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The cool breeze rustled through the tall grass, stranding him in an ocean of thin, swaying blades. There were no warm breezes this high on the Tibetan plateau, the wind always seemed to originate from the Himalayan range on the horizon. His eyes feasted on the idyllic postcard backdrop. He was alone, or at least he thought he was alone, admiring one of nature's gifts prepared just for him. He had dressed warmly for the climate, but that midmorning breeze still chilled him to the bone. He did not think much of it then, but he would remember it all too clearly later. Even in a relaxed setting, some inner survival mechanism never sleeps. The instinct that tells you someone is watching, or that makes you decide to shoulder check before switching into the same freeway lane you drive in every day. That morning, the survival instinct inside his body chilled him despite the warm clothing. He ignored the instinct this time, for nothing happened in postcard settings, after all.

He clapped his hands together to beat off the chill, stood up, and headed back for his campsite. A one-night stand in a lean-to might not have qualified as a campsite, but it was his home for the day nonetheless. Logically he knew that camping out there alone was dangerously foolish. No white man could wander off into the Tibetan landscape unescorted. He supposed that he might find himself pleading with a Chinese prison guard ...

He left his guide, Mr. Yu, behind three days ago. Fortunately for him, Chinese guides are just as human as anyone else. A few days out of Lhasa, and they were in total isolation. An offer to double his wages if he let John go on alone broke any resistance Mr. Yu might have had to the idea. The guide knew that there was virtually no chance of his crime ever being discovered in this no man's land. He could double his wages and avoid a week of marching through the wilderness. Who could resist? Yu danced the amusing dance of indignation at being bribed before he accepted. Yu then gave careful instruction of directions to avoid because of villages or monasteries. They agreed to meet in twelve days, and then Yu would escort John back to Lhasa.

With a last lingering look at the Tsangpo river, John headed back towards the campsite. Perhaps ten minutes passed before he froze mid-step. He had not been aware of his surroundings, as one is apt to be when thinking of past events. He turned to his right, where he had seen a blur of a movement out of the far corner of his eye. The world in one's peripheral vision always seemed to consist of blurs. He stared for several seconds, which felt more like several minutes. He absently reached for his camping knife, knowing it offered laughable protection against the thieves that were rumored to roam in the countryside. Coincidentally he stared at the same postcard image as before, only this time instinct did not have to chill his body for him to feel the danger. No, his instinct knew to leave things well alone when the people upstairs in his brain were aware of potential danger.

He saw no further movement, and wondered if it could have been his imagination. Was that not always the most comforting thought? Yes, the peripheral vision was faulty, always blurry, and sometimes imagined things. But he knew he had not imagined anything, which left three possibilities. Either the sunlight reflected on the water, or an animal darted in the grass, or he was not alone. Logically, if he had company, it was to his advantage to find out now instead of at the campsite in the middle of the night with a knife against his throat. Or worse, perhaps with a knife through his throat, and the life running out of him.

Grudgingly, he began to advance towards the approximate location of the blur. David, armed with a pocketknife this time, faced Goliath. He might have smiled at the analogy if he had not been sweating with fear.

"Hello? Who's there?"

Never mind that if anyone could hear, they probably did not know a word of English. He could not stand the thought of people jumping at him unseen until the last moment, he much preferred trying to get them to come out now. At least then he would know in which direction to run away. No movement, no response. Slowly, he continued his careful advance. He was within ten yards of the shore now, with little room left for a would-be assailant to hide. The wind continued to rustle through the grass, whispering a hushed warning for him. The swaying grass moved all around him, giving him the urge to drop the knife and run like a madman. Five yards. With a primal scream he rushed the last distance to the shore, knife held out in front of him like a spear.

The river lapped at John's feet as he struggled to regain his balance after nearly running straight into the water. He rapidly swung around to face the attacker he knew had to now be behind him. The grass continued to sway from side to side, like the arms of the biggest cheer leading squad in history. Were they mocking him or cheering for his panic induced bravery? No hordes of Chinese thieves came down on him. He made his way perhaps twenty yards along the shore, looking for footprints or any other sign of a presence. Finally he began to feel foolish walking alone in a desolate area with a pocketknife tightly clutched in his fist.

The sweat had dried off his forehead by the time he arrived at his campsite. He still felt unnerved by his experience, but he began to accept that he would not be receiving any uninvited guests that evening. Being alone could often cause paranoia.

He sat down for his evening meal of dried meat and dried fruit. No wood could be found for a fire in the area. Even if he had carried his own wood, only a fool would start a fire in this tinderbox of grasslands. Although he expected nightmares of Chinese thieves descending upon him, he slept the dreamless sleep of the exhausted that night.

There are mornings where you wake up from a peaceful sleep and stretch out lazily. The next morning John's instinct kicked him in the head, making his eyes snap open. For no good reason he gave up the warmth of his sleeping bag and quickly stood up in panic. The Tsangpo river sparkled under the brilliant morning sun. When his eyes adjusted to the shimmering light, he saw the monk-like figure by the shore. He didn't think he made any noise, yet the figure turned towards him as soon as he stood. Then he saw her eyes.

How long did they stare at each other? One second? Ten seconds? Five minutes? John had no idea. His brain registered that her eyes were the only feature that distinguished her from a man at this distance. Her age was impossible to determine, she could be twenty or fifty. The absence of hair, the dirty, loose-flowing robe that had once been white, sufficiently masked both her age and her sex. The eyes though, they told everything. Her large brown eyes spoke to him of the beauty that once was. "Look here" they said, "don't look at the rest." They also told him that they had seen a lot, more than a woman or man should have to see in a lifetime. They looked tired, alert, and frightened all at the same time. They also had a very calculating look, as if experienced in evaluating critical situations.

If it were not for those eyes he might have noticed earlier that she carried his backpack. She obviously had the same survival instinct that he possessed, which was probably what had alerted her to the fact he stood up in the first place. She hunched down and bolted to her right, seeming to disappear in the tall grass. John wasted another ten or fifteen seconds looking for his boots before realizing she must have taken them too.

He sprinted in the general direction where she was headed, on his bare, tender, city feet. He quickly lost site of her among the weaving grass, but she left a clear, trampled path in her wake. Head down he followed as fast as he could without losing the path that pointed in her direction like an arrow. The tough, sharp blades of grass began to cut at his aching feet. Ignoring the growing pain, he resolutely maintained his direction along the path. Then it ended. Damn, how could her path suddenly end? He stood up and tried to peer into the areas of grass around him, perhaps she had leapt just a few feet to cause a break in the path. He trampled around for a few precious moments before realizing that she might have backtracked. Between his bare feet and his need to follow her path, he must have been going slower than her. Perhaps she used the extra distance to buy some time to confuse the trail. For the first time he wished he had added hunting and tracking to his list of regular outdoor activities.

As he returned along the path at a slow, steady jog, this time he held his head high looking for new paths along the side of the main path. No sooner had he begun the search that he saw it, perhaps five yards from the end of the path. She indeed had run back along the path, and then jumped a few feet off to the side and continued her escape. What a smart, brave woman. The short distance between the end of the path and this new path encouraged him. She must not have been too far ahead of him or she would have backtracked further down her original path. But she had indeed bought herself precious seconds with her trick.

With one look at his bleeding feet, his will to catch her redoubled. Her new path seemed to go in a fairly straight line. If he tried carefully following her path, she would outdistance him. Time was on her side, he could not go much longer on his lacerated feet. Gambling, he sprinted headlong in the straight line of the path. He knew he would miss any more tricks she might have planned, and he would lose even more time if she suddenly made a sharp turn.

After a few breathless minutes of running at full gait John caught a glimpse of her ahead. She tried to run low, but he was near enough to see her bobbing head and she made her way through the grass. As he neared, she turned back once and opened her eyes wide with fear and surprise. He could ignore the pain in his feet, but she could not ignore the weight of his backpack.

With his lungs bursting for air John sped up to shorten the distance between them. His heart thundered in protest, and his stomach began to cramp. But the distance did close between them. When he was almost close enough to tackle her, she turned once more. Her eyes had changed, they were no longer afraid or surprised. In fact they seemed nothing at all, perhaps resigned, perhaps dead. Whoever said that the eyes were the windows to your soul must have seen a woman like this.

Before he could launch his final grab at her, she just collapsed on the ground. Without time for him to stop, he ran right over her, tripping on her body and tumbling forward. Dazed, he stood up as quickly as his shaky legs allowed. He felt sure that she had tricked him again and was well on her way once more. But as he turned around, John was stunned to see her lying motionless at his feet.

She had curled herself up into a ball, and trembled like a frightened rabbit. Up close he could see many more details of his thief. Her skin was a dark tanned brown, with the slightly wrinkled look of too much sun exposure. Her legs were bent at the knee, and were far too skinny to be considered attractive. Her emaciated arms protectively covered her head and neck. With a shock it dawned on him that she had the position of a person trying to avoid serious injury in an imminent beating. What had this woman been through?

His interest in the stolen boots all but disappeared as he slowly knelt beside her. When he gently laid his hand on her shoulder she shuddered.

"It's OK, I won't hurt you. Do you speak English?"

This time she cautiously raised her head and looked at him. His sweat-drenched face must not have conveyed the sorrow he felt for her, but he was certain that she saw no signs of anger and revenge. Perhaps he sent her the wrong message when he gently stroked her arm and shoulder again, because the fear, mixed with fury this time, entered her eyes once more. Oh, she was quick this one, John did not even see the rock in her hand until it was inches from his temple.

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The early morning sun had nearly completed drying the dew off his clothes when he awoke. He tried to find some part of his body that did not ache, but failed. His face stung with what must have been a dreadful sunburn. He had begun his little adventure mid-morning on the previous day. That meant he had lain beneath the sun all afternoon, at a considerably high altitude. He had no doubt that his face would peel. The throbbing in his head seemed to take attention away from his feet, which felt like they were slowly roasting over hot coals. As he sat up to examine his feet, the increased pain in his head almost made him vomit. Determined not to lie back down, he sat there trying to figure out if he was going to die, throw up, or just remain in this hell of pain.

John's gaze turned absently to his feet. What must have been a dense criss-cross of small cuts managed to merge themselves together to form one large, raw wound on each foot. The underside of the feet thankfully did not seem as bad as the tops. The skin was not only tougher, but the tops of the feet had been the ones whipping through the tall grass as he ran.

His hand gingerly touched the rock's point of impact on his temple. A blinding flash of pain rewarded his effort, along with some caked blood on his fingers. He would have to wash the wound soon, or risk infection. The local hospital would certainly sew in some stitches if he were home. Somehow clean, white hospital sheets sounded so comforting at the moment. John felt lucky that the thief looked half starved, otherwise he might never have woken up.

The hunger pains in his stomach finally got his attention after thinking of the half starved rock lady. He had to go back to his campsite to eat, if she had left him any food. Most of his supplies were gone with the backpack, but he did have some food laid out in a separate bag for yesterday's meals. Hopefully she had been nervous and rushed enough when she stole the backpack to overlook the food bag. His worries intensified when he remembered that she had not been rushed enough to overlook his boots.

Ignoring the pain in his head that increased with every movement, he took off his shirt. With the help of his teeth John tore it in half, and began to protectively wrap his feet. The pain was intense, and some of the deeper wounds re-opened, staining his shirt with fresh blood. How long he sat there after bandaging his feet, John could not tell. He knew that the thought of standing, much less walking, frightened and discouraged him.

With a grunt of pain he stood, somewhat wobbly at first. For a moment it was not clear if his legs would hold him or if they would drop him back down on his bottom.

"One step at a time," he murmured to himself, as he began his old-man shuffle back down the path. Despite the discomfort he managed a smile when he thought of his assailant. She did not quite fit the image he had of the roving bands of Chinese thieves in these areas.

John wondered what his ex-wife would think of his situation at the moment. She had always resented the way he selfishly clung to his youth, while putting her in second place. He had vehemently denied her accusations back then. But over time, as women entered and left his life, he began to understand what she had meant those many years ago. She would probably laugh if she saw him now. Not out of malice, but more because of how predictable his lifestyle had become. Some of her resentment came from being left alone too often, but some of it came from watching him take unnecessary risks. Eighteen months later, she changed the locks on their door while he was gone on a canoe trip.

An hour went by as he slowly worked his way through the path. Yesterday's chase could not have lasted more than thirty minutes. With his current walking speed, he did not know if he had another hour to his campsite or another day. Gradually his feet grew numb to the pain, and the throbbing in his head seemed to subside. John's thoughts were empty, he simply followed the trail and tried to ignore his various aches and pain. He lost track of time, and enjoyed the unexpected surprise of stumbling into his campsite without warning. The joy did not last long.

She cleaned me out, he thought. The lean-to over his head, the bedroll under him, and a few cooking utensils were all she left behind. Even his spare shirt had vanished with the missing backpack. His water gourd, boots, knife, and food bag: all gone. His water supply would not run out because of the potable river water. Food would be a problem. He could head back to his guide, but that meant traveling away from the river. He might last three days without food, but not without water.

The thought of water awakened the latest lament of his body, his mouth felt full of sand it was so dry. John struggled with the idea of walking to the river for a drink and a bath, versus the bliss of curling up under the shade of his lean-to. His feet made the decision, as he collapsed to his knees and rolled himself under the lean-to. Sleep came to him without a struggle.

He did not know how long he had walked, or how long he slept. The stars shone on him when he awoke. Thirst had taken first place in his list of problems. He needed to go to the river urgently, but dared not try to get there in the dark. In his present state of mind he could so easily become disoriented and wander off in the wrong direction. He felt feverish, and for the first time began to fear for his life. Until now John had known he would find his way out of this predicament with some discomfort, and perhaps a bruised ego. But as he lay under the Tibetan night sky, shivering in the cold, sweating with a combination of shock and fever, he realized he might not get out alive. He drifted back into a fitful sleep, filled with dreams of angry, mocking eyes.

The pre-dawn gray sky brought no soothing warmth when John awoke the next morning. His arms and legs were stiff with cold as he clumsily made his way out of the lean-to. The first order of business was to get to the river, there was no debate this time. The throbbing in his head had diminished to a dull, but persistent, headache. His feet still hurt tremendously, but he thought they screamed a little less loudly than the day before.

By the time he knelt on the shore, the sun had risen and his limbs had loosened up. John drank slowly, remembering that filling up such an empty stomach would probably cause violent retching. When he dunked his head into the cold river, feeling a sharp sting on his wounded temple, all thoughts of death left him. The coolness eased the pain of his burned face, and made him smile with contentment. Next came off the rags, to let the cool water work its magic on his abused feet. After the initial shock and sting subsided, the cold water indeed numbed his feet. After a moment he gently washed most of the blood off them, and observed the interesting roadwork of cuts. Fortunately most cuts were quite shallow, and closing up nicely.

The cold water did not allow John to completely immerse himself. He contented himself with lying back on the shore to let his feet dry. His refreshed mind began to analyze the situation, so that he could begin to find a way out of this mess. His day and a half without water convinced him that he had to stay near the river. Tibet was an isolated area, but if there were any settlements nearby, they would also logically be near the river.

He decided to head west along the Tsangpo, towards the distant mountains. From his dim recollection of a few Tibet maps, there were cities east of Lhasa along the river. Whether they were a day's march or a week's march away made no difference to him. Heading west he knew there were cities, heading east he knew nothing. The west at least held some hope, no matter how small.

His mind made up, John started back to the campsite. He shoved the fork and spoon into his pocket, thinking he may have a use for them later. The bedroll he decided to bring to keep warm at night. He debated whether or not to carry the lean-to. It would be very awkward to carry without a backpack to attach it to, especially in his weakened state. However it would provide shelter from wind, sun, and rain. In the end he decided he would not be able to carry it very far before being forced to abandon it in exhaustion. The rest of the cooking gear he also left behind. Without food, the cooking gear had little value. Armed with his fork, spoon, and bedroll, John began his western journey along the southern shore of the Tsangpo river.

With frequent stops to rest, he managed to walk most of that day. As the sun began to set, hunger induced dizzy spells forced him to stop for the night. He removed the bandages from his feet and washed them again. Only the wounds along the creases of the feet remained opened. Each step he took prevented these from closing up. Despite the headache that continued to assault him, and despite the ever-increasing hunger pains, he curled up in his bedroll and was fast asleep.

The next morning found John in the worst condition yet. The hunger was incapacitating, he had been without food for almost seventy-two hours. The pounding in his head also increased its tempo, and seemed to inflate his head with each beat. He became certain that the pressure would explode his brain matter all over the shore at any moment. John put his hand to his temple, and gasped with shock when it felt wet and sticky. With a sinking feeling, he thought he was bleeding again. With horror he looked at his hand and saw it covered with a yellow-green slime. No, he was not bleeding, but infection had set into his skull.

In a panic he crawled to the water and began washing his head. The cool water revived him somewhat and he managed to bandage his feet and get up once more. He did not march west, he stumbled and shuffled west. John lost all track of time, his mind was a numb blank as he made his way along the shore. When he collapsed for the final time, the sun still hung high in the sky. He could not be sure if he walked until late morning or early afternoon. He did not partake in his ritual of washing his feet. John just lay there, feverish and in pain, until he fell asleep moments later.

He woke up under a dark sky. John crawled to the water to quench his thirst, and almost passed out with his head in the water. He dragged himself away, feeling nauseous from the dizzying spins he experienced. He could not make it to his bedroll, just out of reach of his outstretched arm. He fell asleep, or passed out is probably more precise, lying on his stomach, with the water lapping at his feet and his hand less than a yard from the bedroll.

Later, the woman returns, filled with remorse. Seeing John unconscious, she nurses him back to health rather than letting him die. Who is this woman? Why has she suffered so much abuse? John becomes obsessed with trying to understand her story. But that understanding may cost them both their lives ...

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