He shouted, loudly: "Dorje!"
The mountain crags beyond the stream echoed his cry back at him.
Kelsang stood up so he could shout louder: "Dorje!"
The grassy clearing was still empty. No Dorje, and no sight of his faithful donkey either.
Kelsang felt strength in his legs again as he gave full voice to another yell:
"Dorje, Ji village has wronged you!"
Then he turned, and set off for the village at a rapid stride. Overjoyed tears were running down his face, as he muttered happily to himself:
"Dorje, I ought to wait here for you, but I know you can see this great disaster that is coming to Ji village. I have to go back; I have to go and stay with the people of our village. For now, Ji village cannot repay you for what you have suffered. I saw you last night, but I thought it was your ghost that came back. But you didn't die, you're a great man, you're going to live, I'm sure of it!"
It was true—Dorje wasn't dead. He was currently lying in a cave in the forest.
When he jumped into the river, which ran so fast as to practically be rapids, everything went dark. The water was very deep where he entered it, which was the only reason he wasn't killed by the fall. When he regained consciousness, he found himself lying on a broad, sandy shore. He hadn't escaped unharmed however—his unconscious body was thrown about as it hurtled down the river, leaving him bruised and injured. Gritting his teeth through the pain, he found a sharp rock to break the rope still tied around his wrists. That was when he realised his arm was broken. Gut-wrenching pain washed over him as the rope fell from his hands, but there was nothing to do except bear it, other than letting himself die, or course.
He stood up to the pain, and so, thanks to this river, he lived. He stood up, and found, to his surprise, that the water had washed him up right at the place where Ji village's stream emptied into the river. He struggled to put one foot in front of the other in the direction of the village, following the stream. He heard police sirens whiz past several times, but he was walking through the woods, unseen from the road, and completely safe. The forest was too big for them to search, so all they could do was prowl back and forth up and down the same narrow strip of land traversed by the highway. They had no hope of finding him like that.
He was lying down on the leafy forest floor, taking a rest, when he saw a surging cloud of dense smoke high up in the sky. He wondered whether the smoke could be coming from the swirling, flaming flags in the county town; whether, in reality, they were not flags, but fire. Could it be?
Then he smelled it—the harsh, choking presence of smoke in the wind. The trees shook in it, their swaying containing a deep sense of unease. Now Dorje knew, unequivocally, that somewhere, a forest fire was afoot.
He reproached himself for his flippant thought about the flags. If those people wanted nothing more after eating than to wave their flags around like crazed demons instead of going about any kind of respectable business, that was their concern. This forest had already existed here on this earth for thousands of years. If it was lost now, the many villages scattered through these mountains would lose their life source.
Luckily, the sun was hot that day, so his wet clothes dried quickly, though his body kept shaking well after he was dry. This was partially because he was cold, but the more important reason was that he was hungry. He didn't have anything to eat, so he picked out a sharp rock and used it to carve out a little hole in the trunk of a birch tree. Slowly, the tree's sugary sap began to ooze out from under its bark.
Every year during spring when the ground thaws, the trees of the forest struggle uncompromisingly to suck up as much water and nutrition from the earth as they can. This is the only way they can muster the energy to unfurl their leaves and blossoms, and bear their seeds.
Of all the forest trees, only sap from the birch was rich in sugar. But this year, because of the drought, the sap wasn't as abundant as usual. This was not a problem for Dorje—all he had to do was harvest a couple more trees and he had his fill.
Replenished by sap, Dorje's body warmed up. Next, he tore a tough piece of bark down from a willow tree, and bound it round his broken arm. Finally, he lay down under the sun and fell into a dazed sleep. When the sun fell safely behind the mountains, he continued his journey towards the village, cutting decisively towards the road as soon as it was dark.
His wounds began to chafe not long after he started walking. It was agonising, but he knew he had to get back to the village under cover of night so he could pick up the things he needed. As his energy ebbed, he found himself fantasising about how wonderful it would be if his donkey was by his side right now.
Just as he was thinking this, he heard the clip-clop of hooves coming down the road. He thought he was probably imagining it, that his thinking was a little unhinged. It was already a very impressive feat that he hadn't lost his sanity to the months of reason-annulling madness he had been subjected to, so was it really worth puzzling over one odd little noise?
Unlike Kelsang Wangdu, Dorje was an optimist.
But this was a strange world for optimists. The people in power believed there was nothing they couldn't do, so one would think they would be kindly disposed to the optimists, but that was decidedly not the case. The authorities always looked to the future as a thing of great beauty, while they regarded the present as a very sinister, dangerous thing. As a result, they ladled their favour out only to the kind of layabouts who delight in spreading blame around. They never blamed themselves, of course.
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