twenty-one
Clouds of granite-gray thunder over the road ahead. A deafening uproar hits my ears. Bells ring, hooves stamp, and hoarse shouts spur on a horde—a caravan’s approaching. Ghedun steers his stallion off the road and we follow.
“We better let them pass,” he says. “Never seen one before?”
My eyes widen at this colorful cacophony of men and beasts, sounds and smells. Urged on by the lahdo, the traders travel by on their sturdy horses—a convoy of mules, yaks, and human porters staggers by in a blur of dust. The precious cargo of first-class tea, sown in yak-skin cases, and bamboo tubes are piled on their backs.
“Where are they heading?” I pat my prancing mare.
“They’re on their way from Ya’an to Chamdo or even Lhasa.” Ghedun cranes his neck. “If it’s Lhasa, they’ll be on the road
