Black Flame Read online

“Don’t be stupid. You can’t do that! This is no ordinary dog. You open that door and you’ll be picking your own arm off the floor after he’s ripped it clean off you!”

  In fact, what happened was this. Emboldened by his weapon, the man walked around to the back of the jeep. But as soon as he saw Kelsang’s face, twisted in anger, bashing against the toughened glass, he flinched and withdrew. Throwing down the wrench, he crumpled to the ground. Up at this altitude, people’s reactions are slower than usual, and they often feel queasy. Keeping such a violent monster locked up was enough to make anyone crack. If the dog kept crashing against the jeep, he could smash through the window.

  Finally, the tall skinny man came up with a plan, even though it would only give them temporary relief. The two men grabbed their camera bags and fled in the direction of a deep blue lake in the distance. Or rather they walked, because at this altitude strenuous movement was impossible. The monster left behind, locked inside the jeep, seemed to disappear. It turned out to be a good plan.

  Down by the lake, they took photos of some rather ordinary birds in the water. But after an hour had passed, they had no choice but to go back. As they approached the jeep, it was eerily peaceful, almost as though it had been robbed.

  “Maybe he had a heart attack,” the tall skinny man’s friend said, struggling with his camera bag, which he would have just slung over his shoulder at lower climes. His tone couldn’t cover up the relief he felt.

  “He’s probably just resting.” The tall skinny man sounded disappointed, even though he didn’t mean to.

  Steeling themselves, the two men peered through the window, which was now spotted with black bloodstains. The dog was neither dead nor resting, but crouched in a corner of the trunk as if ready to pounce. The red fireballs of his eyes were burning as brightly as ever. But he had finally stopped barking.

  The jeep started to move again. Kelsang had experienced life’s first defeat, and the pain in his shoulder spread like a fog through his entire body. Even though shepherd dogs on the grasslands are born with hearts as big as boulders and lungs to match, he was still gasping for breath, and he was getting more and more desperate for water. His throat was so dry, he could no longer growl in the way that made greedy wolves tremble. After being tossed and turned, his stomach felt like an enormous cavity, as hunger followed thirst. He longed for skimmed yak’s milk, a drink he usually disdained, and his belly twitched uncontrollably at the thought of the creamy delicacy. But such fantasies only added to the pain of his predicament.

  Endless jolting. Maybe the jeep was driving on a never-ending gravel beach. Kelsang stretched, stiffened his convulsing spine and threw up the remains of the meal he had eaten the day before. The tsampa barley flour had mixed with the ewe’s milk in his stomach into a thick porridge. He felt much better afterward, and once the dizziness passed, his resilient body gained a new lease on life.

  When night fell, the two men stopped at a simple guesthouse. They brought him a half-filled bucket of fresh water and a piece of roasted sheep’s leg, just opening the jeep door wide enough to squeeze the bucket through while the tall skinny man held tightly to his chains. But the flames of Kelsang’s anger had not been dampened by the monotonous journey. In fact, they now burned even brighter.

  The water distracted him, otherwise he would have charged at the first person who dared let him out of the jeep and ripped them into tiny pieces. This thought was like a dormant volcano as the water doused his anger, delaying its eruption.

  He leaned over the bucket and drank for a long time, until he was certain he had quenched his thirst. But as soon as the cold water reached his empty stomach, he felt hungry and had to put aside thoughts of venting his anger to concentrate on chewing the piece of mutton.

  When he was finished, the tall skinny man approached carrying a forked stick and carefully opened the back door. Kelsang rushed at him, but the man was well prepared. He hooked the stick under the dog’s leather collar so that no matter how hard he tried, Kelsang couldn’t get at him.

  In the meantime, the tall skinny man’s friend undid one end of the chains and passed them to his companion. With the help of the stick, the tall skinny man led Kelsang to a wooden post in the middle of the courtyard and tied him up. Even though he was extremely careful not to let go of the stick wedged beneath the mastiff’s jaw, Kelsang ran at him the moment he turned, nearly biting through his clothes.

  The other guests had noticed the melancholy dog when the two men were feeding him, and the elaborate way they treated him only drew more attention. It wasn’t every day that you could catch a glimpse of such a fine dog. As soon as Kelsang settled, they gathered around murmuring about how much he must weigh and the thickness of his limbs. Even though they knew nothing about Tibetan mastiffs, they could tell from his large frame that he was a rare specimen.

  Kelsang, of course, didn’t know that two years before his master had taken the entire family to the horse races, where Mother Mastiff met a pure black male from another part of the grasslands. Kelsang was the offspring of two of the finest mastiffs on the entire plateau.

  The games started after the evening meal. All Kelsang wanted to do after eating was to lie down and relax. If he had been on the grasslands, his patrolling responsibilities would be done for the day, and he would be settling into a pile of sheep’s fleeces. But he had already begun to sense that whatever was about to happen concerned him.

  Two small bonfires were lit, using shards of wool, dried cow dung and the blue jet flames of a blowtorch, illuminating every corner of the courtyard. A dozen or so people began to crowd around — Kelsang had never seen so many. Their long shadows projected onto the guesthouse walls looked like giants emerging from deep underground.

  Kelsang was nervous and ran around his wooden post twice, making raspy growling sounds from the depths of his throat. His fur was standing on end, and he looked unusually large in the firelight. It was still a glossy blue despite the thick covering of dust. He was like a floating ghost.

  Everyone’s eyes were fixed on him. It was obvious that something was about to happen, but he didn’t know what. His gaze swept across the curious faces surrounding him. His eyes were like two bright rubies that shone from his black fur. The hair around his face stood as erect as an angry lion’s mane.

  He waited.

  The crowd was fascinated by the huge mastiff, and gasps of admiration drifted into the night air. Someone was already trying to haggle over a price for him with the tall skinny man.

  Kelsang barked, trying to break free from his chains. Two huge German shepherds were led into the yard, accompanying him with their howls. They were eager to get into the ring, but their collars were too tight, pulling the skin around their jaws and making the whites of their eyes sparkle.

  Kelsang started to calm down, realizing that there was no point in pulling on his firmly fixed chains. Instead he turned his attention to the German shepherds. He had rarely encountered other dogs on the grasslands — the closest he had ever come were wolves. He began to compare them to the wolves he had met. Their ears were bigger, but their heads were not as wide. Their tails seemed to be more nimble, and their fur was a darker black.

  “Two years ago I took a purebred German shepherd to the wilds and left her tied up to breed with wolves. She gave birth to these two — real wolfhounds. They could beat this mastiff any day.” The army chef chose his words carefully.

  Since Tibetan mastiffs were known as the kings of the canine world, no one raised any objection to the idea of having one dog fight two wolfhounds. The faces around Kelsang twinkled expectantly, but Master’s was nowhere to be found.

  Maybe they weren’t wolves at all. They didn’t smell of the wilds like the other wolves he’d met. No, their smell was even more familiar. It was the smell of the human world — of mutton and milk — left behind by owners after they stroked your fur. A wolf would never allow itself to smell of these thi
ngs. So he could conclude that they weren’t wolves. But he didn’t have time to continue investigating. Their chains had been released, and the fat chef was encouraging them to go for him like pigs to the trough.

  Kelsang calmly dodged the first dog’s attack. His sharp teeth crunched together in midair as it flew past, his chains pulling tight and preventing him from getting close. He was just about to dodge the second dog, who was launching itself in the same fashion, when his chains pulled tight again, and he had to endure the full force of its attack. But Kelsang’s fur was too thick for the dog’s teeth to penetrate. The wolfhound was unable to slow its momentum and fell to the ground.

  It was that simple. These dogs were much clumsier than the wolves on the grasslands. They didn’t realize that this kind of powerful but clumsy attack left them vulnerable to their opponent’s sharp teeth, and Kelsang wasn’t about to give them a chance to correct their mistake. He jumped on the fallen hound’s chest. It naively tried to bite his paw, but Kelsang had already ripped into its neck and was stalking away.

  The speed at which all this took place clearly surprised the other hound, who was preparing to attack from behind. Crossbreeding usually results in smarter animals, with quicker judgment, but not with these dogs.

  Gasps of fear — or perhaps admiration — rippled through the crowd. It only took seconds for the fat chef to realize how mismatched the fight was, and he began to shout in the hope that the other dog might turn back. But it was now crazy with anger at having lost its companion, barking like a puppy that has been struck by its master. It made straight for Kelsang.

  Kelsang had already assessed the dog’s strength, and rather than dodge it this time, he faced it head on. The fight was over so quickly, the spectators only heard the sound of teeth clashing and chains clanging before Kelsang had bitten through the dog’s neck and tossed it aside. Even though the dog was dead, Kelsang still bit its main artery and blood drained onto the concrete.

  The fat chef cursed loudly. It would take him at least a year to breed two more dogs, and even then he’d be lucky to have two as fine as these.

  A couple of American backpackers seemed to recover from their shock and began chatting with the others. Two pieces of chocolate flew through the air and landed by Kelsang. He knew nothing of this strange food, but with the excitement of the massacre still coursing through his veins, he leapt toward it. Unfortunately, the chains held him back.

  Kelsang watched as a man fetched a long iron rod and walked over to one of the dogs, who was still twitching on the ground. A loud shot. Kelsang jumped back fearfully, and the dog let out a last breath. It didn’t take him long to understand what had happened.

  Guns. In the days and months that followed, Kelsang would have more opportunities to become acquainted with these weapons that emitted such tremendous sounds and intense smells. He would always remember the unique scent of gunpowder and iron.

  Now that he had vented the anger that had been building inside him all day, Kelsang felt unusually calm. He turned to lick the tiny cut on his left shoulder. The crowd dispersed, and the diesel generator roared into action, the guesthouse lights flickering on and off with the unreliable supply of electricity. The hubbub of voices rose and fell with the lights, everyone still caught up in the excitement of the fight.

  Kelsang lay outside pondering the new life ahead of him. Once the bonfires were put out, the guesthouse became quiet. The full moon illuminated the vast expanse of grassland. Kelsang looked out at the road they had come along and could only imagine that this was the way back to his campsite, his old life. If he were there, he would be lying in a corner right now, looking out over the livestock and the snowy peaks clad in the steely light of the moon.

  The middle of the night. Sounds of cattle chewing their cud and yaks clumsily knocking their hooves together. Everything that had once been so familiar was now edging farther away. Lying on the freezing concrete, Kelsang was doing what his ancestors had been doing for thousands of years — bearing the plateau’s icy air with only his strong physique and long fur for protection. But now he was surrounded by the strange scent of tires. In the past few days, he had encountered countless new smells, and they made him nervous and irritable.

  As he slept, he found himself curled up against the warm felt of the yurt’s walls. He squirmed, tucking himself in closer. Later, still dreaming, he growled quietly. It was nighttime, and the snow was falling like a thick white curtain. He heard a strange sound. Mother Mastiff was leaving, and he howled into the night.

  But Kelsang wasn’t woken the next morning by the sound of a yak rising to its feet or the bleating of a sheep being milked. It was a bang that did it, as one of the guests let the metal gate swing back on its hinges as he left the guesthouse. This was no early morning out on the pastures.

  Three days later a group of climbers gathered at Rongbuk Monastery, admiring the majesty of Mount Everest towering ahead and talking about a devilish black Tibetan mastiff, as they waited for the weather to improve.

  4

  LHASA’S STRAYS

  FROM THE WINDOW of the jeep, Kelsang was mesmerized by the endless flow of people and cars on the street. Before long he spotted Master and sprang toward the door, ready to jump up on him. But to his great disappointment, it was another herdsman wearing a robe much like the one Tenzin usually wore. He began to notice other men wearing Tibetan robes, and even though not one of them was Master, seeing them made him feel that the grasslands were not too far away. A spark of hope reignited in his chest, even though most of the people on the street were dressed in thin, short jackets, like the men in the jeep.

  If Kelsang hadn’t been colorblind, he would have marveled at the variety of colors on display. This was Lhasa, and people traveled for thousands of miles to see its mysterious snow-clad landscape, as yet untouched by polluting hands, and its many manmade wonders — the Potala Palace, Jokhang Temple, Norbulingka. Some had made it their permanent home, but even more passed through temporarily on their way to the world’s tallest mountain — Everest — where they sought fame by climbing to the top. People often perished at base camp from the effects of the altitude, yet still they went willingly, with smiles on their faces.

  The streets of Lhasa were crawling with dogs. They were mostly mongrels who lounged in the afternoon sun at the doors of temples or under small stalls selling odds and ends. They were fed by pilgrims giving alms.

  To Kelsang, this leisurely life of just waiting to be fed was unimaginable. He had woken up one morning with the impulse to herd a scattered flock of sheep on the grasslands, and ever since that day, he had somehow known that he was a shepherd dog. By day he helped Master herd the sheep out at pasture, and by night he kept guard back at the yurt, chasing away or killing any wolves who came near. It was as simple as that.

  Kelsang was kept in a small courtyard for three days, and each day the two men brought him large chunks of mutton to eat. In those three days alone, he must have eaten the equivalent of an entire sheep. Most of the time, he lay in a corner and slept, and after a few days of rest and such hearty helpings of food, the discomfort and confusion that had accompanied him on the trip disappeared. The meat provided plenty of nourishment, giving him even stronger shoulder and chest muscles, much to the delight of his two feeders.

  At dawn on the fourth day, Kelsang was led to the jeep, a stick wedged beneath his collar. The jeep then carried him out of the dimly lit narrow alley and off to market.

  He caused an instant disturbance as he was led into the wide open trading space built on the side of a mountain. He was led to his place among the other dogs, and very soon a crowd had gathered around him. There was no need for the tall skinny man or his companion to try to grab the customers’ attention.

  Kelsang noticed that the other dogs tied up here were much more like him than the weedy dogs on the street. There was a hodgepodge of all different kinds of mastiffs — golden yellow, white, bluey
black, gray, even some rust red and an extremely rare coffee-colored one. And yet Kelsang was the only one over three feet tall and weighing more than 150 pounds — he was special even in a market full of mastiffs.

  He tried to greet a bluey black mastiff sitting next to him, but it didn’t even look up. Its coat had been carefully washed and brushed, giving it a finish as glossy as a bolt of raw silk. The mastiff traders were tired of dogs groomed until there wasn’t a speck of dust on them. Indeed, these city mastiffs were nothing like the true mastiffs from the wilds — nothing like Kelsang. The bluey black mastiff’s master pulled out a piece of meat in an attempt to animate his dog, but it ignored the treat and began to lick the fur on its leg like a cat lazing in the sun.

  Everyone could see that Kelsang was different from these city-bred dogs. They pushed forward excitedly until they met his fearless gaze and then retreated. They could smell the wilds on this dog, whose fur stood on end, making him look even larger than he was. All the rest and rich food he had been getting meant that he was in excellent shape.

  As the people gathered around, Kelsang had the feeling that something bad was about to happen. He crouched low on his thick post-like legs, shook his mane and growled.

  The crowd edged farther back, beyond the reach of his shackles. The other dogs seemed tiny in comparison.

  Suddenly a stick as thick as a wrist flew through the air toward Kelsang. Someone was testing him. Crraaaack! Two shards of wood flew back into the crowd. Kelsang had met the stick in midair and crunched through it in one bite. Gasps rose from the crowd as they dodged the remnants.

  A beam of unnatural light, a snapping sound. Alarmed, Kelsang wanted to run away, but the tall skinny man and his friend pulled as hard as they could to detain him. A photographer had come to Lhasa to take pictures of local life. He shrank back, his face white with fright.

  “That’s no dog,” he called out. “That’s a lion!”