The Horse Master's Daughter

6. Chapter 6

one

The smoldering incense breathes a welcoming warmth in my hands as I walk up to the prayer hall. My toes spread in my sandals and I relish the chill of dewdrops wetting my feet. The first shreds of daylight have barely broken through, and dense mist still shrouds most of our mountain. With the faint hum of morning prayers finished, my time has arrived.

“Come on, she’s expecting you.” I spur myself on. My fingers slide along the soaked hem of my robe. “It’s not that difficult.” A deep sigh slips from my lips. Except it is.

No, it’s not difficult to walk up to the prayer hall in the early morning—it’s the conversation I’m about to have.

The path ahead of me has been flattened long ago—finely crushed stones pave the way. As always, I take the road less travelled, this time cutting through the tall grass between the kitchen and the elevated hall. The perfect shortcut really, a hide-away and a lookout at the same time.

From here I can see almost the entire monastery—its wooden gate leading straight to the central prayer hall, the communal kitchen to the right, and the fifty tiny houses of my sisters, timber and clay, stacked upon the slope behind the hall.

The sheds, animal dwellings, and vegetable gardens still hide under a blanket of down and white, with the fog stretching itself over the far side. Even the magnificent mountains with their green pastures and snowcapped peaks lay dormant—their dim silhouettes surrounding us in a patient wait for the day to come through.

None of that matters to me though, for I know this place, my beloved monastery on the mountain, so well. It’s been my home for the last twelve years, ever since my father left me here. I was young—about five or six—but the dreadful thought of that day stays with me, buried in the abyss of my mind.

The air was heavy with the smell of blooming mountain meadows—one of those days that was bound to end in either thunder or hail. Father said, “We’re going to see your grandmother Dechen today, it’s going to be a long ride.”

And a long ride it had been, from our home at the stables all the way through the valley, up the mountain pass with the leaping deer and their young, and even farther until the flattened trail had run out. But Father had led the way, his stallion dashing over the high pastures where the nomads had pitched their tents for their yaks to graze.

The nomads. I’d seen their black tents dotting the planes from a distance, but I’d never dared this far out to where they lived.

My pony had booted through the waving fields of golden and green. Scores of blue bells chimed their tunes underneath prancing hooves and turned up their petals to salute us on the ride of our life.

Our last ride. For sure, he must have felt it, that little pony. With his coat of patchy brown, matching bristly mane, and a stubby tail that never seemed to grow, it was the ugliest little thing. Ugly and stubborn—and perfect for me.

With the many graceful and gallant horses at the stables, I’d chosen this pony to be my companion. Or rather, I have to admit, he had chosen me—for as soon as I’d set my first steps as a toddler in the paddock, he had been there waiting for me. He bumped his velvety nose into my bony chest and made it clear—I was his in this life. We’d been inseparable ever since, or for at least the first years of my life.

Everywhere I went, the little pony carried me. Except in the house, that’s where Mother had drawn the line.

“Out with the two of you!” She’d scurried the little pony out of the kitchen at my first attempt to sneak it in. “Being the wife of the royal horse master, I delight in the horses. I even delight in having a daughter that stinks like one. But that doesn’t mean I’m tolerating even the tiniest one in our living quarters.”

Mother had succeeded—the pony never dared into the house again, not even after Mother’s passing, when the house was empty, and nobody would have noticed it wandering around.

My pony… His short legs struggled to keep up with father’s slender stallion as we flew through the meadows on a ride that never seemed to end. How I’d wished it hadn’t, later on, when the purpose of our ride became painfully clear. Especially in the first year, when everything was unfamiliar, and even my grandmother’s kindness seemed too much to bear.

Dechen had stood at the gate of the monastery to welcome us that summer’s afternoon with the customary white khata draped along her arms.

The first thing I noticed about my grandmother was the reddish color on her cheeks—fierce blushing hearts, just like mine. And like Mother’s before hers had paled.

“Palden-la, it’s good to see you.” Dechen had touched the top of Father’s head and draped the white silken around his neck. Still on my pony, I hid behind Father’s horse. I wanted to see, but time away from Mother had made me shy.

Grandmother’s hands felt cool on my cheeks and she spoke with a voice that was almost too soft to hear. Of how beautiful I was, and how happy she was that I was finally here.

Finally? I’d not understood anything about that day. Why had Father brought me to a grandmother whom I had never met?

I sat in the kitchen, next to the stove, and fed on butter tea and tsampa balls while Father and Grandmother went away to talk. That’s where I first met Pema and Tsomo, the nosy twin sisters who’d made fun of my boyish clothes and my unkept hair—a messy bun to keep the unruly strands out of my face.

At the time, I thought they were the oddest girls I’d ever encountered. Actually, they still are. Nobody has ever seen twins so different, yet so alike. They made fun of me the moment we met, and I hadn’t minded, for I was just waiting for Father to return and take me home. Too tired from the hot weather, the long ride, and the comforting food. Tea left in my cup, fried breadcrumbs sticking in the corners of my mouth, a tsampa-ball half-eaten, I dozed off.

Dusk peeped her tranquil rays through the tiny kitchen window when the starling snorting of my pony awoke me from a dreamless sleep. Like an arrow shot from a bow too high-strung, I ran outside, and met my deepest fear.

Father stood ready to ride off on his stallion, with my little pony tied to his saddle and balking on all fours. He was leaving.

“This is your home now, my daughter. You be good.” Father’s voice had cracked at his words. He spurred on his horse and rode off in a frenzy without looking back. My little pony struggled as it was forced in his track. And I was left behind.

“Apa, apa!” That’s all I could call out, as the thing I dreaded most had just become real. Father was leaving me behind.

As small as I was, I couldn’t bear the immense truth that came crashing down on me. My insides shattered, my legs gave way, and my body caved in.

Dechen had caught me, and I struggled to break free, my immediate and natural reaction to something I couldn’t control. She carried me in her arms, restraining and comforting at the same time.

I howled and wished for the moon, and for my grandmother to leave, to go away. The thunder came, and hail lashed down on the desolate mountain. I cried all night, as there was no mercy left to spare.

When morning came, Dechen took me to the stream, and she dressed me in a maroon robe that slouched around my bony body. I grew into it fast though, for the life she gave me was good. Surrounded by a tight community of devoted nuns, strong female practitioners of the Buddha’s teachings, I grew up feeling cared for, and steeped in love that knew no boundaries.

The odd twins had decided we were best friends from that day on. I resisted, of course, for I don’t take to people that easily. The sisters didn’t care. They kept pulling their pranks to get my attention. It wasn’t long before I gave in.

A smile stretches across my heart as I think of all the trouble we got into. Oh, it couldn’t have been easy on Dechen, guiding us boisterous threesome through our childhood years. Many times she brought us before our teacher to receive another instruction on appropriate nuns’ behavior, and even more often she lectured us herself. Dechen’s patience and endurance we tested, for sure. But always—always—she stayed calm and collected, acting from a place of love and compassion, as true Dharma practitioners do.

Not once did she raise her voice at us.

Not once did she lash out.

A saint she is, that’s for sure.

My fingers squish the hem of my robe, and dew drops return to the grass. With a heavy heart I walk on up to the prayer hall, to Dechen to make my request. Today I’ll ask her what’s been weighing me down for so long.

Today I’ll ask for her permission to go home.