My arrival in front of one of the tents was, as usual, hailed by a pack of barking dogs. I begged the occupants of the first tent for a night’s lodging, but met with a flat refusal. Probably my appearance was against me: I had not shaved for two months, and my unkempt hair and beard no doubt made me look wild, while under-feeding and general exhaustion cannot have improved my features. Still I pleaded for charity, but in vain. Dejectedly I moved to a second tent, but there too I received no better treatment. In fact the treatment was worse: for my urgent pleading, with a detailed account of my sufferings during the previous eight days or so, only seemed to make the master of the tent turn colder, even to the extent of finally charging me with an intention to rob him. That was enough. I turned away, and a great sadness came over me as I stood in the snow. My sheep bleated pitifully, and I felt like crying myself. A third tent stood near, but I could not muster courage enough to repeat my request there. The sight of my sheep was melancholy in the extreme, and with an effort I made an appeal at the fourth and last tent. To my great joy, I met a ready welcome. I was utterly tired out, but a quiet rest near a comfortable fire made me imagine the joys of paradise, and this I was allowed to enjoy all that evening and through the next day. During that stay I occupied my time in writing down the twenty-six desires which I had formulated, with the hope of their accomplishment proving helpful to the spiritual need of others as well as myself.
At five o’clock on the second morning I thanked my host for his hospitality and left him. I now proceeded due north and, after trudging over snow for nearly ten miles, I came out upon a more or less grass-covered plain. By noon I had arrived near a pond, and there took my midday meal. A survey from that point showed me that I had to cross a sandy desert, which appeared to be larger in extent than the one I had traversed after crossing the Chema Yungdung. The thought of another sand-storm gave me new energy, born of fear, and I made no halt until I had walked quite out of the desert.
[CHAPTER XXIV.]
‘Bon’ and ‘Kyang.’
I walked about five miles over the sand and then reached a piece of grass-land. Beyond this I came to a plain of stones of curious shapes, in the centre of which a solitary mountain rose to a considerable height. I subsequently learned that the mountain was the sacred abode of the deities of the Bon religion. Bonism is an ancient religion of Tibet, which commanded considerable influence before the introduction of Buḍḍhism into that country. It has still some adherents, but it continues to exist only for its name’s sake. Originally Bonism very much resembled Hinḍuism; but now, in theory, it is almost Buḍḍhism. This similarity is explained in this way. When it was superseded by Buḍḍhism, a certain Bon priest recast his religion after the pattern of Buḍḍhism, and called the revised product the New Bonism. Without attempting to give any special particulars of its doctrines, I may say that the New Bonism, when shorn of its sacrifices, its toleration of marriage and of the use of intoxicants, is only Buḍḍhism under another name. The Bon deities have no shrines or temples dedicated to them, and are believed to inhabit some particular mountain, or snowy peak, or pond, or lake. And it was upon one of these divine abodes that I had chanced, but lacking at the time all knowledge of Bonism, my attention was soon diverted by coming in sight of a couple of kyangs.
A LUDICROUS RACE.
As I have already said, kyang is the name given by the Tibetans to the wild horse of their northern steppes. More accurately it is a species of ass, quite as large in size as a large Japanese horse. In color it is reddish brown, with black hair on the ridge of the back and black mane and with the belly white. To all appearance it is an ordinary horse, except for its tufted tail. It is a powerful animal, and is extraordinarily fleet. It is never seen singly, but always in twos or threes, if not in a herd of sixty or seventy. Its scientific name is Equus hemionis, but it is for the most part called by its Tibetan name, which is usually spelt kyang in English. It has a curious habit of turning round and round, when it comes within seeing distance of a man. Even a mile and a quarter away, it will commence this turning round at every short stage of its approach, and after each turn it will stop for a while, to look at the man over its own back, like a fox. Ultimately it comes up quite close. When quite near it will look scared, and at the slightest thing will wheel round and dash away, but only to stop and look back. When one thinks that it has run far away, it will be found that it has circled back quite near, to take, as it were, a silent survey of the stranger from behind. Altogether it is an animal of very queer habits.
But to come back to my story: my two sheep, apparently frightened by the approach of the rotating horses, made a dash for freedom with such suddenness and simultaneity that I lost my hold of the two ropes; I then proceeded to run a race with them, in a frantic effort to recapture them. And a ludicrous race it was, in which I finally fell panting and giddy. While it lasted the horses seemed thoroughly to enjoy it, and getting into the spirit of the thing they galloped with me, but only to chase my sheep further away from me. When I lay prostrate, the sheep stopped running and began quietly to graze. The horses also stopped, and appeared quite astonished at the whole performance. I then perceived my blunder. On rising, I quietly walked up to my sheep, and without a movement they allowed me to regain their ropes.