About 1700 B.C.E.

Dayita’s lids were closed lightly over her eyes like wilted butterfly wings. Her chest slowly moved up and down, a bellows barely able to keep the fire of her soul burning. The vulgar smell of desiccated vomit and diarrhea clung to the air like the omen of death.

The carefully crafted huts of mud and branches huddled together in the pre-Zhang Zhung Tibetan settlement. Leaves in the sparse foliage were beginning to dry before the coming chill. Clouds loomed over the surrounding mountains, ushering in the cold. The Shaman’s predicted that an especially harsh winter approached. The illness that struck has been a bad portent for the coming cold season.

The Shaman’s chants floated through the open side of my hu...

Please subscribe to keep reading.