Chapter Two: The Death of Master Duji

The members of the Civil Administration Committee arrived swiftly, first photographing the thief’s corpse to preserve evidence.

As eyewitnesses, Guan Wen, Master Duji, and the young woman were all required to give detailed statements. Now, Guan Wen learned the girl's name was Pauline, a dancer from Hong Kong. However, despite the statements, no one knew the thief’s name, where he came from, or who had killed him.

“My bag is missing the most important thing: a key.” After checking her satchel, Pauline was deeply dismayed.

“What kind of key?” asked Captain Zaxilam, who was in charge of security for the committee.

“It’s an ancient key cast in white copper. I kept it in here—” Pauline lifted a black velvet pouch, turning it upside down; it was empty. The pouch was about three inches long and an inch wide, so the key couldn’t have been very large.

Zaxilam frowned. “From the time the thief snatched the bag until his death, not even half an hour passed. The satchel was always with him. Could someone have double-crossed him and stolen the key? But, Miss Pauline, if they wanted to take your things, they could have found an opportunity back in Shigatse. Why go through all this trouble here at the monastery?”

Pauline grew agitated and retorted loudly, “Are you accusing me of lying?”

The other committee members quickly tried to smooth things over, ushering Zaxilam aside.

Guan Wen walked over to the thief and carefully examined the tattoo on the back of his right hand—a small green dragon curled into a ball. He stood up, tore the drawing of the thief from his sketchbook, crumpled it, and stuffed it into his pocket. The thief was dead; the sketch was now useless.

Master Duji also approached, lowering his gaze to the corpse.

The scent of blood in the air gradually faded, leaving only the pervasive aroma of butter lamps that had lingered in Tashilhunpo Monastery for centuries. In the west, all things fade with time—only the sacred chants, prayer flags, butter lamps, and countless Buddha statues endure.

“Guan Wen, come to my room. I have questions for you.” Master Duji spoke in a near-whisper.

Guan Wen was startled and was about to turn his head when Master Duji immediately warned him, “Don’t turn around, don’t say a word. I’ll go first; follow me in a few minutes.”

The monk’s quarters lay south of the White Stupa. Guan Wen knew the place but had never entered without invitation. He didn’t understand why Master Duji insisted on making things so secretive, but as the monastery’s revered medical authority, his instructions could only be followed.

As soon as Master Duji left, Pauline approached, accompanied by a committee clerk named Ciren Gongmu.

“Keep watch while I search him. If there’s no white copper key, we’ll have to leave it at that,” said Ciren Gongmu.

Pauline bit her lip and insisted, “The key was in the satchel. If it’s not on him, his accomplice must have taken it.”

Ciren Gongmu mumbled, “Accomplice? What accomplice? You must be imagining things… This is Tashilhunpo, a place of pilgrimage. This was only an accident…”

Guan Wen tried to slip away, but Pauline caught him.

“This has nothing to do with me. I only saw him snatch your bag; I didn’t see any key,” he explained with a wry smile.

“Mr. Guan, I just heard from the committee that you’re an excellent artist, able to capture what’s in people’s minds. I have a favor to ask—could you draw some things for me? They’re in my mind…” Pauline spoke hurriedly.

Guan Wen wasn’t sure he deserved the title of “excellent artist,” but after over a year at Tashilhunpo, his technique had improved immensely. He could now imbue his subjects with a unique spirit.

“All right, we can arrange it tomorrow.” He could tell that, thanks to Master Duji’s wondrous treatment, most of Pauline’s pain had subsided and she could care for herself.

“But how will I find you?” Pauline asked.

He scribbled his address on a page from his sketchbook, tore it out, and handed it to her.

By now, Ciren Gongmu was already squatting beside the thief, searching his jacket pockets, drawing Pauline’s attention away.

Guan Wen seized the chance to slip away, heading south. His interactions with Master Duji had been few; he had no idea what urgent matter called for him, so his steps grew quicker, wishing he could leap straight to the monk’s quarters.

Tashilhunpo was built into the mountainside, its paths paved with local shale, uneven and treacherous. Several times, Guan Wen nearly tripped, arriving breathless and flushed.

Just past the White Stupa, a fierce chorus of dog barks erupted. At first, some twenty or thirty dogs barked together; soon, every dog nearby joined in, until hundreds howled at once. The noise surged like a tidal wave, swirling above the ancient monastery.

Guan Wen stopped, leaning against a wall, his heart anxious with a sense of foreboding.

Opposite him, the White Stupa loomed tall. In the dusk, it stood erect like a giant in white robes. Usually, passing the stupa, Guan Wen felt its sanctity, but now his mind was blank and his heart pounded. It seemed as if some unknown, fanged beast lurked in the shadows, ready to pounce at any moment.

The barking lasted at least five minutes before dying down.

Wiping sweat from his brow, Guan Wen continued toward the monk’s quarters.

He had not gone far when Basang Jiangcuo came hurrying from a side path.

“Guan Wen, where are you off to?” Basang Jiangcuo asked.

Caught off guard, Guan Wen blurted out, “Master Duji asked me over for a talk.”

He regretted it instantly—Master Duji had spoken so quietly, clearly not wanting others to know.

Fortunately, Basang Jiangcuo didn’t press the matter, just raised the scripture in his hand. “Perfect, I’m off to return this book to my master as well. Let’s go together.”

Guan Wen nodded, and the two walked side by side.

“That barking was something, wasn’t it?” Basang Jiangcuo asked.

Guan Wen nodded. “Yes, with so many released dogs outside the monastery, one starts and hundreds follow. Nothing we can do.”

Basang Jiangcuo laughed. “We’re men, of course we’re not afraid of dogs. But Miss Pauline is a different story. Girls are always fearful—she couldn’t even walk after a minor dislocation! Amusing, really.”

Guan Wen chuckled too, recalling how Pauline had pressed the committee for her white copper key. He had to admit she was a truly beautiful woman—even after injury and tears, her features remained exquisitely lovely. Clearly, she’d come to Tashilhunpo bare-faced, with no makeup at all.

Many girls came to the monastery as pilgrims or visitors, but few were as breathtaking as Pauline.

Thinking of her, he sighed twice unconsciously—the first in admiration, the second in melancholy. To him, no matter how beautiful, these girls were but fleeting glimpses, staying a day or two, a week at most, before vanishing from his life forever.

“What’s with the sighs?” Basang Jiangcuo asked.

Guan Wen shook his head. “Nothing, nothing, I just—”

Suddenly, an unusual scent drifted through the air, freezing him in his tracks.

Ahead lay the monk’s quarters; turning the corner would bring them to Master Duji’s room.

Basang Jiangcuo seemed to sense it too, sniffing the air.

“It’s blood—Basang, I smell blood!” Guan Wen exclaimed.

Basang Jiangcuo replied in confusion, “How could there be blood?”

Guan Wen stood for a few seconds, then suddenly dashed forward. Rounding the corner, he saw at once that Master Duji’s door stood half-open, an arm stretched across the threshold, fingers splayed as if grasping for something.

He stopped, held his breath, and walked forward as if in a dream.

Basang Jiangcuo reacted faster, rushing to the door, pushing it wide. He cried out, “Master, master, what’s happened?”

Guan Wen’s mind was a muddle as he finally reached the doorway, leaning on the frame to peer inside.

Master Duji lay face-down just inside, a large pool of blood beneath him, his left hand clutching his throat, his right arm outstretched. It was clear he was dead—the strange, futile posture spoke of his desperate struggle in his final moments.

Basang Jiangcuo called out several times, but Master Duji did not respond.

“You stay here. I’ll fetch help!” He backed out and sprinted south toward the Civil Administration Committee.

Guan Wen steadied himself and looked into the room.

Master Duji’s quarters were exceedingly simple: one bed, one table, one chair. In the corner stood a makeshift bookshelf of pine planks, two shelves filled with medical books. The desk was piled with more books, each lying open, held down by slate paperweights.

To Guan Wen’s knowledge, Master Duji rarely left the monastery, devoting himself to medicine, study, and meditation. He had no enemies. The sparse furnishings spoke of poverty, making a robbery unlikely.

“Terma… Terma…” Master Duji’s body twitched, breath coming in short gasps, murmuring indistinctly.

Guan Wen knelt, grasping Master Duji’s outstretched hand. “Master, it’s me, Guan Wen. What do you want to tell me? Don’t worry, Basang is fetching help—we’ll get you to a hospital!”

“Basang…” Master Duji’s voice grew weaker; the hand Guan Wen held grew cold.

Guan Wen called to him several times, but Master Duji was gone. He couldn’t help but feel sorrowful. Barely an hour ago, they’d spoken by the Maitreya Hall; now, they were separated by death. Such abrupt twists of fate are hard to accept.

The committee members soon arrived, all looking grim.

First the thief, now Master Duji—two bizarre murders in one night at Tashilhunpo left the committee at a loss. Both victims had identical wounds—a thumb-sized hole at the throat. The committee had encountered few such cases; there was nothing to reference.

Guan Wen recounted everything faithfully, from Master Duji’s whispered instructions at the Maitreya Hall to the strange barking on the way. Basang Jiangcuo’s account matched his, both men’s grief obvious.

Once the committee completed their records, Master Duji’s body was carried away.

As his disciple, Basang Jiangcuo personally tidied the desk. His movements were slow, heavy with grief. In fact, everyone in the monastery mourned Master Duji—a healer of great skill and kindness, beloved by all who had benefited from his hands.

“Guan Wen, you should go now. There are staff to handle Master’s affairs; it’s not your responsibility,” Basang Jiangcuo said.

Guan Wen hesitated, then asked, “Master Duji mentioned terma before he died. What is that? Do you know?”

Basang Jiangcuo shook his head. “I don’t know. Master never spoke of it. Are you sure you heard ‘terma’?”

Guan Wen nodded firmly. He’d lived at Tashilhunpo long enough to recognize the monks’ Tibetan pronunciations, and Master Duji had spoken slowly. He was confident he hadn’t misheard.

“Go on, then. If the committee needs anything, I’ll send them to your address,” Basang Jiangcuo said.

Guan Wen agreed quietly and left the monk’s quarters.