Chapter Twenty-Two: The Excavator of Relics at Norbulingka

The important figure led Guan Wen on foot out of the courtyard, heading north for a while before entering a dilapidated yard behind the Potala Palace. In the yard stood a single row of plain houses, the door half-closed, the rich fragrance of butter tea wafting out.

As they reached the door, it opened automatically. A Tibetan woman with waist-length hair, unbound, stepped out to greet them.

The important figure stopped and spoke respectfully, “We are here to—”

The woman smiled and nodded, “I know. The Venerable One is waiting for you inside.”

The important figure led Guan Wen inside. There was a wooden door on the right wall; passing through it, they entered a room filled with mani stones. Seated cross-legged atop a pile of these stones was an old man in grey monk’s robes. His hair and beard had grown wild and tangled, clearly untouched for a long time.

“Venerable One, I have brought a young man to pay his respects. He personally witnessed Master Cheng’s death and has obtained Master Cheng’s relic,” the important figure said reverently.

The old man lifted his head, his face a map of trembling wrinkles, his voice hoarse as he asked, “The relic? Let me see it.”

Guan Wen produced the object that resembled a river stone, stepped forward, and presented it with both hands.

A relic, originally, referred to the remains and pearl-like crystalline objects left after the cremation of the Buddha, Shakyamuni. In Sanskrit, it is called dhatu or sharira. In Chinese it is known as spiritual bone, body bone, or remains; it is the crystalline substance left behind after a practitioner’s cremation. Relics are completely different from ordinary bones; their forms are ever-changing—round, oval, lotus-shaped, or sometimes even resembling Buddhas or Bodhisattvas. Their colors are varied, some like pearls, agates, or crystals, some completely transparent, others dazzling as diamonds. Yet the one left by Master Cheng was blue-grey, smooth on the surface, and at a glance indistinguishable from a river stone shaped by countless years of water.

The old man’s hands were extremely thin, his grey skin loose and drooping, nearly separating from the bone.

“Very good, his merits are complete,” the old man said. “Death is the ultimate liberation. Once he is reborn, he will return to the path of the Demon Subduer, cycling endlessly. This is his fate, and the fate of the Cheng family—no one can change it, nor is there any need to.”

“Venerable One, the Witch has been resurrected. Fortunately, the soul barrier net blocked her, or disaster would have followed. Tell me, is there a way to destroy the Witch once and for all?” the important figure asked.

The old man fell silent for a moment, then sighed, “The Witch was never truly dead, so how could she be resurrected? The stories of her death are just rumors, embroidered with personal interpretations. Look through all the official histories of the region, and you will not find a single clear statement on this matter.”

“Then what is to be done?” the important figure pressed.

The old man picked up a mani stone at his side, took a small knife in his right hand, and began slowly carving a swastika into the stone, as if he had not heard the question at all.

The woman entered with two cups of butter tea, placing them on a nearby pile of mani stones. She did not leave immediately but instead gazed intently at Guan Wen, her eyes shining with an unusual light.

“Do you recognize him?” the old man asked.

The woman raised her hand, rubbed her eyes vigorously, then looked at Guan Wen again before shaking her head, looking faintly disappointed.

“Do not dwell on it. You may go,” the old man said.

The woman walked a few steps toward the door, then suddenly turned back and spoke a long string of Tibetan to Guan Wen, her tone urgent and full of confusion.

The important figure promptly translated for Guan Wen, “Do you remember the story at the foot of Mount Niseri? The glacier, the stone chamber, the battle? That event ended long ago, but those who experienced it are marked for life and cannot forget. We have waited so long—why have you only now appeared?”

Guan Wen was utterly bewildered, for he did not know this woman; it was their first meeting.

“Do you understand what she said?” the important figure asked.

Guan Wen forced a bitter smile and shook his head, “No. In my memory, there is nothing about a glacier, a stone chamber, or a battle. Besides, I don’t even understand her language—how could our pasts have ever crossed?”

Around the woman’s neck hung a Tibetan silver necklace with a heavy, heart-shaped turquoise pendant. As she spoke urgently, she kept gripping the pendant and displaying it to Guan Wen. Yet, in Guan Wen’s memory, there was no trace of this woman, and he could only shake his head apologetically.

“She spoke an ancient Tibetan dialect. As far as I know, it was only used in a very small area near Shigatse, Tashilhunpo Monastery, and Mount Niseri. Tracing its history, it dates back to the Qianlong reign of the Qing dynasty, around 1700 to 1800. After General Fuk’anggan of the Manchu nobility entered Tibet to repel the Gurkha invasion, most of that dialect was lost. I only came to know it when I met her here with the Venerable Chiyan,” the important figure explained softly to Guan Wen.

The woman, observing Guan Wen’s expression, understood the exchange between him and the important figure. She opened her mouth to speak again, but only managed a long, mournful sigh, her disappointment plain.

“Fenghe, you may go,” the old man instructed.

The woman let out a sorrowful sigh, released the turquoise pendant, bowed deeply to the old man, and withdrew.

“Venerable One, I have never been able to discern Fenghe’s origins. Please, enlighten me,” the important figure asked humbly.

The old man did not answer immediately. Instead, he placed the newly carved mani stone on a large pile to his left, then lifted his head and slowly opened his eyes wide.

Guan Wen saw that the whites of the old man’s eyes were laced with crimson veins, woven into a red web encasing his pupils, like a mysterious dragon pearl forged in fire.

“Fenghe is the name I gave her. Her mind holds countless mysterious memories, but they are in utter disarray, even she cannot make sense of them. Before entering this place, she was nothing but a peasant woman farming in the outskirts of Shigatse, completely illiterate except for the Arabic numerals zero through nine. I awakened the ‘memory treasury’ in her mind, allowing her to be reborn anew. Fenghe—Crane in the Wind—she is, to me, a white crane flying in from the sky, her origins unknown, her name unasked, her only value is in the memories she harbors. In each person’s spiritual journey, both ability and time are limited; only by focusing on the essential can great achievements be attained, adding to the glory and prosperity of Tibetan Buddhism, bringing blessings to all beings,” replied the Venerable Chiyan.

“You mean, the ‘memory treasury’ in her mind is of no use to us?” the important figure asked.

The Venerable Chiyan gazed up at the dark ceiling, pondering, “Of no use? Could that be so?”

The important figure continued, “At the very least, her ‘memory treasury’ is useless to us. It can neither relieve our burden of suppressing demons nor reveal any secrets that could help us. Her existence does not intersect with ours at all, am I right?”

The Venerable Chiyan asked again, “So, what is useless to us is useless, and what is useful to us is useful, is that it?”

The important figure nodded, “That is indeed how it is. The pressure on us is immense; we cannot seek help from others and must rely on ourselves. We simply have no energy for other matters. If the disorder in her mind disturbs your own thinking, I believe it might be best for her to leave.”

The Venerable Chiyan shook his head, “No, you are mistaken. True demon suppression is a difficult process. We need countless conditions and opportunities along the way. The truth is, we do not know which opportunities are useful and which are not; we can only probe our way forward. If water is too clear, there are no fish; if a man is too critical, he has no disciples. I hope you understand, all the secrets of Tibetan Buddhism and the mysteries of the plateau point to the same thing. As practitioners, if we cannot be all-embracing and draw from every school, how can we ever attain true enlightenment?”

The important figure fell silent; it was clear the Venerable’s words had not moved him.

“Enough. Now I wish to speak with the young man alone. You may go. I can see you are seriously wounded—go out, meditate, and recover your breath,” said the Venerable Chiyan.

Obediently, the important figure left and closed the door behind him.

“Sit,” said the Venerable Chiyan.

There were no benches in the room, only piles of mani stones. Guan Wen simply sat cross-legged on the floor, prepared to listen.

“I have always known the day would come when a practitioner would recognize the truth: that the Witch was never destroyed by Princess Wencheng, Songtsen Gampo, or Princess Chizun. That is the fact—no matter how much dust and earth buries it, as long as someone begins to dig for the truth, day by day, the facts will surface. Just as when I discovered the two ‘Demon Subduing Thangkas’ in Norbulingka—no, in fact, when I received the official commission to sort the relics at Norbulingka, I already sensed that a world-shaking discovery awaited me. Yet, unlike others who found gold, jewels, or antiques, I discovered a disaster that could topple the heavens. By the way, did you ever visit Norbulingka?”

Guan Wen nodded.

“Then let me tell you the story once again—”

The Venerable Chiyan was the most senior monk in Lhasa. When he was chosen to organize the relics at Norbulingka, he immediately felt a heavy weight on his shoulders, for he had always focused on his own spiritual cultivation, rarely taking part in such social affairs. That day, as two monks helped him out of his current courtyard, he used the fallen leaves at the gate for divination and was shocked to learn he would encounter a great calamity—his lifelong cultivation would be cut short, unable to continue.

Arriving at Norbulingka, he found over a dozen highly respected monks already at work. Intentionally avoiding the crowd, he slipped down a secluded corridor. He was always ashamed of this, for such avoidance was no different from desertion on the battlefield—a deep shame. But everyone has their own selfishness, and so did he. At the end of the corridor, he saw a large cabinet painted with ancient patterns. Almost as if compelled by fate, he twisted the brass latch and opened the double doors to find two thangka scrolls.

The mission Heaven had given could not be refused. Though he had intended to escape, he had instead, unknowingly, found the most valuable objects in the Norbulingka relics sorting: the ‘Demon Subduing Thangkas.’

From that day onwards, he began extensive research into the Witch depicted in the paintings, searching all the great monasteries in the region, traveling to India, Nepal, Sikkim, and Bhutan, poring over Sanskrit texts, and finally restoring the true history behind Songtsen Gampo’s embassy and marriage alliance with Tang China.

The truth converged on four questions: What happened in Tibet before Songtsen Gampo sent envoys east? What transpired in Chang’an, the Tang capital, at that time? Where is the authentic ‘Demon Subduing Thangka’ now? And after the subjugation, what effect did it have on the fate of Tibet and the Tang dynasty?