Author's Note: This story is a rewritten version of the Tibetan folktale, "The Man and the Ghost," and, as all folktales, is prone to different tellings and versions of the story. This was written based off of the version that can be found on ww /as ia/tft/ tft15.h t m and if you know a different version of the story and this one doesn't match that, that is probably why. The setting is ancient Tibet, and as such, certain terms must be clarified in case you don't know their definitions:
Lama: an honorific title applied to a spiritual leader in Tibetan Buddhism, whether a reincarnate lama (such as the Dalai Lama) or one who has earned the title in life, or a Tibetan or Mongolian Buddhist monk.
Fenugreek: a white-flowered herbaceous plant of the pea family, with aromatic seeds that are used for flavoring, especially ground and used in curry powder.
That's about it! Happy reading!
Tshering calmly walked through the narrow mountain pass, hopping over jagged rocks that threatened to cut his worn sandals and bypassing shaky portions of the cliff near the edge that was a whisper away from crashing into the bottom of the large chasm to his side. He kept one hand on the wall of the mountain beside him, and let his feet carry him down the road he had been down so many times before.
The air then started to slowly turn cold, prickling Tshering's skin and making the hair on the back of his neck stand up. The pass, normally so clear and simple, blew a slow fog into the path, and Tshering gripped the mountain wall beside him with white fists, making his feet step slower as the white soup grew thicker and thicker. An eery feeling wormed its way into the man's gut, but Tshering pressed onward, ignoring the feeling of eyes drilling into the back of his head and the fog gripping his ankles as he walked further down the narrow mountain pass.
A human-like shape could be seen in the distance, fog covering the wisp of a shape as it drifted over Tshering's field of vision. The figure then seemed to walk down the path, just like him, and Tshering's mouth grew dry as the eery feeling screamed inside him and the prickling feeling of an unnatural presence dug its way further its way into his skin. For a few deafening heartbeats, the figure walked towards him, covered by the fog, and then it was right in front of his eyes, moving to the right and preparing to pass him by. The thing was almost behind him when it whipped its head around and stared at Tshering, two dark holes in the fog where its eyes should be scanning Tshering, who was frozen in fear. It almost seemed to cock its head, before stopping and simply staring at the traveler.
The two stared at each other for a long while, fog soaking Tshering's tattered clothes and feet growing sore from standing in place as the sun slowly fell, one inch at a time. After a long, long while, Tshering tried moving, shifting his foot to the right and keeping its gaze with the creature, and upon finding no reaction, shifted his other foot as well. Soon enough the man had taken a step, and with still no reaction, he took another. The man was then walking back down the path, slowly, but surely, putting distance between him and the strange being, and breaking their shared gaze, though the creature had no reaction to anything the traveler did. Tshering rushed down the path, involuntarily taking a deep breath and releasing the one he had held while looking at the figure in the fog.
Now with the thing far behind him, he calmly looked beside him to see how close he was to the chasm when his eyes met the creatures dark pits once again. Tshering squeaked and stepped back, and the figure continued to watch him. Its form was a bit clearer now, and if one squinted they could see the shape of a face in the human-like piece of fog that followed him, along with a long braid and makeshift armor. The more Tshering hurried along the pass, the more it seemed to grow more human-like, until it looked like a human was walking beside him. As the pass grew even more narrow, Tshering's mind screamed in fear, but he said nothing as he contemplated the situation. Clearly, this thing was a ghost of some sort, he reasoned, trying to keep his mind off the pair of holes that tracked his every move. If it is a ghost, I should not try to anger it or show it how afraid I am, or else it might kill me, he concluded.
The pair walked down the pass until they met a river, and Tshering instinctively took his shoes off and prepared to go in. The ghost watched him almost curiously as he dove into the river and swam across, making huge splashes of water and loud noises as he pierced through the river and threw himself onto the other shore. Panting, he shook out his shoes that he had dragged with him, and sat down to catch his breath, when he caught the eye of the ghost on the other side. It looked down at the river like it was puzzled in some way, and stepped in, much the way Tshering had. However, instead of swimming and fighting against the current, it simply walked through the water, the roaring wave roaring through it unaffected. In a matter of seconds, it had reached the shore, where it sat down the way Tshering had sitten and looked down at its clothes like it was expecting them to grow wet.
Tshering sat there awkwardly, with the ghost looking even more confused when to his amazement, the ghost spoke.
"How is it that you make so much noise when you cross the water?" The ghost cocked its head at the traveler and waited for the shocked man to respond. It can talk, Tshering thought dizzily, before quickly coming up with a plan so that the ghost didn't try to kill him or god forbid, take his soul.
"Well, I am a ghost, and I have the right to make any noise I want to."
The ghost perked up at that, and Tshering could have sworn he saw a smile on the makeshift face. It leaned in a seemed to smile wider, studying the traveler, before saying, "Well, suppose we too became good friends. And, if I can help you I will, and if you can ever aid me, you will do so."
Tshering gaped at the ghost that waited for his answer, and looked down at the ground, not meeting the ghost's unnatural eyes, trying to think of a response to the proposal the ghost had laid in front of him. He raised his eyes once his mind had jumped to a conclusion, saying, "I s-suppose. I mean, I agree. With what you said. I agree with it."
The ghost almost seemed to raise an eyebrow in response, but shrugged like that was a good enough answer for it, and leaned back. The ghost studied him a while longer, and Tshering shot up from the ground and started walking once more, trying to avoid looking the unnatural being in the eyes and rushing down the now much more full trodden path. The ghost, predictably, followed him, walking beside him and continuing to stare at the traveler before looking at the ground as well, like it was trying to find what the man found so interesting.
Time dragged on by, and as the silence grew heavy, the ghost spoke once more, voice steady and almost human sounding, but still having some unnatural quality that Tshering couldn't pin down.
"What is it that you are most afraid of in this world?" The ghost looked at him again, waiting for his reply, and Tshering noticed that the ghost's previous clothes seemed to have changed to one of that of a normal peasant, and its hair had twisted to an even longer braid.
Inwardly quaking at the supernatural being in front of him, mouth dry and goosebumps prickling his arms, he said, "I am not afraid of anything I can see. Nothing, I mean. I'm not afraid of anything. At all." Tshering avoided the spirit's gaze, as if the being could tell with a flick of his eyes that he was lying, and that he was in fact, very, very afraid. However, a strange sort of curiosity took over him, and he found himself wondering what the ghost might be afraid of. What could such a supernatural and unharmable being have to fear? He raised his head to ask when his eyes caught the dark pits of the ghost's own makeshift eyes, and he looked down again. However, with another deep breath, he snapped his head over to the ghost and said hurriedly, "What are you afraid of?"
The ghost looked at him in a way one might consider confusion, before a glimmer of a smile could be seen on its faded lips and it looked towards the sky, feet gliding over the ground and rocks floating harmlessly through the being with no repercussions but a whisper of cold air. "Of nothing at all," it responded, "But the wind as it blows through the tall-headed barley fields."
If Tshering thought that was a strange fear, he wisely didn't mention it, and the duo continued walking on their way. The sun set further down the sky, and the stars peeked through the lowered curtains of their brother's soft rays to glimmer in their own splendor, passing the sun by as sky was painted a sharp yellow, to edges of orange, to soft reds, and finally, the whisper of lavender and lilac on the edges of the domed ceiling. The pair came to the city, and the ghost then spoke once more, voice somehow harsher under the veil of night.
"I am going to the town. Might you come with me?" It offered its pale hand that glowed in the soft moonlight, its previously formless limbs now exact and a mirror of a living creature. It was almost like, like a real person. Almost. There was still something off about its gait, something about its eyes of coal, something about the way it moved its face, like it was unaccustomed to such things and couldn't handle the weight of a well-timed blink or a gesture of the eyebrow.
Tshering looked down at the pale hand before him, before mimicking a smile and saying apologetically, "I'm sorry, but I'm tired after my journey, I don't think I would be good company."
The ghost nodded in understanding, lowering its hand and giving the weary traveler one last eerie smile before heading down the path that leads directly to the markets and homes of the town. Tshering immediately turned left and headed down the other path, the one that led to the edges of the city and the waving farms of grain, which he would assure contained barley.
He eventually found a barley field at the edge of the city, and he stomped over to the very middle of the plain and sat down, sighing in relief at finally being free of the ghost's presence and taking the time to have a late snack. It wasn't long before the man was passed out on the ground, using his arm as a pillow and holding his bag like his life depended on it.
The world greeted the sun once more after hours had flown by, and gold weaved around every house, rock, and leaf in the world as the ball of light rose again. The birds chirped the frogs awake, the frogs croaked the sheep awake, and the sheep woke up everyone. However, Tshering woke up in a different manner. He woke up to the sound of a strange, ethereal voice shouting for his attention. He groggily sat up, rubbing his eyes and yawning, his sleep-addled mind wondering why he was sleeping in a field of barley, only to shock himself awake at the sight of none other than the ghost, waving its pale and now fuzzier arms to grab his attention. It stayed on the very edge of the field, not daring to come closer, and it seemed like it was a bit sluggish, arms being weighted down by the piercing light that peeked over the horizon, and eyes squinting past the glare of fresh dew that clung to the barley leaves.
Tshering couldn't help but wave back to the creature, and then the ghost smiled, apparently happy it had caught the man's attention, before it called out to him, "Here is the soul of the king's son in this bag. I'll leave it here for a while and you can take care of it for me, as I have a little business elsewhere." Tshering's jaw dropped as the ghost placed the soul smoothly on the edges of the field and turned away, only looking back to give one final wave, before vanishing under the sunlight.
Tshering rushed over to the yak sack, kneeling down and gently picking it up, and felt a rush of power float over his hand, an entire life force churning in his mere limb and trying to flee the bag with a shudder, only to be held back by whatever magic the ghost must have put on it. Tshering stared in awe for a few minutes, before his mind caught onto an idea and he rushed back over to the middle of the field, grabbing his satchel and looking through its contents, before finding a few coins left from his previous journey. The traveler smiled gratefully, picked up his things, and headed to the city. While he was there, lightly avoiding huge carts hauled by monstrous horses and the piles of garbage that reeked with the smell of age, he stopped by a holy shrine, filled with monks and worshippers alike. He asked a monk for some robes, and after a few coins were exchanged, he was given some robes and the garb of a lama, no questions asked. While he was walking down the street, begging others for money and wishing blessing unto the few that popped a few coins into his hat, he heard of the dying prince, about how he was so ill and all thought he would die the next day. After one such discussion, he looked guiltily down at the churning sack beside him, which seemed to scream for release and had been tugging at the edges of Tshering's mind all morning, and resolved to go to the palace at the end of the day. Just after the next few people to hand him money, and then he'll go.
As the sun set once more, letting the stars come out again and wishing the moon goodnight, the disguised man walked over to the palace to beg, sitting by the gates and bringing blessings on any that spared a coin or two. A servant came out, saw the holy garb, and bolted back inside. Soon enough, another servant did the same. Before Tshering could blink in shock there were ten servants in front of him, and a clean, well-dressed man stepped past them. He stared at Tshering for a while, at his monk garb and his prayer wheel, at his humble face and the blessing he had tried giving his last good samaritan dying on his lips.
Finally, the royally dressed man said, "You are a holy man, correct?"
Tshering nodded, shoving the sack behind him, and stomping down the feeling of guilt that arose from lying for extra scraps, and feeling the tiniest bit itchy underneath the monk's clothes.
"The prince is ill. We have tried everything to cure him," the man said, brown eyes flashing in regret and another emotion Tshering couldn't identify. "You are a very holy man, perhaps you can do something to help the king's son get well."
Tshering's mouth grew dry, and the prince's soul struggled violently behind him. The short man waited for his response, royal servants fluttering at his side, and the idea that had popped into his head when he first saw the soul thrashing in a sack before him came back in full force.
Tshering nodded, saying, "Let me see the king, and I will try to heal the boy." The well-dressed man smiled in relief and nodded, telling the servants to pick up his stuff before Tshering jerked the sack and the praying wheel close to him and made it clear that he would carry his own stuff, thank you very much.
The "lama" was led to the palace, and the man felt the world slip by as the golden walls gleamed over his shabby robes and the scent of fenugreek drifted through the air. Red and amber were composed and brought strange beasts to life on the columns, and millions of tiny curves on the decor and the ivory floor glistened in the pure light radiating from the window. This palace held more wealth in the dustiest corner than he had ever seen in his entire life.
The servants that trailed behind him and in front of the traveler stopped dead, shocking Tshering out of his daze and bringing his attention to another well-dressed man in front of him. He sat in a golden chair that mirrored the designs on the walls, and boasted long, raven hair that draped over his shoulders, contrasting his pale white face. The king glowered down at the traveler, and Tshering felt the itch under the monk's robes grow under the handsome man's gaze.
"Chamberlain, why have you brought this man to me?" the king asked, piercing eyes shifting over to the rigid man that had brought him here and releasing Tshering from his hold. "What is the meaning of this, Kiku?"
"Your majesty, he is a holy man. He has offered to try to heal your son," the Chamberlain explained, gesturing to the robes and the prayer wheel. "You asked me to bring you a healer, and I have."
"I asked you to bring me a doctor, not a penniless monk!"
"In all fairness, your majesty, he's a lama."
"Why do I trust you to do anything," he sighed, putting his face in his hands. It was only then that Tshering noticed the dark rings around the king's eyes, the hands shaking in a slight tremor, the sullen cheeks and lean frame, and the sloped shoulders that shrunk the king from a strong king to a worried father just for a moment. Then that moment was over, and the king sat up straight again, ready to rule. Yet a glimmer of desperation remained in his eyes, and he looked the traveler up and down, before a shred of hope worm their way through the stone walls the king had put on, and he motioned the man closer.
"You can heal my son?" he said, voice cracking the smallest bit before turning back authoritarian again.
"I can try, your majesty," he replied, bowing down as deep as he could, as to not look the man in his bloodshot eyes or reveal the soul the churned in the sack in his robes.
"If you can heal my son, I'll give you half of all I have, lands, gold, cattle, and everything." Tshering looked at the king in surprise, eyebrows jumping and mouth dropping before he snapped it shut. Again, the idea that had popped into his head the moment he saw the prince's soul came back in full force. Here it was. A chance to have everything. A chance to not be a poor traveler who wandered the mountains, a beggar on the side of the road, a dead body thrown into a ditch with no one to wish him goodbye. And it was right in front of him.
"I will, your majesty." He bowed down, and moments after a flash of relief sparked in the king's eyes, he was led away to another elegant room, draped in silk and gold. Shrines and charms of all kinds were littered on the floor of the chamber, and the tangy smell of medical herbs and incense drifted through the air. Servants were huddled around a bed in the corner, and the guards pushed Tshering in that direction before storming out of the room.
Peeking over the servants, Tshering caught sight of the prince, who was lying deathly still on the silk covers, sullen cheeks and clamp face unmoving as the boy seemed to inch even closer to death. No wonder the king was so worried, Tshering speculated, and shoved the yak sak deeper into his robes to hide the seething being inside.
"The prince has been ill since last night," a female servant explained while another servant motioned everyone out. "He hasn't been responding to any treatment, medical or mystical. It's like his body just decided to die." The other servants still remaining in the room nodded grimly, and the long braided haired servant beside him pushed him closer to the dying prince. "Please save him, your holiness!"
The short girl slipped out of the room, and all of sudden the traveler was alone with the slack limbed prince in the corner. Tshering stepped closer to see what the ghost had done, and the of shallow breathing boy in front of him that almost flinched as Tshering hovered over him, before he plopped down on the floor beside the bed and took out the yak sack. There was only one way to heal the boy, as the scraps of herbs and the littered charms around him made clear. He crossed his legs, like how all Buddhists sit, took a deep breath. He quickly made a tiny idol made of the tsamba he always carried around (hopefully that would counteract whatever magic the ghost put on it), thrusted the makeshift shape into the sack, and closed his eyes shut, waiting for the soul to escape.
Immediately the room crackled with magic as the sound of a broken seal bursted through the air, and a fog floated out of the bag and circled around the room, before hovering over the long-haired prince in the corner. Tshering held his breath and the room held the soul still for the smallest of moments, and the magic around him smashed into his mind and filled it with the foreign memories of a crying boy and a long-haired father, reaching out to take him in. Tshering held only one of these memories for that glimmer of a second, and the voice of the king saying, "Jia Long, come back inside, you'll get a cold," rang over and over in his head before the air snapped again and magic was suddenly drained from the room. Tshering gasped for air, mind abruptly clear and empty after the rush of memories, sights, and sounds that he had never felt yet knew like the back of his hand ripped from him and shoved back into its owner.
Tshering's mind was still numb as he sat there on the floor, looking down at the empty, completely normal looking sack, and then back up and the prince, who was now gasping for air and almost making a resemblance of a coherent word. The traveler quickly came back to his senses and tied the bag into nine knots, twisting them as tight as he could, and started to mumble as many charms, prayers, and spells that he could think of, in case the servants came in and found him idle. Soon enough, as soon as the second prayer left his lips, the young girl from before popped her head in and gasped at the sight of the waking prince and the bent over "monk," before dashing out to tell all that she saw that the prince had been healed!
Word eventually reached the king, and after several questions and pleas to tell the truth, he ran to the room where his son continued to live, embracing him and almost sobbing over the disgruntled boy. The prince weakly protested his father's tight tests of life and incoherent ramblings of questions and confessed worries, but the king was not to be put aside and hovered over the boy, refusing to leave him for even a moment.
He finally looked over at the monk, the man who had saved his son from certain death, and repeated his promise, swearing that he would receive half of all his wealth, cattle, everything. What was that worth now that his son was back in his arms?
The man received the wealth, or so the story goes, and lived happily for the rest of his days. The king lived to be old, and the prince did as well. However, as the story goes, the ghost never came back to get or claim the sack from the traveler, or came back at all.
The man would always feel curious about this, thinking over the puzzle of the sack as he stared over the horizon or looked towards the mountains or the river where he saw that ghost once before, but after much thought, he concluded with a shrug, perhaps that is the customary etiquette between a man and a ghost.