This is what I can never have. I do not look away. I stand there all night and every night, watching these two dance each other toward ecstasy, the woman’s face contorted with pleasure, a song the universe buries deep inside every one of us—man, woman, animal, and plant.

  I am on the path to pledging my life to the enlightenment of every sentient being. And when I do, I must renounce the possibility of the sweetness of such music. Renounce the dark storms we carry inside us that break open from time to time. Renounce the hand-painted thangka depicting the gods with their female consorts straddling their manhoods, the union of wisdom and compassion.

  Under this tree in this garden, woman and man rock each other toward a point of whitest light. They are two animals. They are pure. I can see from the looks on their faces that there is not a thought in their minds. They are attaining what I seek to attain with every breath. Sheer being.

  May I never wake up!

  The Tsaatan

  From a ridge high up in the hills, Khövsgöl Nuur shimmers on the horizon like a blue mirror. Between the lake and the sky it’s hard to tell where one ends and the other begins. Because he is a tour guide, Mun can’t help himself as he launches into an explanation of the important facts about the area. Admittedly it is nice to learn about the landscape, to hear that at more than a hundred kilometers long, Khövsgöl Nuur is the largest freshwater lake in Mongolia and supplies most of the country’s drinking water—travelers can even drink from it directly without boiling it first. Mun says on the other side of the mountains is the Republic of Tuva, part of the Russian Federation. Before World War II, people come and go across the border easily, but after the war, many of the Tsaatan, also known as the Reindeer People, settle in Mongolia because they don’t want to lose their livestock to collectivization.

  Khövsgöl aimag is different from Khentii where Yatuu Gol is located and Chinggis Khaan is born. Khövsgöl contains clear mountain lakes surrounded by the endless rolling taiga, the hills lush and green though the landscape is slowly changing as tourists come to spend time by the lake. As we drive farther up into the boreal forest, down below we can see tiny ger dotting the shore, camps created for tourists who come to ride horses or visit the Tsaatan, some of whom still speak Tuvan.

  Consequently, we know exactly where we are going. Nestled among the lakeside camps is a Tsaatan family who comes down out of the forests during the tourist season with their animals to make money by charging tourists five thousand tögrög for the opportunity to take a picture. We stop and ask a teenaged boy dressed in traditional Tsaatan regalia where we might find the summer settlement of his clan. The boy explains that we must drive another hour up into the hills. He tells Mun what signs to look for in the landscape. A large reindeer lies at his feet, a handful of other reindeer scattered around on the ground in the shade. Some people believe that the Tsaatan should not summer by Khövsgöl Nuur with their reindeer, that the warmer temperatures here at the lower elevation are not healthy for the animals, and that there are too many tourists coming to this once-pristine place in order to see the Tsaatan, one of the last traditional cultures in the world.

  By the lakeshore the bleached skull of a horse sits atop a pole. The thing is strangely compelling. The way its empty eye sockets seem to follow you wherever you go. Mun offers the boy a few bills, but he declines. We pull away, but the skull’s eyes stay on us.

  Look to the World for Signs

  As we drive up into the hills, Uncle shares with us how the three candidates we are tasked with interviewing are discovered. The One for Whom the Sky Never Darkens dies almost eight years ago. As he lies on his deathbed in Dharamshala, the monks in all the Buddhist realms begin to look to the world for signs of where he might return. Anytime a tulku is dying, a monk is assigned to sit by Yamdrok Lake in Tibet, the lake said to be sacred and a place where visions often appear in its clear waters, the Himalayas visible in the distance.

  Sometimes when a reincarnation lies dying, he takes up a quill before he breathes his last breath and draws something of significance. It can be anything. One dying lama draws a V, which his fellow monks interpret as a bird. Sometimes the soon-to-be-departed writes a word or a number, sometimes an entire letter telling his friends where to find him and telling his reincarnated self who he is.

  Often those close to the dying lama begin to have significant dreams. They see themselves in strange landscapes where they move over the earth as an animal or as an element—water, fire, air, the ground itself. Sometimes after the tulku is cremated, clues are discovered among the ashes—pearls are most common. Following the ceremony, a general council is called and the evidence collected. Then one monk is charged with finding the reincarnation. This process can often take several years. Nothing is rushed. Most tulku are discovered between the ages of three to six. Mun is an unusual case. He is eight when someone arrives at our ger and changes our lives.

  In the case of the one we are searching for, it is Little Bat who has the most dreams. Little Bat is not a tulku, but as a child, the One for Whom the Sky Never Darkens is his guardian, so it is only right that Little Bat should be consulted along with Uncle, who many years ago as a young monk is the One for Whom the Sky Never Darkens’s heart’s disciple.

  Mongolia is a land of contrasts. The jagged mountains in the west, the endless desert in the south, the grasslands and steppe centered in the middle, the taiga and the snow forests in the north. It is unusual that there is no specific clue to help pinpoint a more exact location of the child for whom we search. Just last night Little Bat dreams of a figure wrapped in the cloak of the eternal blue. This could literally be anywhere. A figure with a heart so big it could manifest wherever it pleases.

  The Reindeer Is King

  This is my first time so far north. The differences are evident, the flies thick and fat as berries, the earth almost spongy, the taiga often swampy in summer. As we are more than two thousand meters above sea level, the air is cool. In the rest of Mongolia, sheep and horses are the primary livestock; throughout the countryside there are four horses for every person, the grasslands littered with both their droppings and their bones. Here on the high steppe, the reindeer is king. Some are staked; some lie on their knees. Fur hangs in tatters from their summer antlers where they rub their horns against trees. In the winter, they grow new velvet as well as thicker coats for warmth in the harsh sub-Siberian cold.

  Mun tells us that the Reindeer People are the smallest minority in Mongolia. He says some claim they are the descendants of the same people who cross the land bridge into North America thousands of years ago and give rise to the native peoples of those faraway continents. Much of their culture is similar. The shamanistic traditions. The ways they live off the land, taking only what they need. The houses made of animal skins stretched over wooden frames which the Reindeer People call ortz and which look like teepees. Their coloring, their cheekbones, their eyes, their beliefs. The way they weave feathers into their clothing. Their use of drums. Of fire.

  It seems odd to me that a tulku would reincarnate among these people of a different faith, but nowadays, with Tibet under occupation, young reincarnations are found as far away as a city called Denver in America.

  People are already standing outside as we roll down a ridge toward the settlement. The whole clan crowds in front of a large ortz. Mun whispers that there are less than forty families still living here in the traditional Tsaatan way. Many of the young people move to Ulaanbaatar, he says. I open my door and take a deep breath.

  We’ve been waiting, says an elderly woman who remains seated on the ground. Her head is wrapped with a sky-blue headband, a spray of dark feathers sprouting from it, her fingers bejeweled with bright stones, colorful ropes hanging from her clothing. In her lap sits a small boy.

  Mun tries to maintain our secrecy. We’re a little lost, he says, stepping forward. Several people laugh. The region is remote. There is no way one would accidentally end up here.

  Uncle steps in front of Mun. He speaks in a language I’m unfamiliar with. The sound of it like snow blowing in the trees.

  The old woman nods her head and responds in the same language. Uncle bows deeply. You may take the waters, the woman says in Mongolian. The child, who we learn is named Belek, gets up out of her lap. He takes Uncle’s hand and pulls him along.

  Even After the Creature Bites Him

  None of this is what I expect. I expect subtle encounters, a long evening of food and drink and storytelling, then Uncle pulling the child aside to ask a few questions, that we would never make directly known why we are here.

  Instead, it seems Belek is waiting for us. There is a slowness, a deliberative quality, to the way he negotiates the world. The child moves as if he is already old.

  How come they’re expecting us, says Mun.

  Uncle calls over his shoulder. They have their own traditions, he says. At his words, I imagine a shaman climbing a ladder of fire up into the night.

  All of us but Saran follow Uncle and Belek down a narrow path through a stand of birch trees to an ortz pitched over a spring. Belek shakes his head when Mun tries to enter. Mun shrugs and slips his earbuds in, heads back to the Machine. Inside Belek changes into a pair of shorts. I follow Little Bat’s lead as he removes his robes. Only Uncle remains clothed. There is a fire burning in a small brazier in the corner. Wooden planks are laid down so that the ortz is directly over the water.

  I am too busy staring at Little Bat to notice much else, the sturdy brown walking shoes he always wears abandoned outside the teepee, his shoulders and back rife with young bruises. I cannot take my eyes off him. Not because his body is a map of injuries, the bruises like continents. No. It takes me some time to understand why I am staring, what is wrong with this picture. Then it hits me. Each of his feet is a simple oval, a lily pad. He has no toes.

  Little Bat is the first in. When he slides off the plank, I am surprised that the water is up to his chest. Belek smiles. It’s deeper than it looks, he says. He turns to the brazier and grabs a ladle, scoops a spoonful of water onto the rocks, sending up clouds of hissing steam.

  Very good, says Uncle. All the best things are deeper than they look.

  Belek considers this. A fly lands on his shoulder. I watch it scuttle about. It’s triangular in shape, a biting fly, the kind that can draw blood and make a welt instantly appear. But the child doesn’t shoo it away. Even after the creature bites him, leaving an angry mark. Instead, he catches it in the palm of his hand. Slowly and with great gentleness, he transfers the biting insect to his other shoulder, offering his flesh a second time. My own skin starts to itch. I fight the urge to reach over and flick the creature off. Instead I watch as the thing bites him again before flying away.

  Do you recognize me, asks Uncle.

  The little boy looks him up and down but says nothing.

  Because I do not have the discipline of this child, I lower myself into the water as other flies begin to invade the tent. I am shocked by how cold the water is, but we are on the border with Siberia. The waters must be from the snowmelt only a few hundred kilometers away.

  Little Bat rises out of the spring and begins to dress. I also get out of the water. We leave the boy and Uncle alone in the tent. They spend another hour inside. Hundreds of years between them.

  Milk Is Like People

  Life here feels familiar. Though we are on the border with Siberia, the landscape reminds me of the coniferous forests of Khentii. Both these woods and the ones in Khentii vie for the title of the oldest forests in Mongolia. Here, the Russian taiga stretches to the northwest. On some of the peaks I can see a glittering, what I can only assume is snow. The way the hills gently rise and dip in every direction, and the way broad swatches of land exist between the hilly forests is typical of both the taiga and Khentii. Tonight I should sleep well.

  The Reindeer People spend their summers here at this higher elevation, letting their herds fatten for the long winter to come. More and more, their numbers are depleting as their young people head off to Ulaanbaatar. The natural beauty of the landscape is not enough to hold them.

  I watch as a woman with a baby strapped to her back milks a reindeer. The animal stands eating grass as the woman deftly works her hands underneath the mare’s belly. The rhythmic sound of the milk hitting the side of the pail is comforting. The woman sees me watching. When she’s done, she motions me over and holds out the half-filled pail. There are no reindeer in Khentii. There are no camels there either, though I once taste the milk of such an animal, the taste like sand and unbearable heat. I lift the pail to my lips and take a deep swallow. It is richer than mare’s milk. The taste somehow meatier. Somewhere in existence I know Övöö still likes to say that milk is like people—more similar than different.

  Around the camp people ride their animals without saddles. I see a few wooden seats lying outside of various ortz, which the people must use for longer journeys. To them the reindeer is a sacred animal. Mornings they lead their animals up into the hills where they eat lichen and mushrooms; nights they bring them back down into the settlements and stake them to keep them safe.

  A man is cutting the antlers of his animal. I imagine he uses the horn the same way the herders of the grasslands use the bones of horses to carve things like ceremonial knives or tiny flutes. The animal lies patiently on the ground, its front knees bent, its eyelashes long as a child’s smallest finger. Everywhere flies mass like storm clouds. I brush them off my shoulders but am careful not to injure their delicate bodies.

  Uncle and the candidate stay in the tent over the deep water until dinner. I wonder if it is a reunion of old friends. Perhaps our journey is over, I think. Mun looks at me and laughs. Get real, he says.

  Why not, I say. The child is an ancient light. He could be the one to become the face of our religion.

  I’m an old light too, Mun says. The world is full of old lights. He slaps a fly on his arm, then with his fingers he flicks its bloody body off his skin.

  The First Man Comes From Fire

  It is still light out when the fire is lit. Just before we sit down for dinner I watch a group of men pile wood up as if erecting an ortz. They pile so much wood, I wonder if, when lit, the fire might engulf us.

  And it almost does. Up close it is as if the whole world is on fire. The people sit and gaze reverently at it, the sound of the flames so loud one cannot converse with one’s neighbor without shouting.

  Dinner consists of meat and soup. I watch as Little Bat intones a mantra before he eats, his lips moving but no sound coming out. Reindeer milk is also served, much of it fermented. Uncle accepts half a cup but pours it on the ground in an act of offering. Several times Mun holds his cup up for more. He does the same now as a bottle of vodka is passed around.

  Fire and reindeer. The Tsaatan people believe that the first man comes from fire, that he jumps out of the flames when the world is still burning just after its birth. I sit next to Saran and watch the flames lick the sky. I am one of the mesmerized. I feel myself falling into a deep state of peacefulness. Quickly the heat becomes unbearable and I need to move away though I also feel the urge to remain where I am. Most of the Tsaatan stay seated as close to the fire as possible, just far enough away to avoid being kissed by an aberrant spark.

  Through the flames I hear a heavy drumming. A man steps out from behind the fire holding a hide stretched over a round frame. The man hits the drum with his bare hand. Over and over, the sound of it like the beating of a heart. The man stands in front of the fire. His headdress of dark feathers resplendent as any crown, his body robed in blue, scarves and woven ropes, ribbons trailing his form, another secondary face painted on a headband wrapped around his forehead. He moves with such agility I wonder what animal possesses him. Lightly he jumps over the edge of the flames. Though the middle is too high to crest, somehow he weaves himself in and out of the fire. I can only see his silhouette, a black figure surrounded by light. The man’s face is obscured by a fringe of ropes studded with beads that make a curtain in front of his face that swings back and forth as he dances. At one point, it appears as if he actually steps into the flames. I gasp. When he steps back out, smoke spires from his headdress. Two men approach and beat at the feathers with their bare fists as the man begins to convulse, his movements not in time with any rhythm on earth.

  The child sits in his mother’s lap on the edge of the flames. He closes his eyes. The shadows dance on his cheeks. I wonder if there are questions each person poses to the flames or if this is a demonstration of the power of their faith. The shaman stands up, lurches over the earth, the flames infinite, brushing the stars. When he removes his headdress, I see my mistake. It is the old woman who greets us earlier this afternoon. Her body smoking in the night.

  I Could Walk It With My Eyes Closed

  Sweat is dripping down my back. I look at Saran and see a bead run down the bridge of her nose. Mun sits fanning himself with the bottom of his shirt. A small dark stain is spreading on Uncle’s chest. We are all subject to the elements.

  Belek rises from his mother’s lap. In the firelight, the child’s eyes gleam. When he stands, a few people start to rise, but his mother makes a gesture with her hand and they sit back down. The child approaches Uncle. Yes, let’s walk, Uncle says. Belek leaves the clearing and turns down a path past the night pasture where the reindeer stand hobbled to the ground. Saran and Mun stay by the fire. Little Bat and I follow Uncle and the boy.