Chapter Thirty-One: The Lover of White Bones, The Tragedy of the Severed Throat

The skeleton continued to struggle weakly, but his wrists, ankles, throat, and waist were all bound to the pillar with leather thongs.
Whose turn is it to make the cut? If you don’t, you lose! The three men joked and laughed.
This guy’s got a long breath—still hanging on at this point! someone laughed loudly.
From above came the shrill cries of vultures; the largest one swooped down, skimming over the top of the iron pillar.
Someone muttered, Hurry up, the eagles are waiting for the meat! If you don’t move, we’ll have to gut him straight away!
One of the men gently touched the skeleton’s abdomen with the tip of his knife. The organs, writhing slightly, recoiled in pain, setting off another round of laughter from the three tormentors.
Baoling was chilled to the bone; she realized that the skeleton was someone she knew.
She thought in agony: Even if I killed these executioners and rescued him, he would still surely die.
She stepped forward, forcing herself on: This is just a dream. No one can see me. Even if they do, when I wake up, it will all be over.
Because it’s a dream, she could see others, but they could not see her.
She stopped five paces from the skeleton, eyes wide, staring at the face of the bony figure.
The skeleton’s jawbone moved slightly; looking through the gaps in the bones, she saw his tongue quiver faintly.
Who are you? Baoling began to sob. Why are you suffering this calamity? Do I know you? Do I really know you?
She could smell the thick scent of blood in the air, hear the relentless flapping of vulture wings overhead, as if they might plunge down at any moment to snatch the skeleton’s skull. She had never seen anything so terrifying and bizarre; even the most nauseating horror films had never depicted anything so chilling.
The skeleton’s eyeballs shifted, the skull stretched forward with effort and turned to the right. Blood seeped from between the vertebrae as his neck moved, sliding down his chest.
Baoling understood, and looked to his right hand.
The hand, reduced to bare joints, moved; the five fingers pressed together and then slowly curled. In science fiction films, elaborate computer animation had tried to simulate the motions of high-precision mechanical hands, but no virtual image, however precise, could shake Baoling to the core as did the sight of this hand, stripped of flesh.
Her nerves were numb; she could only stare at the hand on instinct.
The flesh on the fingers was gone; when the five bones came together, bone touched bone, and the horror made Baoling’s hair stand on end.
The hand curled, uncurled, curled again, and uncurled—a gesture repeated twice.
Suddenly, Baoling understood. He was indeed someone she knew, someone she loved with all her heart and soul. That gesture was the one he used to wake her every morning. The same hand had once stroked her hair, had clasped hers as they watched the sunrise and sunset together, watched the clouds drift across the sky, the petals fall before the window, and the gentle rain beyond the corridor.
Ah—Baoling let out a terrible scream, pulling herself from the nightmare. Every time, she would rush to the bathroom to retch violently, then stare at her reflection in the mirror for a long time.
The dream would always break off abruptly the moment she realized the skeleton was her beloved. The pain was so intense it tore her thoughts apart, so that even her dreams could not carry on.

Earlier, I told you about a dream connected to war, and that dream is linked to this one. The skeleton... he is the prince who rode the white horse beside me. We journeyed together to Tibet, seeking the true Buddhist scriptures. But for some unknown reason, he ended up like this… Baoling said, still shaken.
Do you know those three executioners? Do you recognize the place where the nightmare happened? Guan Wen asked.
Baoling hesitated: I don’t know those men, but… but the place seems familiar to me. For years, I’ve returned to Tibet again and again, searching for that place. I think it’s somewhere on a sheer cliff, high above, where eagles gather in the sky—it must be connected to the Tibetan sky burial tradition.
Guan Wen’s mind turned quickly, and he picked up her thread: You found the same place in Shigatse, didn’t you?
Baoling sighed deeply: Perhaps so.
Where is it? Guan Wen pressed.
In a secluded valley behind Mount Niseri, about five kilometers from Tashilhunpo Monastery. It’s an ancient beheading cliff, long abandoned and desolate. Now there’s nothing but bare rock—no commoners, hardly any eagles, even snakes and rats avoid it. It’s just lifeless stone. Baoling sighed again and again, her tone full of complicated dread.
Over centuries, Tibet has changed greatly. Though the landscape remains, villages have merged or moved; old settlements are now deserted, what were once homes with curling smoke have become wastelands littered with broken walls. So even if Baoling found the place from her dream, it no longer had meaning.
Yes, it’s been so long. Who knows how long ago those things happened? Guan Wen said.
Exactly. I don’t know in what era my dream took place. In the tangled threads of time and space, who can say how many tragedies have unfolded at one spot? I found the place, but at the wrong time—how could I ever return to then? It’s an unsolvable equation. Perhaps I’m doomed to be trapped in nightmares for life, unable to rest peacefully at night. Can you imagine how painful that is? Baoling did not cry, but her voice was choked, more heart-wrenching than weeping.
If you want to cry, then cry, Guan Wen said.
Heh—Baoling gave a bleak laugh. I’ve cried so much there are no tears left. Besides, even in my dream I know clearly that the skeleton cannot be saved. Crying is useless; seeing him again is useless. What happened has happened—nothing remains but remembrance.
Guan Wen thought about Tashilhunpo Monastery and Mount Niseri, and roughly knew the ancient beheading cliff Baoling meant. He had once gone there himself, seeking inspiration for his paintings.
Should I accompany you there again—
Before he could finish, there was a bang as the door was kicked open. Firelight and lantern beams flooded in, and a flashlight beam shone directly in Guan Wen’s face.
At the same time, someone charged in angrily and punched Guan Wen in the stomach.
Guan Wen staggered and fell at Baoling’s feet.
What are you doing? What are you doing here? The angry shout came from Gao Xiang outside the door.
The one who knocked Guan Wen down was Old Dao, who rushed forward and planted his right foot on Guan Wen’s chest.
Let him go! Baoling screamed.
Touch my brother’s woman and I’ll kill you! Old Dao snarled viciously.
Let him go, Gao Xiang, let him go! Baoling rushed to the door.
Hey, Old Dao, don’t make trouble—let him go. Gao Xiang called out lazily, with feigned concern.

Old Dao ground his toe into Guan Wen’s chest a few more times before stepping back sullenly, spitting on the ground: I’ll let you off this time—next time, you won’t be so lucky!
Guan Wen endured the pain and climbed up.
The light from outside had shattered Baoling’s dream. Yet the dream was unfinished; Guan Wen wanted to hear the rest, to piece together every detail, and then use his imagination to fill in the gaps—then, perhaps, he could paint her nightmare in its entirety.
But that is how life often is: just when the mountain is almost climbed, failure comes at the last step. The images swirling in his mind were instantly scattered, turning into a boiling mess, impossible to order.
Gao Xiang, Mr. Guan is about to paint my dream—can’t you just leave us alone? Baoling shouted in anger.
Gao Xiang sneered: We have neither the time nor interest to interfere. The Master Vulture asked us to fetch Mr. Guan—there’s something important to discuss. Baoling, listen to me: This guy is a fraud; he uses his painting to seduce women, with ill intent. He lured you into this little dark room—who knows what he’s planning! Enough, enough. We’re guests here, and guests shouldn’t meddle in their host’s affairs. Just watch and stay out of trouble.
He had long arms and easily pushed Baoling behind him.
Mr. Gao, I truly am about to paint Baoling’s dream. Give us just a bit more time—an hour or two, that’s all I need. Trust me, I can do it. If you care for Baoling, let her go, entrust her to me! Guan Wen pleaded anxiously.
Entrust her to you? Gao Xiang stepped forward.
The light shone from behind him, casting his tall, broad figure in shadow, looming over Guan Wen like a vulture perched on a cliff.
Entrust her to you? You dare say that? Gao Xiang sneered, placing his hands on Guan Wen’s shoulders. Remember, she’s my friend—we have a deep bond. Don’t you dare have any ideas about her. Otherwise my brothers will tear you to pieces and feed you to the wolves on the steppe.
Guan Wen straightened under the weight, meeting Gao Xiang’s cold gaze.
Remember that, Painter Guan. Gao Xiang laughed, but it was for Baoling’s benefit.
No matter what, I have seen Baoling’s dream—just give me a little more time and I can help her paint those things that torment her. Mr. Gao, I swear I’m not lying. Since she’s your friend, help her—let her speak, and let me help her… Guan Wen could only speak softly; under another’s roof, he had no choice but to bow his head.
With a flick of his wrists, Gao Xiang shoved Guan Wen a few steps backward and shrugged, helpless. Of course I want to help Baoling. But now she’s mistakenly trusted a swindler like you, so I have to stop it. I said, leave her alone. There are so many pilgrims and tourists outside—trick whomever you like, just not Baoling. Otherwise, you’ll be in serious trouble—
Old Dao interjected: What’s the point in talking to him? The kid’s shifty-eyed—not a good man. If Miss Baoling hadn’t stopped me, I would’ve beaten him flat!
Gao Xiang stepped back and jerked his chin.
Old Dao understood, came over and grabbed Guan Wen’s wrist, dragging him outside: Master Vulture wants to see you—move it, kid.
Guan Wen was forced to go. As he passed Baoling, he shouted: Don’t panic! Stay focused! Find the logic hidden behind the images—
Indeed, merely seeing Baoling’s dream meant nothing. However strange, bizarre, bloody, or terrifying those dreams were, if the connections between them were not found, if the roots of Baoling’s subconscious were not uncovered, if the source of her nightmares remained hidden—then even if he painted them, she would only create new nightmares on top of the old, never finding true release.