“The family was executed by the Red Guard,” Yara explained in a matter-of-fact voice as Shan parked the truck at the end of the rutted track that led to the farmhouse. “But my grandparents had been close friends and prayed for their spirits for many years after.” They began to walk up the overgrown track, which showed no sign of use in recent years. “They’re getting too old for the harsh winters. When I took them here my grandmother was frightened at first but bravely ventured inside, telling us not to follow, and prayed for nearly an hour. When she came out she was excited and said the old ones weren’t angry or vengeful, that they were just lonely and would welcome the sound of laughter inside the walls again. The first thing she did was make a little altar for us to revive the prayers the house had once known.”

As they reached the tall double-doored gate in the compound wall, each of its panels hanging on one hinge, Shan saw that the compound had clearly once been the center of a large and prosperous farm. A two-story stone house, wind-battered but still solid, formed the anchor of the weed-infested courtyard, with a second one-story house forming an adjacent side, probably where extended family or farm workers had lived. An open-fronted shed that included an old forge lined the side opposite the smaller house, and a sizable barn took up the entire side opposite the main house, completing the square.

“This place is big enough for a whole clan,” Shan observed as Yara led him toward the smaller house, the entrance of which evidenced a fresh coat of maroon paint and several carefully inscribed auspicious signs that looked like the work of Shiva. Inside, the air was tinged with a combination of incense and smoke from the cigars that were the primary vice of Yara’s grandmother Lhamo. A small dog yapped and bounded through an inner doorway to greet Yara, followed by Yara’s son, Ati. The adolescent boy excitedly introduced Shan to the dog, then sobered as a droning voice carried from the shadowed doorway at the far side of the chamber. Shan stepped through the passage and discovered Lokesh at a long, low table upon which the tattered clothing, shoes, and other belongings of Jampa had been laid out in the shape of the dead man. Lokesh was continuing the death rites.

“He helped us cut fresh juniper for the room where our sleeping pallets are,” came a familiar voice at Shan’s shoulder, and he turned with a smile to greet Lhamo. “He recited some prayers at our altar, even sang one of the old kitchen god songs he remembered from his childhood over our cooking brazier, then said he had a sacred duty to perform.”