Authors: Win Blevins
It wasn’t until later that I thought it was kind of like the music I heard in the river. No voices of women, children, and angels this time, though, nor of trumpets, flutes, and violins. No cries of birds, nor sounds of the spirits of sky, wind, flowing waters. Just a beat. A simple thump. Thump, thump, thump, thump, to all eternity. Somehow felt like everything was in that one sound.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
From the journal of Captain Richard Burton:
The Humboldt River is a humbug river is a Humboldt River is a humbug river
.
Traveling along the Humboldt in summer is the blastedest blastedest blastedest blastedest
…
One walks, naturally. Muley’s mules, his nest
egg,
must not lose flesh or fat. Therefore people must. Muley and Carlson drive. Sun Moon, Asie, Harold Jackson, and I walk—walk all day for three days, until Muley hears our complaints about the heat. Then we walk all night and try to sleep during the day. We switch back to walking during the day, back to night, and spend the rest of the trip quarreling about which is worse
.
Is it hot? My thermometer spends its days in the vicinity of 100-110 Fahrenheit. Fahrenheit, however, has lost its meaning. Instead of looking at the thermometer, I contemplate all the words for
hot
I can think of. Fiery, roasting, frying, white-hot, red-hot, scorching, boiling, piping hot… I set these words to a martial drum in my head and the beat of my boots against the ground: right foot burning, left foot blistering, right searing, left scalding, right steaming, left simmering, right torrid, left sweltering. Then I realize I should have left out the words that imply
water, for water there is none. Therefore, add right foot dry, left foot parched, right arid, left
…
One cannot count the Humbug River as water. It is horse piss spiced with alkali and salt. It is the muddiest, filthiest, meanest stream in all creation. I walk along it in fantasy, dreaming of pure, clear, sweet water that may be found in the Sierra Nevada, promised somewhere ahead. Though I have spent much of my life in hot places, this time I swear repeatedly that never again will I endure foul water and wretched heat. I can not swear fancifully, however, for my brain is baked. (If fortune attends me, I shall find haven from my wanderlust in the arms of Isabel. Through her nurturing, I shall tame my demons. Through her love, I shall conquer my cravings.)
Walk, walk, walk, morning, noon, evening, midnight. Get across this desert. Walk, walk, walk, morning, noon, evening, midnight. Somehow, some way, get across
.
Then there is the dust, which is also alkali. It is also manure gone to powder. It is also ash, volcanic ash. Immediately one learns to walk out in front of the wagons, to be in advance of the clouds of dust. Even so the stuff puffs up upon every plop of the foot
.
The dust surrounds one. It swirls and envelops one. It wraps one, cloaks one, drapes one, hugs one. It invades one. It turns your skin gray-brown. It grays your hair. It dries your eyes until the lids scratch like sandpaper. It gets between your teeth. It coats your tongue. It follows your breath up your nose until the insides parch hard as baked earth. (What a blessing a dripping nose would be in this country!) When at last the cool of evening comes, and one takes a rest for a meal, your supper is gritty with dust
.
The next morning one discovers the true insidiousness of this dust-manure-alkali-ash. It has worked its way into every fold of clothing and every crevice of the body. What moves, scratches. What doesn’t move, itches
.
It is therefore necessary to bathe. The river is surprisingly cold. Its brisk blessings are apparent, however, when the legs move without grinding. Occasionally the river offers another blessing, a pond of hot water to bathe in. What a devil of a country,
where the very boons of the land are hot springs, boiling and sulfurous
.
Not long ago tens of thousands of people thronged across this trail to California, in fact 50,000 and more in the summers of 1849 and 1850, lusting for gold. Yet that was only a small part of the migration of living beings. Many travelers, says one of the diaries of that time, “never tie up their bedclothes in the daytime. It is astonishing to contemplate how many millions of living creatures must be emigrating to California in close contact and partnership” with these sojourners. I fear Muley and Carlson are adding greatly to this migration
.
Yet I have not mentioned the worst part of traveling along the Humboldt. It is the boredom. Sandy plains rise toward sage-covered hills which rise toward bare-arsed mountains. A few miles further on, sandy plains rise toward sage-covered hills which rise toward bare-arsed mountains. A few miles further on, sandy plains rise toward sage-covered hills which rise toward bare-arsed mountains. And you have the benefit of knowing that tomorrow sandy plains will rise toward sage-covered hills which rise toward bare-arsed mountains. So tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow creep in this petty pace from day to day
.
It is appalling to think of the emigrants of the 1840s and 1850s taking more than a month on the 365 miles of the Humbug River. Then to end one’s journey at a sink, a spot where the river is simply gobbled up by the earth, and nought but burning sands stretch ahead. The DeSelies presumably will take a month. I would half wager it dries up even the hearts of those generous people. Then Asie would find the lips of his
inamorata
dry and uninviting
.
At each rest I relieve the boredom by writing in this journal. One day Harold Jackson, who is crossing this desert for the first time, upbraided me: “My God, Burton, why do you write about this trip so you can remember it? All I hope is to get home alive as soon as possible so I can forget it!
”
Desert at twilight. Sun Moon liked to look at the desert when the sun was nearly gone and the shadows long. Never could she love desert—love was the special place in her heart for the fertility of her native
country. But she liked to look at the desert in the evening, to watch the colors changing in the shadows, to see the sun-glow on red rock, to drink in the big masses of dark and light, shade and sun.
This was one of her secrets. She took time after meditating to watch the desertscape.
Another was that she avoided the campfire. She would not have built a fire each evening, more heat after boiling all day, but it seemed a ritual with the whites to kill meat and cook it. She had never seen so much killing in all her life. Tibetan people avoided killing, left the slaughter of animals for food to foreigners. White people relished killing animals. It made her feel squeamish.
She looked to the west. A long valley stretched hazily into blue shadow in that direction, and a line smudged the horizon. One day, before long, that line would become the mountains of California. Beyond those mountains would be a ship to the Orient, but she had hopes in the meantime, hopes that the mountains would be like her native Kham, well watered, bursting with life, snowy peaks in the background, grasses and flowers underfoot.
Mountain water. What she missed most in the desert was the pure, sweet taste of mountain water. She had not tasted truly pure mountain water since she left home.
Movement. A shifting of shadows down by the river. Deer, probably, come to drink in the evening. Though she liked animals, the mysterious shifting always seemed vaguely disquieting to her. She was glad she could not hear the creatures. She had sat right by the creek once and watched them come to water, and they were silent, utterly silent.
Skitter-skitter-CRACK!
Sun Moon jumped. Scrambling to her feet, she banged her knee.
Ouch!
She nearly stumbled as she whirled around. The words quavered in her mind.
Why did a rock clatter?
“E-e-e-ek!” she squeaked.
Above her on a boulder loomed Porter Rockwell. His features and figures were black with shadow, but the lowering sun rimed his edges in gold.
Now she screamed. “AI-E-E-E-O-EE!”
“Sister!”
She drew breath for another scream, then held it in. The voice was…?
“Sister, it’s me!”
The voice was Sir Richard’s.
The figure dropped down off the boulder into the shade. Now that he wasn’t lit from behind by the sun, she could see his face clearly. “Sir Richard,” she said, “you scared me.”
“I’m sorry, Sister. I didn’t see you. I was looking for my own quiet place.”
“I thought you were Porter Rockwell.”
Sir Richard regarded her. “You still fear him?”
“Yes.”
He looked at her surprised. “Porter Rockwell is taken care of. Will be for another ten days. He’d never catch us.”
Sun Moon nodded. She knew that Sir Richard looked at things only with his mind. Though she admired Sir Richard’s brain, which worked fast and accurately as an abacus, she found his heart deficient.
Like mine. Unlike Asie’s
. Her heart knew about Porter Rockwell.
She composed herself to answer. “Thank you, Sir Richard, for giving me your protection.”
“You are very welcome.” A look of inquiry came into his eyes. “Younger Sister, will you do something for me?”
She waited, still shaky.
“Tell how me you came here, halfway around the world. Tell it more fully.” Sir Richard looked at Sun Moon with a huge, dazzling, gentleman’s smile, self-delighted, conquering and conspiratorial at once. She felt hesitant. True, during the nights and days of flight she had seen beyond the blackness of his spirit. But only by force of will did he make it serve goodness. She had never seen such indomitable will in a human being.
Careful,
she told herself.
Will is not as trustworthy as serenity of spirit achieved through meditation
… She held his dark eyes.
“Come, Younger Sister, it is time.”
Trust came hard to her. She wanted to keep her secrets, to control her life, to put nothing in the hands of others.
This is my single greatest fault, this desire to control, this willfulness
.
Sir Richard breathed in and out conspicuously. It was one of the tricks of white men to show impatience with women and people of color, their inferiors.
To begin to correct my fault I will
.
“Yes, Elder Brother, tonight,” she said. “You and Asie only.”
“I, the insignificant nun Dechen Tsering, was born near Zorgai, a great city on the plains of Kham. My birth name was Nima Lhamo. My
parents were Norgay and Pasang Lhamo, and all our family were herdsmen and traders. They traveled far. The men of Kham are nomads, skilled horsemen, known widely for the fierceness of their warrior spirit. My ancestors were Khampas in every way, and I am proud of them.
“My parents gave me to the convent at Zorgai at the age of nine to be raised to work for
moksha,
the liberation of all sentient beings, the highest purpose a human being can devote his life to. I took the basic vows—to remain celibate, not to kill or commit other violence, not to indulge in intoxicating drink, not to steal, and not to lie. I began my studies in the Tibetan tradition of the Great Exposition School,
Sarvāstivada
. Soon I underwent rigorous training in the five academic subjects, logic, canon law, monastic discipline, Mahayana philosophy, and psychology. Later I began study of the Bon tradition and especially their teachings of
Dzog-chen,
the Great Perfection, and also
Mahamudra,
the Great Seal. It was my ambition to come to a position as teacher in the college at Zorgai.
“It is the custom of the monastery to permit monks and nuns to join their families during the summer, if they choose. In the spring of last year, I took leave to travel with my family to Chengdu, in Sichuan. Though it is not customary for women to go on trading trips, this was a journey I asked for, a special treat. I wanted to see the formal flower garden at the monastery in Chengdu. My mother joined us. As usual, the men of our family provided strength against all hazards, my brothers, uncles, and cousins.
“On the third night the bandits attacked. Normally they would simply have run off our horse herd. However, the leader had an unusual commission, to steal a nun. He was eager. Chinese men think that Tibetan women are especially attractive sexually, easily available, and fond of acts Chinese women will not commit. The idea of a nun being forced into such acts inflamed this man. And he was promised a great deal of money.”
She hesitated, reluctant. “Though my relatives fought back courageously, we were overwhelmed. I saw them all killed.”
She looked into the faces of her listeners. And she hated what she saw there, an odd avidity.
Even Asie and Sir Richard are greedy to hear what happened to my body, what happened to me sexually
. Her breath caught on an angry spot. She made herself breathe in and out, and reminded herself that she owed them compassion. But she didn’t want to go on.
“You know the rest of the story. I was treated as chattel, shipped
against my will to America for purposes of prostitution, transported to Hard Rock City, and sold to Tarim as a whore.”
She hoped the last word slapped them.
“I must rest now,” she said. She rose and went to her blankets.
Made me think of home, that’s what Sun Moon’s words did. I walked over to the wagon and got my drum. Halfway up a hill I found a rock that looked good. If I beat on it light and sang a song soft, or whistled, it wouldn’t wreck nobody’s sleep.
I sang to that valley I dreamed of. I named the stream Home Creek and called its canyon Peace Valley. I made up a song about how I’d feel if I ever got there. At first I gave it words, but then they seemed not enough to me. Words are clumsy next to what you can say with a melody, a change of chord, a slide on a fiddle string anyhow. So I dropped the words and just made the music. I sung it over and over, half the night. I didn’t know where the valley was, or even whether it was. But I knew how fine it would feel to walk into such a place, breathe the air, and say, “Hello, Home Creek.”
The Humboldt Sink pleased her companions, Sun Moon could not see why. Here the river followed so tediously for mile after mile after mile—365 miles, the white people said—was gobbled up by the desert. It ran into a hole and didn’t come out. True, the hole was a vast marsh, a low spot in a still more vast expanse of desert, and you couldn’t see from any one place that the water got lost. But it did.