by Bridget Holland

“I miss my daughter.” The woman’s hands knot together, white-knuckled, desperate.

Few find our valley. Fewer consider trading our centuries of peace for a brief lifetime outside. But all may choose freely.

“You must leave your notebooks behind. And never speak of Shambhala.”

She nods eager agreement.

***

The woman and her guides are black dots climbing to the Pass of Snows. I leaf through her notebooks, admiring how her nimble fingers have captured our homes and fertile fields. Paragraphs of foreign script separate the sketches.

I beckon Gun-yi.

“Run. Tell the guides, take her tongue as usual. Also, her hands.”

Bridget Holland

Bridget’s a reader, dreamer and writer living in Australia and in her imagination.