It was an image from old Tibet, when yak convoys had been the predominant link between distant communities, when commerce depended on such convoys, and the role of caravaner was a romantic and honored profession. But this is not old Tibet, he reminded himself, then reconsidered as he recalled that Shiva had drawn a train of yaks carrying Buddhas, and realized the yaks were coming from the direction of the Five Claws project. Old Tibet was there in the valley, at least dying vestiges of it, as well as the forces of modern China. The conundrums he faced were rooted in both worlds, and he was the inadequate black bull dob dob sent to resolve them.

He laid out his maps on the flat rock, then set Shiva’s chart beside them, for he had realized it too was a map of sorts. He had passed herds of sheep on grassy hills, then a trio of steep hills with a decrepit chorten on the center one. The signs and symbols the astrologer had painted were a guide. Each of the maps embodied the perception of the world from a different view, that of soldier, scientist, snow monk, and Shiva. Most called her an astrologer but some whispered a different name: sorceress. How could the old woman, who almost never left Yangkar, know this terrain? And what were the secrets she was trying to lead him to? He put away the map and the satellite photo, keeping only the guidance of the snow monk and the sorceress.

Every few hundred yards along his road were lhatse, rock cairns, most so overtaken by lichen they almost seemed like misshapen ancient statues. The track he drove down had clearly been a pilgrims’ path, which aligned with the path Lhakpa had shown. There was another line on Lhakpa’s map that intersected his own track a few miles ahead. He saw now that the snow hermit had inscribed one of his tiny legends under it. Ice Ball Alley.

His utility vehicle groaned more loudly with each slope. The cairns became more frequent as he climbed higher, and several showed recent additions of mani stones, carved, or simply scratched, with the mani mantra on their face, invoking the Compassionate Buddha. Here and there the spars of old withered pines extended out of the heather. All those near the track held wind-battered prayer flags. He had an odd sense that as he ascended he was going backward in time, into Old Tibet.

He halted at the intersection with the Ice Ball Alley—a wider, firmer gravel track—and got out to walk eastward, in the direction the prisoner convoy from Sichuan would have taken over a year earlier. Something yellow fluttered in the wind two hundred feet in front of him and he hastened his pace. It was a tattered length of plastic tape, anchored under a rock and printed with the bold words Public Security Crime Scene. The knobs had their own sacred flags.