Black Flame (16 page)

The next day, Kelsang was loaded into a cage, and again he made no resistance. He was being taken to the botanical gardens on the outskirts of the city.

“There's no other way. I tried to contact you at the time, honest. I phoned before I took him to the store, but you didn't answer. Your boss told me you'd gone south for a meeting. No one can control him. Just as long as someone can take him — anyone — a circus, a zoo, a fire station, whatever. You know how much I lost when he killed that Great Dane? He was a great help at the store, though.”

“It wasn't a meeting. I was delivering a special machine to one of the kids who has difficulty walking.”

“And it took that long?”

“He needed to learn how to use it.”

“What was it, a machine from outer space? How long could it take for a kid to learn to use a walking stick?”

“It wasn't just the machine. He had to do physical therapy, too.”

“Well, all I've done is taken the dog to the botanical gardens. They're doing me a favor by looking after him.”

“Have you forgotten? If it wasn't for him, we'd never have survived that trip up from the plateau. You'd never have made it back to your fancy house with your garden and pool.”

“I haven't done anything to him, I swear.”

Of course, Kelsang never found out about the argument Yang Yan and Han Ma had over the phone. He was busy adjusting to his new surroundings, and in the week since he'd arrived, he had no complaints. He had wanted to get out of the store, and now he sensed that things were about to get even better. It was just a matter of waiting peacefully. He was no longer the young mastiff from the grasslands who only thought about fighting wolves and who gathered experience as he gathered scars. By now he was experienced enough. He had grown up.

His new iron cage was located in a cluster of lilac bushes and had originally been built to store garden equipment. Every day at sunset, an old man, who looked like a stone blown smooth by the wind, came with a bucket and flask. He would tighten Kelsang's chains — the same ones he had arrived in, as they had been informed that he was a mastiff from the grasslands and that it was best to keep their distance — before unlocking the door. He scrubbed the dog's food and water bowls, gave him his day's rations, swept the cage clean and then locked the door again. Only then did he loosen the chains.

“Okay, beautiful dog. It's getting dark, so eat up. I know you want to go for a run, but I can't let you out. I don't have the strength to hold you, and I can't be responsible for you escaping. The boss says you're valuable, and I've got to take good care of you. Anyway, it wouldn't be good if you scared the visitors, would it? But we do want them to see you — you might bring more of them in. What am I saying? Is this the botanical gardens or the zoo? But there's only one of you in the city, and you must be lonely, just like me. Whatever you do, don't be like me.” As the old man rambled on, his hands moved continuously, cleaning the cage of the garbage thrown in by visitors.

In fact, not many people bothered Kelsang during the day, and he could spend much of it lying in his cage, sleeping under the dense shade of the lilacs. Most people came to see the exotic imported plants, such as the sea coconut seedlings being nursed in the greenhouse. Whenever anyone did venture into the lilac thicket, they paid no attention to him, at most thinking that he was an unusual animal before walking on.

But that day a child lingered in front of Kelsang's cage, an ice cream dribbling down his hand. He was calling out some strange name, something soft and cute sounding that would never be heard in the rough environment of the grasslands. It was far more suited to a small, cuddly pet dog than to a mastiff.

“Fluffy, are you sleeping? Do you want some ice cream?” the little boy called in his soft voice as he pushed his hand through the bars.

Kelsang didn't look up at first but cast a glance at the child out of the corner of his eye. He clearly wasn't planning on leaving any time soon. He reminded Kelsang of Tenzin's son. Both of them smelled as though they'd been doused from head to toe in milk. Their voices sounded similar, too, even though they'd grown up thousands of miles apart. He slowly looked up at the child.

“Come on, Fluffy. It's hot. Why don't you have some?” The boy was now waving his dribbling ice cream at Kelsang.

Kelsang licked the ice cream very carefully. This was the first time a child had approached him since he'd left the grasslands. He twisted his tongue around the dessert slowly, as if worried that he might scare the boy. It was eerie how much he looked like Tenzin's son. Once the ice cream was gone, Kelsang started licking the boy's hand, stopping only when he started giggling from the tickles.

A shout came from beyond the lilacs, and Kelsang watched as the little boy disappeared. He continued sniffing at the bars where his smell lingered. It would soon be completely smothered by the scent of lilacs.

This was the only thing about the gardens that made Kelsang a little unhappy. The thick lilac fragrance often made him feel drowsy. Of all the smells he had encountered, this one was the most powerful. It swept over everything like a wave, surging up high and falling back down again, with Kelsang a delicate sampan riding on its crest. He was a sea swallow soaring above the waves of the perfume.

When the old man came that evening, he discovered yesterday's food and water still in their bowls and Kelsang pacing around his cage. Every once in a while, he would stop and sniff in the direction of the main gate, where it smelled least of lilacs.

“Are you sick, doggie? But you look as strong as a little ox. Are you homesick? I don't know where your home is. All I know is the boss said a rich man brought you, so you must have had a nice life before. You're not used to such crude conditions, is that it? But don't you think it's lovely here?”

The old man's monologue was interrupted by a sharp clang from the cage. To his surprise, Kelsang jumped up on his hind legs, his front paws pressed against the bars, his eyes fixed in the direction of the main gate. Kelsang's nostrils were flapping open and closed as he attempted to breathe in more air. It was a smell, a beautiful smell, and he wanted more of it.

Han Ma.

It was the merest hint of him at first, and it came and went. He was still far away, but Kelsang knew he was coming. He started trembling ever so slightly in anticipation.

“What happened?” the old man asked, resting on his broom and looking down the path worn through the lilacs by impatient visitors.

No one, no bird call, nothing. The gardens were closing, and everyone had already left.

What was happening?

Half a minute later, Han Ma appeared, hurrying toward Kelsang.

Unable to wait any longer, Kelsang barked, ramming his body against the side of his cage, making its sturdy iron bars shake.

“Are you his owner?” the old man asked Han Ma. “I've been feeding him for a week, and he hasn't made a peep. He's been waiting like that for ages. He must have been able to smell you.”

“I'm here now,” said Han Ma, walking up to the cage and reaching inside.

Kelsang had been waiting for him for so long. Trembling with happiness, he closed his eyes and pressed his head into Han Ma's hands, the hands that had cut the metal collar from his neck.

After a while, the old man interrupted the reunion, eager to open the cage and let the dog out to meet his owner properly. Kelsang didn't make a big scene — wagging his tail and yapping like other dogs would have. He was from the grasslands, and he wasn't good at that sort of thing. He did feel the need to show his emotions, but he just didn't know how. On the grasslands, he had always lived according to some notion of duty, but what he felt for Han Ma was a magnificent emotion that came from deep within him. Love — that was what he felt for Han Ma — a deep love.

Han Ma stroked Kelsang's large head. The dog didn't make any noise but just pressed closer to his master's leg. Han Ma could feel him trembling.

Yang Yan arrived with the manager of the gardens just in time to see man and dog reunited.

“I looked after him for so long, and he never let me touch his head,” Yang Yan muttered to himself jealously.

“From now on, I'll look after you,” said Han Ma, picking purple lilac blossoms from Kelsang's coat. “You're my dog, and I won't let anyone put you in a cage ever again.”

11

GUIDE DOG

THEIR TEACHER, HAN MA,
said he was bringing them a pet, but the students at the School for Deaf and Blind Children didn't realize just how big that pet would be. It took Han Ma a long time to persuade the principal that Kelsang was indeed a dog, not a bear from a disbanded circus. The school had never had a pet before, and the principal only agreed that the dog could stay on the condition that his chains were never removed.

When Kelsang entered the classroom for the first time, a crowd of young children, their eyes round and dark, surrounded him. He felt scared and withdrew, unwilling to take another step forward. The bright lights and shiny floors also made him feel uncomfortable.

Suddenly one of the girls screamed, perhaps out of excitement or because another child had pushed her. The hair on the back of Kelsang's neck stood on end, and he roared in reply.

The children froze in fear.

Han Ma stroked Kelsang gently while scolding him and then continued to lead him into the center of the room. The number of children swelled, but Kelsang sensed that Han Ma was not afraid of them. In fact, he had a sort of authority over them. He trusted Han Ma, and as long as his master wasn't scared, he wouldn't be, either. These children were not like the ones Kelsang had met before, and it wasn't just because they wore dark glasses. It was the way they twisted their bodies in search of Han Ma's voice, and they all had such lively faces.

The first child reached out cautiously to touch him, but Kelsang stiffened, unable to control his reaction. This was a stranger's hand, after all. Han Ma gently stroked his back. Gradually, as each hand felt its way toward him, Kelsang discovered that they weren't as rough as he was expecting. They landed gently on his back, as soft as feathers. They had no intention of hurting him. In fact, they were warming, like the setting sun high up on the plateau. Kelsang relaxed. One little girl stroked his bristly moustache, but when he stuck out his tongue to lick her hand, she withdrew like a startled animal.

“Don't worry. He's just licking you,” Han Ma reassured her as she stroked the hand that had been “attacked” by Kelsang's tongue. Slowly, she reached out again. Her hand was one of the few tools at her disposal for understanding the world around her. Kelsang licked it once more, and she cried out in delight and began giggling.

At that moment, the principal happened to pass by. He had been trying to come up with an excuse to get rid of this animal — was it really a dog? — but the sight of the little girl made the thought vanish in a puff of smoke. This child had been abandoned in a trash can at the train station when she was a baby. She was now five years old, and he had never seen her laugh before. One after another, the children reached out to let Kelsang lick their hands. Each lick was met with helpless laughter. The principal had never heard these children laugh like this — they were usually so taciturn. He slipped away without saying a word.

Kelsang didn't really like children. He had never taken much interest in mini humans. But these little ones with their dark glasses were like extra special, gentle sheep. Their hands rested so softly on his coat, like easily startled birds fluttering down to earth to find food. The children belonged to Han Ma, and he would do anything for his master. Of that he was sure.

When Han Ma first came to the school, he told the children all about birds. Holding one in his hands, he showed them its feathers, its small claws and the wings it used to fly. When he opened his hands the bird flew away, leaving only the sound of its wings beating in the air.

In a similar way, Kelsang became the very definition of a dog for the blind children. Dogs were large, with warm tongues, long fur that was especially thick around the neck, ears that flopped on either side of their heads, and curly tails. Han Ma had never thought of Kelsang as an unusual dog, but when some of the children regained their sight as adults, their subsequent encounters with our canine friends resulted in a certain disappointment. Was it just that time had made their memory of the dog back at the school sweeter and more perfect? They must have lifted up their hands, the hands that they had used instead of eyes, and asked themselves, could they have fooled me?

One day a journalist came to the school to write a story. On his way out, he saw something truly incredible — a huge dog walking with firm, steady steps, with one young child holding its collar and two more children holding hands walking behind them. The dog waited patiently for them to catch up, and when necessary, it would stop, turn and grunt.

“What's going on?” The journalist wasn't sure what he was seeing.

“Nothing. He's just taking the children to the canteen.”

“My God, I've never seen such a large guide dog!” the journalist said, sounding almost hysterical, and he took a photo that appeared in the newspaper the next day.

The children at the school were already used to Kelsang. He had learned to lead them across the playground to the canteen and even out to a nearby shop so that they could buy things. If ever any of the children fell over or had any problems as they were moving about, Kelsang would be the first to help. Within moments, the echo of his heavy paws could be heard in the courtyard, and he would be by their side. He could detect what smell had brought the children there and was ready to take them wherever they wanted to go. He could distinguish between the shop, the canteen, the classroom and the dormitories, and was able to take them to their beds without the slightest hiccup.

Kelsang was happy that he could develop his shepherding skills in this way. These little sheep really needed him, and they were Han Ma's most precious property. He looked after them as best he could, took them outside to enjoy the sun and even acted as a soft rug for them to play on.

But the nights belonged to Kelsang alone. In the stillness, when everyone was sleeping, he would stir from his spot in front of Han Ma's door and loop around the courtyard. Then he would jump over the wall from one of the flowerbeds into the cornfield on the other side. He learned to run through the rows of corn without damaging a single leaf, like a ghost blown along by the wind. He sniffed greedily at the earth and the fresh green growth.

He had fallen back into his habit of running. When he ran, everything around him was a blur. It was like leaving all his troubles, his bad memories behind him.

One night, when the moon was full and the corn was ripening in the field, Kelsang spotted a farmer up ahead. He was leaning against a shack smoking. Kelsang didn't think to avoid him and swept past. Before the farmer could react, Kelsang had shot into the depths of the cornfield, leaving only the rustling of leaves whipped up by the air rushing behind him.

The farmer thought he was seeing things. Had a bear just run past? He was from the Greater Khingan Mountains, in the northeastern corner of China, home to acres of dense forest and plump animals. In this mosquito-infested farmland far from home, that was what he wanted to believe. He was sure that a bear had come to steal his corn, but that it could smell the hunter in him — something that had been passed down for generations from father to son — and that was why it had run away.

But for some reason, the farmer's story didn't catch on. Kelsang only let himself be seen that one time, and even though the locals had read in their schoolbooks about bears stealing corn, the grinding routine of daily life had erased their ability to imagine it happening in their own fields. Of course, they hadn't heard that a bear had recently escaped from Harbin Zoo. They'd rather believe that the sewers of Paris were home to tens of thousands of crocodiles than that there was a bear roaming their cornfields.

In any case, Kelsang only ever let himself run freely like this at night. Before the sun came up, he always returned to the school, the morning dew like pearls in his coat. He would jump back over the wall into the courtyard, where he did a few more laps, and satisfied that all was as it should be, plopped down at Han Ma's door. Every morning, when Han Ma emerged for his run, Kelsang was there waiting for him.

Each day a large group from the school appeared on the main road, Kelsang trotting beside Han Ma and behind them a line of children. Kelsang was always happy when he was with Han Ma and would run beside him energetically. They would do a lap around the village, through the streets that smelled of grain, then go back to the school, where the children would gesture to Han Ma, “What a fine morning! The sun is so warm! What lovely fresh air!” Their world was so beautiful.

Kelsang was becoming a truly excellent guide dog. While he had not yet ventured onto busy streets with the blind children, his ample frame meant he could easily handle daily tasks such as taking them across the street nearby. But he was an exception. Most guide dogs are gentle and docile because people usually choose breeds that are obedient and non-aggressive by nature, such as collies, Labradors or golden retrievers. No one could have imagined that a mastiff with the wilds of Tibet coursing through his veins would make a good guide dog.

That August, Han Ma received a letter notifying him that he had been accepted into the Chinese Youth Volunteer Corps. He was to serve as a primary school teacher in Hulun Buir, Inner Mongolia. Not wanting to upset the children, he left one morning before anyone had woken up, taking Kelsang with him. But it was a painful morning nevertheless, and some say the children are still waiting for Han Ma to return and take them into the village.