as he watched the twirling spindle and closed his eyes.

  All these first experiences were to become essential memories that would guide him in the future — when he next wanted to deal with a startled marmot who wouldn’t come out of its hole, for example.

  The marmot was behaving like any animal that finds itself trapped. Kelsang dug his head into the hole to catch the nasty little fellow, whose wrinkled features resembled a frightened cat. But it wasn’t that simple. A pair of sharp fangs appeared before him, which he now knew didn’t belong to a grasslands rodent. Panic swept over him as he imagined something coming from behind, blocking the hole on top of him.

  Darkness fell. The rays of light that had leaked into the hole from behind him disappeared, and the wrinkled features of the marmot, baring its teeth and waving its paws, sank into darkness. The blackness flooded everything like lake water. The thing that Kelsang most feared had come to pass. He was suffocating in the hole.

  Terrified, he strained his neck and barked furiously, his muscles tightening and pressing against the walls. He felt a knock on his head.

  Kelsang woke up on his back, his paws in the air. A cloud swept across the peaceful sky, making a huge, fast-moving shadow over the grasslands. Master was spinning. He had not been trapped in the dark, musty hole after all. Feeling almost hysterical with relief, he jumped to his feet and began to rub his neck against Master’s boots in delight.

  But Tenzin wasn’t particularly interested in the dog’s affectionate behavior. His gaze was fixed on the movements of his flock down in the low-lying meadow. He quickly swung his baiga, propelling a stone from its pouch. But it landed yards away from the flock — they had gone too far. The sheep kept their heads bowed low, eating the fresh grass as they drifted still farther away and began to round a small hillock, where they would soon escape from Tenzin’s view.

  Tenzin sighed, about to fetch them back, when Kelsang shot out like a burning black meteor, barking as he charged toward the sheep. It was only as he was flying down the hill that he himself realized what he was doing.

  For the past few days, every time Kelsang woke from a deep sleep he could feel a mysterious impulse rising in him, like an ever-punctual, unchanging tide. He seemed to be searching for something. He wanted to bring something back to its proper place. This impulse plagued him, and he had no way of restraining or releasing it.

  He had watched Master send out stones to warn sheep straying from the flock, or else walk out himself to drive them on to lusher pasture. If Kelsang had had an older mastiff to show him what to do, he would have understood more quickly. But he was just a puppy. How could his young brain know what to do simply by looking at what lay before him? Yet even without a guide, the shepherding instinct that thousands of years of mastiff blood had instilled in him propelled him forward. It was an instinct that couldn’t be suppressed.

  His first attempt turned out to be a failure. He ran through the flock of frightened sheep, scattering them far and wide. Only afterward did he turn back, running in wide circles to the left and right, barking as loudly as his young throat could. The sheep, unaccustomed to this circling tactic, were about to run all over the place again but quickly discovered that they were no match for this rough young dog. Kelsang even nibbled one straggling sheep in order to gath
er it in.

  This was his first time, after all. He couldn’t be expected to round them up flawlessly like an experienced sheepdog. The sheep, as was their way, acted like beads of spilled mercury, sliding here and there with no structure or reason. Kelsang spent twice as long gathering the flock as an experienced sheepdog would have done, but he managed it in the end.

  When the young dog bounded up to his master, he was disappointed to find Tenzin sitting just as he had left him. This was Tibet’s northern plateau. Mastiffs were born to herd sheep, just as sheep and yaks were born to provide milk, meat and hides. It was just as God had planned it. Tenzin had not been worried about Kelsang’s hesitancy with the sheep. He knew that one day the dog’s instincts would take over. This ability to accept everything as it came, and to do so calmly, was what enabled the people of the grasslands to hold on to life so stubbornly despite the harsh conditions.

  A stony stillness came over Tenzin’s face. As the sheep began to draw close to the hillock again, he made a “Shh!” sound to the dog at his feet, and Kelsang shot up like an arrow.

  Once again, Kelsang gathered the sheep together and came back to lie at his master’s feet. It already felt natural to him. The first time, he had been driven by instinct, but the second time, experience guided him. He lay down on the grass and looked out at the sheep in the distance. It felt as if he had been looking after this flock for a very, very long time. Without any kind of training, he had begun his life as a shepherd dog on the northern Tibetan plateau.

  3

  FARTHER AND FARTHER AWAY TO PASTURE

  IT HAD BEEN a perfectly ordinary day. As evening approached, Kelsang and his master gathered the sheep and brought them back to camp. Kelsang searched for a place where he could lie down to watch the smoke curling into the air from the roof of the yurt.