Part 16 (1/2)

I have no story of a blinding conversion to humanism. It just didn't happen that way. During the Cultural Revolution, and when I transmigrated into hosts in Tibet, Vietnam, in Korea, in El Salvador, I experienced humans fighting, usually from the safety of the general's office. In the Falkland Islands I watched them fight over rocks. 'Two bald men fighting over a comb,' an ex-host commented. In Rio I saw a tourist killed for a watch. Humans live in a pit of cheating, exploiting, hurting, incarcerating. Every time, the species wastes some part of what it could be. This waste is poisonous. That is why I no longer harm my hosts. There's already too much of this poison.

Gunga spent the morning at the hotel, sweeping and boiling some water to wash sheets. Seeing Caspar and Sherry again from the outside was like revisiting an old house with a new tenant. They paid and waited until their rented jeep turned up. I bade Caspar goodbye in Danish as he slung his backpack in, but he just a.s.sumed Gunga was saying something in Mongolian.

As Gunga made the beds, she imagined Caspar and Sherry lying here, and then thought about Oyuun, and Gombo's youngest son. She thought about the rumours of child prost.i.tution spreading through the city, and how the police were being paid off in foreign money. Mrs Enchbat, the widow who owned the hotel, stopped by to do some bookkeeping. Mrs Enchbat was in a good mood Caspar had paid in dollars, and Mrs Enchbat needed to raise a dowry. While Gunga was boiling water for was.h.i.+ng they sat down and shared some salty tea.

'Now Gunga, you know know that I'm not a one for gossip,' began Mrs Enchbat, a little woman with a mouth wise as a lizard's, 'but our Sonjoodoi saw your Oyuun walking out with Old Gombo's youngest again yesterday evening. People's tongues will start wagging. They were seen at the Naadam festival together. Sonjoodoi also said Gombo's eldest has got a crush on her.' that I'm not a one for gossip,' began Mrs Enchbat, a little woman with a mouth wise as a lizard's, 'but our Sonjoodoi saw your Oyuun walking out with Old Gombo's youngest again yesterday evening. People's tongues will start wagging. They were seen at the Naadam festival together. Sonjoodoi also said Gombo's eldest has got a crush on her.'

Gunga chose counter-attack. 'Is it true your Sonjoodoi's become a Christian?'

Mrs Enchbat considered her reply coolly. 'He's been seen going to the American missionary's apartment once or twice.'

'What does his grandmother have to say about that?'

'Only that it proves what suckers Americans are. They think they're making converts to their weird cult, they're just making converts to powdered milk whatever's the matter, Gunga?'

A riot of doubt had broken out in my host. Gunga knew I was here. Quickly, I tried to calm her. 'No. Something's wrong. I'm going to see the shaman.'

The bus was crowded and stuck in first gear. At the end of the line was a derelict factory from the Soviet days. Gunga had already forgotten what it had once manufactured. I had to look in her unconscious: bullets. Wildflowers were capitalising on the brief summer, and wild dogs picked at the body of something. The afternoon was weak and thin. People from the bus trudged their way past where the road ran out to a hillside of gers. Gunga walked with them. The giant pipe ran along on its stilts. It had been a part of a public-heating system, but the boilers needed Russian coal. Mongolian coal burned at temperatures too cool to make it work. Most of the locals had gone back to burning dung.

Gunga's cousin had gone to this shaman when she couldn't get pregnant. Nine months later she gave birth to boy twins, born with cauls, an omen of great fortune. The shaman was an adviser to the President, and he had a reputation as a horse-healer. It was said he had lived for twenty years as a hermit on the slopes of Tavanbogd in the far-west province of Bayan Olgii. During the Soviet occupation, the local officials had tried to arrest him for vagrancy, but anyone who went to get him returned empty-handed and empty-headed. He was two centuries old.

I was looking forward to meeting the shaman.

I have my gifts: I am apparently immune to age and forgetfulness. I possess freedom beyond any human understanding of the world. But my cage is all my own, too. I am trapped in one waking state of consciousness. I have never found any way to sleep, or dream. And the knowledge I most desire eludes me: I have never found the source of the story I was born with, and I have never discovered whether others of my kind exist.

When I finally left the village at the foot of the Holy Mountain I travelled all over south-east Asia, searching the attics and cellars of old people's minds for other minds without bodies. I found legends of beings who might be my kindred, but of tangible knowledge I found not one footprint. I crossed the Pacific in the 1960s.

Remembering my insane doctor, I mostly maintained a vow of silence. I had no wish to leave behind me a trail of mystics, lunatics and writers. On the other hand, if I came across a mystic, lunatic or writer I would sometimes talk with them. One writer in Buenos Aires even suggested a name for what I am: noncorpum noncorpum, and noncorpa noncorpa, if ever the day dawns when the singular becomes a plural. I spent a pleasant few months debating metaphysics with him, and we wrote some stories together. But the 'I' never became a 'We'. During the 1970s I placed an advertis.e.m.e.nt in the National Enquirer National Enquirer. The USA is even crazier than the rest of humanity. I followed up each of the nineteen replies I received: mystics, lunatics, or writers, every one. I even looked for clues in The Pentagon. I found a lot of things that surprised even me, but nothing related to noncorpa noncorpa. I never went to Europe. It seemed a dead place, cold in the shadows of nuclear missiles.

I returned to my Holy Mountain, possessing knowledge from over a hundred hosts, but still knowing nothing about my origins. I had tired of wandering. The Holy Mountain was the only place on Earth I felt any tie to. For a decade I inhabited the monks who lived on its mountainsides. I led a tranquil enough life. I found companions.h.i.+p with an old woman who lived in a tea shack and believed I was a speaking tree. That was the last time I spoke with a human.

'Come in, daughter,' said the shaman's voice from inside the ger.

Sun-bleached jawbones hung over the door. Gunga looked over her shoulder, suddenly afraid. A boy was playing with a red ball. He threw it high into the hazy blue, and watched it, and caught it when it fell. There was an Ovoo Ovoo, a holy pile of stones and bones. Gunga asked for its blessing and entered the smoky darkness.

'Come in, daughter.' The shaman was meditating on a mat. A lamp hung from the roof frame. A tallow candle spluttered in a copper dish. The rear of the ger was walled off by hanging animal skins. The air was grainy with incense.

There was a carved box by the entrance. Gunga opened it, and put in most of the togrugs that Caspar had tipped her the day before. She slipped off her shoes, and knelt in front of the shaman, on the right-hand side of the ger, the female half. A wrinkled face, impossible to guess the age of. Grey, matted hair, and closed eyes that suddenly opened wide. He indicated a cracked teapot on a low table.

Gunga poured the dark, odourless liquid into a cup of bone.

'Drink, Gunga,' said the shaman.

My host drank, and began to speak the shaman halted her with his hand.

'You have come because a spirit is living within you.'

'Yes,' both Gunga and I answered. Gunga felt me again, and dropped the cup. The stain of the undrunk liquid spread through the rug.

'Then we must find out what it wants,' said the shaman.

Gunga's heart pounded like a boxed bat. Gently, I shut down her consciousness.

The shaman saw the change. He picked up a feather and drew a symbol in the air.

'To whom am I speaking?' asked the shaman. 'An ancestor of this woman?'

'I don't know who I am.' My words, Gunga's voice, dry and croaky. 'I want to discover who I am.' Strange, to be uttering the word 'I' once again.

The shaman was calm. 'What is your name, spirit?'

'I've never needed a name.'

'Are you an ancestor of this woman's?'

'You already asked that. I'm not. Not as far as I know.'

The shaman struck a bone against another bone, muttering words in a language I didn't know. He sprang to his feet and flexed his fingers like claws.

'In the name of Khukdei Mergen Khan art thou cast hence from the body of this woman!'

Human males. 'And then what do you suggest?'

The shaman shouted. 'Be gone! In the name of Erkhii Mergen who divided night from day, I command it!' The shaman shook a rattling sack over Gunga. He blew some incense smoke over my host, and sprinkled some water in her face.

The shaman gazed at my host, waiting for a reaction. 'Shaman, I'd hoped for something more intelligent. This is my first proper conversation for a very long time. And you'd be doing Gunga more good if you used that water to wash her. She believes that the Mongolian body doesn't sweat, so she doesn't wash and she has lice.'

The shaman frowned, and looked into Gunga's eyes, searching for something that wasn't Gunga. 'Your words are perplexing, spirit, and your magic is strong. Do you wish this woman ill? Are you evil?'

'Well, I've had my moments, but I wouldn't describe myself as evil. Would you?'

'What do you want of this woman? What ails you?'

'One memory. And the lack of all others.'

The shaman sat back down and resumed his initial repose. 'Who were your people when you walked as a living body?'

'Why do you think I was once human?'

'What else would you have been?'

'That's a fair question.'

The shaman frowned. 'You are a strange one, even for one of your kind. You speak like a child, not one waiting to pa.s.s over.'