Chapter One

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In 2012, Tengchong County, Gaoligong Mountain, on the China–Myanmar border.

A Mitsubishi Pajero off-road vehicle stood parked on the liveliest street in the county town. Its dark green body was coated in a thick layer of mud and dust, making it plain to anyone with eyes that it had endured more than its share of rough roads. Even so, an imported four-wheel-drive vehicle was still considered a luxury means of mountain transport in Yunnan, and it attracted no small amount of attention.

When the doors opened, a thin cloud of dust rose into the air. Yet it was not the vehicle itself that secretly delighted the villagers of this remote border town, but the passengers who climbed out.

Two men and a woman emerged first, wearing matching windbreakers in different colors. They opened the trunk, took out several black waist-pack backpacks, and began slowly gearing themselves up.

The Tibetan driver, wearing sunglasses, got out as well and asked in accented Mandarin, “My home is nearby. I’ll drive back and sleep there tonight, then come pick you up tomorrow morning. We’ll go straight to the Pima border crossing.”

The tallest of the three men, with a dark, weathered face, readily agreed. “All right. We’ll settle half the fare first, so you’ll remember to come on time tomorrow.”

Tibetans liked straightforward Han Chinese best. Getting part of the money in advance was ideal, and it meant he could go home without worrying about his wife nagging him. The driver, Gombo, patted the man on the shoulder and laughed.

“You Han people are only interested in looking at boundary markers between China and Myanmar. You really don’t know what fun is. Next time you get the chance, I’ll invite you to my place. It’s on a cliff beside the Nu River, and there’s even a hot spring. You can soak in the water and look down at the waves surging below. Now that’s scenery. That’s enjoyment!”

The other man looked refined and scholarly. He smiled at his companion and said, “Little Ma, settle up with Big Brother. Don’t delay his journey home.”

Over the past decade or so, as living standards had improved and more tourists began visiting Yunnan, the shrewder locals had gone into the car-rental business. Those with enough capital to buy branded off-road vehicles did especially well during the tourist season, often staying away from home for a month or two at a time. Even when they did return, they could not rest for more than a couple of days. After servicing the vehicle, they had to set off again with their next group of passengers.

At that, the driver lost interest in further conversation. He accepted the wad of renminbi Little Ma handed him. At eight hundred a day, half the fare came to nearly ten thousand yuan—a very worthwhile journey indeed. He gave the money a cursory count, called out to an acquaintance in town, and immediately several families who ran inns came over to ask whether the travelers needed rooms.

These people clearly had money; they were not the struggling backpackers. Gombo wanted to help an old acquaintance, Auntie Wangmu, win the business. The refined-looking man who seemed to be in charge had no objection. Without a word, he nodded at Auntie Wangmu, winning himself even more goodwill from the locals.

Sitting on a small stool nearby, Zhujie watched with envy. His own family ran a tiny guesthouse, and from the moment the vehicle entered the street, he had kept his eyes fixed on it without blinking.

In recent years, some Han Chinese had taken to calling themselves “donkey friends” and going on hiking trips. Zhujie had no idea what sort of pastime that was. He had grown up climbing Gaoligong Mountain and following the cliffs along the Nu River. To him, these Han people were absurdly delicate. If they loved the mountains and rivers so much, why not put down roots here? Why did they spend ten days or half a month complaining of hardship and exhaustion, only to go home?

Last month, after much persuasion, he had finally attracted a group of university students. But they had not come to stay at the inn. They had merely borrowed the patch of grass outside to pitch their tents.

A standard room at Zhujie’s family guesthouse cost one hundred yuan a day and came with solar-heated hot water available around the clock. Yet those damned students would rather pay fifty yuan for a place to pitch a tent than stay in a room. Zhujie had cursed them under his breath for several days.

Rich people were not encountered every day. Zhujie had seen bearded men trudging in along the road, impoverished students arriving in groups of three or five and quarreling at the entrance because they could not pool enough money, and people supposedly from Korea who had hired the cheapest Jinbei minivan available. He could not imagine how a vehicle with such low clearance had made it all the way here without tumbling into the river along the way.

He knew the driver too. Gombo was from the neighboring village and had been among the first in the area to enter the tourism business. By now he owned property worth several hundred thousand yuan. Supposedly, he had an excellent reputation on some website for traveling companions. He had been away for more than half a month this time, and the people who had climbed out of his vehicle were certainly wealthy.

Zhujie was thrilled. If his family could host a few more guests, he might be able to save enough money to buy half a computer this year. Then he too could join one of those traveling-companion websites and make a name for himself.

But before he could take a step, he was called back by his grandfather, Tsering Deji, who had been watching him from the side.

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“Zhujie, don’t go competing with Auntie Wangmu.” The old man tapped his grandson with the wooden stick in his hand.

Zhujie protested. He wanted to buy a computer. “She gets eight out of every ten groups. It should be my turn.”

Tsering Deji knew he was only a child and could not be bothered to argue. “You are not going. This group is trouble waiting to happen. Stay home and behave.”

As he spoke, he hauled his grandson into the house. Though Tsering Deji was old, he still had considerable strength; Zhujie, already a half-grown youth, could not break free.

You see strangers as devils, while they see you as one too. Mountain people might find city folk novel, but among the mountain people there were no fewer hidden experts.

Before the Liberation, Tsering Deji had accompanied the expeditionary forces into Myanmar. The younger generation had seen far more of the world than their elders, but when it came to a sharp eye and seasoned judgment, Tsering Deji remained the more worldly of them all.

“Idiot.” He patted Zhujie on the head. “These people don’t look as if they’ve come here for fun.”

Zhujie rubbed the back of his head, unable to understand what his grandfather meant.

“Gaoligong Mountain is no easy climb. They haven’t brought metal poles”—Tsering Deji did not know how to describe trekking poles—“and even if they only went up for a stroll, it would be difficult. Look at these rich people. They don’t look like the sort who climb mountains regularly.”

Zhujie stubbornly argued, “There are plenty of trees up there. They can just break off a branch!”

Tsering Deji slapped him again. Zhujie was hopelessly slow—couldn’t the boy take a closer look? “What else are they missing?”

Only then did Zhujie peer carefully through the window. “Oh! They really are missing something… They don’t have a camera. How can people with so much money go traveling without taking pictures?”

That was a fashionable Han Chinese habit: hanging cameras around their necks or over their shoulders to show off. Their protruding lenses were longer than the prayer wheels at home. Zhujie knew that the longer the lens, the prouder the expression of the person wearing it. Six months earlier, someone had left one behind here and never returned for it. Supposedly, the brick-sized thing was worth tens of thousands of yuan.

“They’ll certainly come out for a look around once they’ve settled in,” Tsering Deji said, beckoning to his grandson. “Don’t leave the house. Go ladle out the barley wine from the back. Tomorrow, take it to the shop at the street corner and sell it.”

Zhujie believed most of what his grandfather had said. But he had been coveting a computer for years, and he was still unwilling to give up entirely. He answered perfunctorily, “I’m going! I’m going!”

Even as he spoke, he ran off, pausing to peer through the window at the strange people his grandfather had mentioned.

They seemed to have reached an agreement with Auntie Wangmu and were unloading their luggage. In truth, they had very little of it—so little that even Zhujie found it strange.

Then he saw a peculiar piece of “luggage.” The short-haired woman among the two men and one woman helped another woman out of the vehicle. The newcomer swayed unsteadily, unable even to stand. Only then did Zhujie realize that there were four of them.

Auntie Wangmu asked with concern, “What’s wrong with this girl?”

Gombo explained, “Altitude sickness and motion sickness. She’s been dazed and listless all day. It’s nothing serious; her companions will take care of her.”

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Auntie Wangmu breathed a sigh of relief. The refined man smiled. “She’s in poor health. Once we’ve finished at Pima, we’ll head straight back.”

Then he said to the short-haired woman, “A-Jie, help Nana inside.”

Auntie Wangmu took another look. The girl’s eyes were closed, and her long hair fell messily across her face. Her lips were slightly pale, and there was a sheen of sweat on her forehead, though her complexion otherwise looked healthy. She resembled a jade maiden descended from a snowy mountain.

Yet for some reason, Auntie Wangmu did not dare look at her for long. Noticing her gaze, the refined man said courteously, “Auntie, just call me Old Gu. If anything comes up, tell me. We’ll be relying on you to look after us tonight.”

Auntie Wangmu shifted her attention. “Does the girl need any medicine? I can go buy some for you.”

Behind his rimless glasses, Gu Beikun’s eyes filled with a grateful smile. “Thank you. Please buy two bottles of rhodiola capsules, and a packet of preserved plums as well.”

With an agreeable “All right,” Auntie Wangmu decided she must have been imagining things. The group looked amiable and easygoing, and this promised to be a most satisfying bit of business. She turned to call her family members over to settle the guests in, then went out to find the shop.

When Gu Beikun emerged from the room, A-Jie and Little Ma heard the neighboring door open and immediately came out of the other room. He called to Little Ma, “Come out with me and take a look at the situation on the street. Bring back packed dinners for A-Jie and Nana.”

Then he turned his gaze to A-Jie. “Stay in my room and look after Nana. How many tablets of the ‘medicine’ are left?”

Through the gap behind Gu Beikun, A-Jie saw Nana lying feebly on the bed. Her head was buried in the pillow, her face hidden beneath her long hair. Every now and then, one of her hands or feet would jerk without warning, making the sight terrifying. A-Jie felt a chill pass through her. “There’s enough Shule left. We still have two ampoules of Number Seven.”

Gu Beikun noticed where she was looking. He knew how much Nana had suffered these past few days, but he had no time for pity. The border was right before them, and he still did not know whether the people to the north would let him swagger out so openly.

“Tomorrow we’ll be safe. Don’t let anything go wrong. If something happens to her while we’re out, give her the appropriate medicine.”

A-Jie’s throat tasted bitter. Symptoms? She understood exactly what Gu Beikun meant. If Nana began suffering withdrawal, give her sleeping pills. If the reaction became too severe, inject her with Number Seven so she would settle down before she disturbed anyone.

Such horrifying symptoms were scarcely better than a terminal illness. Both were capable of tormenting a person to death.

But Nana belonged to Boss Gu. Whatever he ordered, Nana had to endure.

The night in Tengchong passed amid the delirious murmurs of the woman unconscious on the bed. After the men returned, one of them sat watching her for most of the night, then crushed the cigarette between his fingers with savage force.

The Legend of Yi Shi: Daughter of the Nile, Chapter Eleven — complete.