It was true; Zhang Lobsang was once the sole owner of scales in all of Ji village, which brought him high status at the time. But once the People's Commune was established, the first thing the leaders did was to build a big storehouse, which they equipped with two shiny new scales: one big, one small. From that day on, Zhang Lobsang's influence in the village began to wane, though he still made frequent reference to his precious scales as embellishment for his analogies. Of his many edicts, it was the one about Enbo's family that gained the most traction in the currents of village society; everyone agreed it was quite apt.
Enbo knew that any future return to the temple was already impossible, so he did his utmost to live out his days in good conscience. This plan was ripped to shreds by the fury he felt towards Gela on that fateful day; his own inner scales were all out of balance. What kind of behaviour was he modelling in treating a helpless little boy that way?
Eventually, someone noticed that Gela and his mother were missing; they realised that the pair hadn't been seen since that wild night when they confronted the spirits. Ji village, it goes without saying, was a drab place, and the lack of interesting events made it difficult to meaningfully mark the passing of time. This is why the spread of a new rumour had such a lightning-like effect; rumours had the power to electrify a dull existence or at least bring excitement to a monotonous day. Of course, this was all the more true when there was the disappearance of two people to talk about, which was not a rumour, but a fact. It took no more than half a day for word to pass from the lips of the first person in the village who vocalised it, to the ears of the last person in the village to hear. Enbo's inner scales plummeted out of all semblance of balance, and then kept plummeting, until they hit the bottom of his soul with an aching thud. His heart shook so hard from the impact he could feel the pain in his stomach.
The news wound through the village, circling particularly around those who were involved in the confrontation with the spirits. It passed from one chattering mouth to the next, and then back again, like a tornado that springs up suddenly on the plain. The tornado didn't stop when it reached those who were involved, but Enbo was fully aware that the village discussion was almost entirely aimed at him. At the same time, people were exchanging looks that became more and more knowing. There was a simple implication behind these looks: Enbo, big, strong man that he was, had terrorised and driven away a dirt-poor, helpless single mother and her pitiful son. He could no longer hold his head high in village society. He went alone to Gela and Sangdan's tiny home at the edge of the village square. As before, there was no lock on the door, only a stick jammed through the latch. He reached out a hand, but before he even touched the stick, it fell to the floor. The door squealed as it opened, like the noise a cat makes when it's stepped on, and revealed the deserted room inside. The ashes in the fireplace were a lifeless grey-white colour; no warmth remained. Enbo made little moaning noises all the way home. Only when feeble little Bunny was in his arms did the pain in his heart ease a little. He kissed his son, and then made a solemn pronouncement, directed at his wife:
"You should bake some flat-cakes. I'm going away, perhaps far away."
Bunny's great-uncle, the Lama, had something to say:
"You should go. Disciples of the Buddha must suffer for the sins of all living things. When the Buddha lived in our dusty realm, he personally suffered much on behalf of all living things."
Enbo spoke:
"The sins of all living things also include my sins."
Meanwhile, his wife was kneading dough with a resolute expression on her face. She heated up the griddle and began to bake flat-cakes, one piece at a time. Later, when she got into bed, her tears finally unstoppered, running clear and bright down her cheeks as she lay sobbing on her husband's chest. When the tears subsided, she got out of bed and went back to baking flat-cakes.
As first light broke the next morning, Enbo was already on the road, a long duffel bag of flat-cakes on his back. On the first day, he passed by three villages. On the second, he passed a grazing pasture high on the mountain side. On the third day, it was a logging area full of Han Chinese. At the start of the fifth day, he was almost in a different county—the border was a river, which naturally, had a bridge over it. But his way was blocked by several idle-looking men who were leaning against the bridge's balustrade. The first to speak was a man with a peaked cap pulled low over his face:
"Hey, you, stop where you are."
Enbo knew that the man's words were probably directed at him, since there was no one else on the bridge, but he couldn't see the man's face, so he couldn't be sure. He kept walking. Behind him, the young men who seemed so idle a second ago suddenly jumped to their feet, and before Enbo knew what was happening, they had his arms twisted behind his back. His duffel bag fell to the floor, spilling the flat-cakes noisily on the pine wood planks of the bridge. Startled, Enbo struggled free from the hands of his captors, and sprinted towards the other side of the bridge, his solid legs flying. He was stopped dead by a crisp, metallic click. Enbo knew that sound; it was the sound of a rifle bolt being pulled back. He made himself still and raised his hands over his head, like the enemy always did in the films. He heard snorts of laughter from the men behind him, which quickly blended with the noise of their footsteps and surrounded him. A fist landed heavily on his nose, and his large body crumpled to the floor.
His vision was crowded with faces jeering down at him, all of them asking the same question:
"Still feel like running?!"
He tried to say that he didn't want to run anymore, but his words were choked by blood that dripped from his nose into his throat.
