The Good Kingdom

My name is Francesca Karin Aadland Romanetti and I am the leader of the people of the "Good Kingdom," the mountain valley paradise that is known to the native Tibetans as Swarga Loka, which is its Sanskrit name. My family of sisters and I live on the highest mountain in Tibet, called the Shishma Pangma, where the colossal Himalayan Mountains form a border between the Indian subcontinent and the rest of Asia. The Himalayas are the world's tallest mountains, towering more than five miles above sea level. Himalaya means "home of snow" because the tallest peaks of the Himalayas are always capped with ice crystals. I know all these things because my father told me. He was an Italian explorer who found his way to our mountain vihara, or monastery, almost twenty years ago, and the last man to live among my people. He is dead now, having succumbed several years ago to the mysterious illness that has plagued every male since this valley was discovered by our Scandinavian ancestors more than 300 years ago in 1707.

I celebrated my eighteenth birthday yesterday and am the youngest woman ever to be chosen as leader of our people. It is a great honor because the leader is chosen based upon her wisdom and steadfast temper—qualities that are not usually predominant in young girls. But my father, a descendant of a noble Roman family, and possessed of the same gravitas and virtues of his ancient ancestors, imparted these same traits to me; partly from his strict teachings and partly from the inherited bloodline of our forebears. He married my mother, a Norwegian woman of great standing in our village, nineteen years ago, and he loved her very much. And although I loved my mother greatly, it was my father who taught me about the modern world—its greatness and its perversions, and all the wonders to be discovered by the scientific examination of nature. My mother died only a few months after he did. Some of the women said she had a weak heart, but I rather think she died of a broken heart, for she loved my father more than life itself.

Our former leader, Grete, died a few weeks ago at the ripe old age of ninety-seven, and there was a great ceremony held in her honor. Before she died, Grete urged my sisters to make me their leader because, as she put it, "Francesca has the soul of the old ones within her and the power of youth to keep her true to her purpose." What that really meant I never understood, but it impressed my sisters enough to make them choose me as their leader, and I will remain so for as long as I live. All these things I am recording in my journal for posterity—for those who will come after me. Every leader since the earliest times has kept a journal, and the tradition is considered both a requisite and sacred one.

By the time my ancestors had arrived here, the native Tibetans had already founded their primitive villages within the lush and fertile valley. In time, many of the natives intermarried with the fair-skinned, blue-eyed Norwegian, Swedish, and Danish immigrants. The British followed some decades later in the mid-to-late 18th century, and their culture eventually became our culture, and our official language became English. More adventures and explorers found their way to our mountain paradise over the next two centuries: Europeans, Australians, Americans, and Russians. There are now very few of us who are considered pure Scandinavian or pure Tibetan. But my father always insisted that that was the very reason why we have survived. Because contrary to the pseudo-scientific doctrine that racial purity ensures superior intellectual and physical development, it is the intermarriage of different races that keeps the gene pool diverse and strong. Judging by the abundant health and long life of our people, I would have to say that his theory has been proven correct.

The Tibetan people themselves do not come here any longer and have not done so for over two hundred years. The last Tibetan man who lived in the valley was called Wangchuk, whose name means "powerful" or "mighty". He was one of the few people to have ever escaped from Swarga Loka alive. I know this is true because one of the European explorers who found his way to our valley told us that it was Wangchuk who had warned him to beware of the "valley of women," which is sacred to the goddess, Tara, who grants long life to women, but who shortens the life of man once he has eaten of the forbidden Mandukya plant—the aphrodisiac of the gods. The myth he created lives on to this day, and no Tibetan, and not even the Chinese, will make any attempt to venture here, for they believe our land to be cursed by the ancient gods.

Today is a special day. It is the day of the annual harvest, and I am to preside over the celebration of the gathering of the crops. Our holy mother, who is named after the goddess Tara, will say a rite of thanksgiving. Although there are many among us who are considered Buddhists, there are those who follow the Christian faith, and others, like me, who believe in no gods at all. There is no persecution in our land. All people are free to believe whatever they like as long as they do not infringe upon the rights of others. My father once told me that Swarga Loka was exemplary in this respect, and that in no other country in the world was polytheism enjoined with such peaceful acceptance. I myself have little use for superstitions or ancient rituals but, for many of us, such practices serve a unifying purpose, and so I perform my duty to my people even though I do not necessarily share their beliefs.

"Well, has your hand tired from writing all morning?"

I looked up from my chair to see my friend Chari standing in the doorway of my lodge dressed in her finest silk gown, observing me with a bemused expression. Being one of the few true Scandinavians in our village, she was blessed with a fair complexion, long flaxen hair, and steely blue eyes that sparkled with an inner intensity. She had a heart as big as the valley itself but was not known for her patience.

"You really must get dressed Francesca. The ceremony is going to begin very soon."

"I know, I know," I replied, putting my paper and pencil down on the desk. "But sometimes when the mood strikes..."

"Yes, yes, I know all about your moods. Everyone in the village knows about your moods. But you are our Dolma, and you must officiate at the ceremony. You know how important this is."

"Of course I do. The people need their little rituals."

"I know you don't believe as they do about such things, but at least you could try to be on time. They look to you, our chosen one, for guidance."

"You don't have to remind me, Chari. Your chosen one will play the part and everyone will be happy—including you."

That seemed to placate her because she stood there complacently watching me in silence as I hastily put on my officiating robe of white silk and sturdy sandals. By the time we reached the riverbank the entire population of over four hundred women and girls had already gathered together and were singing and chanting in the most delightful way.

"Francesca!" said Juliette, approaching me with her perennial pipe in her hands. "I see that Chari has found you. You're late."

She was a woman in her late forties who was known in the village for having the biggest mouth and the shortest temper. Her brown hair was perpetually cut short and she never went anywhere without her little pipe, which she smoked incessantly. Like me, she was a hybrid: her mother was French and her father an Englishman. Despite her obtrusive manners, she had always treated me with the utmost civility.

"I had things to do," I replied.

"She was writing in her journal when I found her," Chari said. "On the most sacred day of the year and she's writing in her journal!"

Juliette laughed. "The same old Francesca! Just like her father. Always with their heads in the books!"

"Or in the clouds!" Chari added.

"I do what I do for the sake of posterity," I said. "Now if you both will excuse me, I have matters to attend to."

Juliette stuck her pipe in her mouth and made a loud grunt as I made my way through the crowd and onto the summit of a small embankment overlooking the river.

Tara was seated in a large, elaborate chair made of teak that had been removed from the vihara and placed on a wooden platform such that she could sit and be comfortable during the ceremony. As the symbol of the goddess Tara here on earth, her figure had to be elevated so that no one appeared taller than she. Even I, as leader of the people, had to submit to this ancient ritual, deferring to her on this and all other religious occasions.

I stood in front of the platform looking up at the old woman who was now performing her usual benediction with a slight wave of her right hand. I bowed to her and placed my hand over my heart to signify my obedience to the will of the goddess. In my heart I had always been skeptical of religion, but I performed these duties because I loved her and respected the beliefs of my people. This was going to be the first time I had ever officiated at the harvest, but over the years I had watched others conduct the ceremony and I felt confident that I had learned the ritual well. It was certainly not much to ask of its unbelieving leader.

I turned around to face the throng of people, all four hundred and three women, and I the youngest one amongst them, being the last person to be born eighteen years ago, the only child my father would ever produce.

The diffused sunlight illuminated the lush valley below, throwing everything into a marked resplendence despite the fact that the sun itself remained hidden behind the impenetrable shield of voluminous clouds that floated lazily in the dreamlike, azure sky. The beautiful fragrance of growing things permeated the warm summer air like a refreshing zephyr, uplifting my spirit. Before me stretched a vast tract of land whose verdant meadows were populated with an unimaginable array of earth's incalculable bounty. It was the land of peach, apple, pear, and plum trees; of goldenrod, tiger lily, and lilac; of the stout pine tree and the majestic teak; of wheat, barley, and rice growing in cultivated fields that were fed by the undulating Yarlung Zangbo river, whose source derived from the mighty Shishma Pangma itself, many miles above the plateau. I thought of all the other leaders before me who had stood on this very ground, speaking the words I was now about to speak. And then I saw that the eyes of my sisters were upon me, waiting patiently for me to begin.

"The goddess Tara has blessed this land with a temperate climate, fertile soil, and an abundant harvest for all of us to enjoy. Today we celebrate with joy and thanksgiving all the wonderful things she has bestowed upon us, her devoted people."

As I said this I reached down into a wooden bowl and clutched a small handful of rice. I held my outstretched palm to the winds and let the rice fall through my fingers.

"Let us rejoice and give thanks to the goddess," I said, watching the rice strike the ground and scatter in the breeze.

I turned to Tara. She rose slowly from her chair and said a few words in Tibetan, a prayer that the goddess would keep us in her favor and grant us continued good fortune throughout the year. When this was done she sat down again. The ceremony was over.

"No more work today," I said happily. "Today we have fun!"

The crowd cheered and congratulated me for performing the ritual without making one mistake. The satisfied look on Tara's face told me that I had performed my duty well. As I waited for her to descend the platform, several sisters approached me and struck up a conversation.

"The goddess has indeed been kind to us this year," said Natasha, a stout, middle-aged woman of Russian heritage. "We have more fruits and vegetables than we've ever had before."

"We had a lot of rain this season," I reminded her. "The crops grew like crazy."

"Yes, they did," rejoined Juliette. "And we worked like crazy too. I'm glad the gathering is over."

"Francesca, my child," Tara said, laying her hand on my arm. "I don't want to see you do anything today except to enjoy yourself."

"Don't worry, mataji," Chari said to Tara. "We'll make sure she does."

"I promise, holy mother," I said as I kissed the old woman's cheek. "No more books for today."

"Then come and sit by my side at the banquet table. It is right and honorable that you should do so."

A century ago in Swarga Loka a square was constructed in the middle of the village where important issues concerning the village were discussed and debated. It had been the idea of one particularly bright, young Danish woman named Sofia. She had a natural propensity for carpentry, and it was her desire to erect a central edifice to conduct business of all sorts, as well as to serve as a meeting place for the community. Her idea was bold and thought quite impossible to construct given the dearth of skilled artisans and the limitation of resources. But it was found that the valley had abundant pine trees of several varieties that would provide excellent lumber for the project, and under Sofia's enlightened tutelage a core of trained workers soon evolved that made her vision of a town square a reality. It took several years to build, but when it was done, it was regarded as a marvel, which, to this day, is a point of pride with our people. It was such a work of beauty and practicality that it rivaled the vihara itself, which had been built by the Tibetans over two hundred years earlier.

In the center of the square a long, rectangular dining table, which had been removed from the vihara the day before, was set up and festooned with all kinds of foodstuffs and beverages. As I took my place at Tara's side, I looked around to see who had been quick enough to find a seat at the table. Chari was seated at a spot at the far end, but Juliette and Natasha were forced to sit on the many wooden benches stationed on the periphery of the square. Others either stood or sat on the grass around us. But everyone, regardless of where they sat, was in a jovial mood, which was no doubt due to such an unusually abundant harvest.

Sitting across from me, and looking as radiant as ever, was Astrid Johansen. The name "Astrid" means "divine beauty" in Scandinavian, and she certainly lived up to her name. She was several years old than me and was considered by many to be the most beautiful girl in the village. She was roughly my height with shoulder-length blonde hair and dark blue eyes. She was slim but her breasts were rather large, giving her a buxom appearance. I had always found her to be temperamental with a predilection for sarcasm.

To my right sat Ide Bruun. Her grandmother, Sofia, was the woman who had designed and built the town square. She was thirty-three years old, pretty, with auburn hair and hazel eyes. She had taken care of me after my mother died and I had grown to love her as a sister. Ide was a hard working, no-nonsense woman and a steadfast realist, and who, like her grandmother, retained the practical woodworking skills of that industrious lineage.

Once Tara has made the usual obsequies to our goddess of the harvest, we began to eat. Although we raised sheep and goats, we rarely ate them for food, preferring a vegetarian way of life as prescribed by ancient tradition. As I bit into a succulent pear, I noticed that Astrid was eyeing me with unusual curiosity.

"What? What is it?" I asked her between mouthfuls.

"Your hair," she replied, cocking her head to one side as if to gain a better perspective. "It's such a beautiful shade of red. You shouldn't keep it so close cut. You should let it grow out long like mine so that the sun can accentuate its highlights."

"I like it short."

"And your eyes..." she continued, ignoring me, "as green as emeralds and one of your best features. But you always insist on wearing those ridiculous sunglasses your father gave you. How do you expect to ever attract a man that way?"

"Have you seen a man around here lately?"

Astrid sighed. "You have no faith in you, Francesca. Did not Tara herself tell us that the goddess would be sending us a man soon? Or were you listening?"

"I always listen to what Tara says," I replied with a deferring nod to our mataji. "But not even she knows the exact time the goddess will fulfill her promise."

"That's true. But what if it's tomorrow? What if a man finds his way to our village and finds you looking the way you do? With your close cropped hair that makes you look like a boy, and those stupid sunglasses that hide your eyes, and the makeup that you refuse to wear. Do you think that man is going to be interested in you?"

At this point I put down my pear and stared her in the face. "Since when have you become so concerned about my appearance? Surely you are beautiful enough to entice any man who comes wandering into our village. Why would you want me to change the way I look?"

"Because your natural beauty is a threat to her," Ide snorted. "Astrid is jealous of you Francesca."

"Oh, be quiet, Ide!" Astrid snapped. "I am not jealous. I just want Francesca to be beautiful."

"She is beautiful just as she is," Ide replied, "without any help from you!"

Instead of retorting, Astrid sneered at Ide and took a sip of rice wine. "I'm just trying to help," she said petulantly.

"You can help," Chari said, waving her fork menacingly from across the table, "by shutting your mouth!"

"That's enough!" Tara said suddenly.

Everyone at the table looked in her direction at once. It was rare that the old woman ever raised her voice, but when she did, people fell silent.

"We do not threaten our sisters," the mataji said to Chari. "And you," she continued, looking sternly at Astrid. "You are a vain and selfish girl. All you think about is yourself. But today is a sacred day. And you will refrain from making unwarranted criticisms about Francesca. As I am your spiritual leader, she is your Dolma, and you will show her the proper respect. Am I understood?"

"Yes...yes, mataji," Astrid mumbled, her eyes avoiding Tara's intense gaze. "I meant no harm."

"I am certain you did," Tara said in an unconciliatory tone. "For you, to be beautiful is not enough. You find joy in belittling others and that is offensive to the goddess. You will make penance this evening."

"I will make penance," Astrid replied, already beginning to look penitential as she cast her eyes downward upon her folded hands.

But I wasn't fooled by Astrid's performance. Our customs dictated that she must enter the vihara and sit for at least one hour in silent contemplation, asking forgiveness for her transgression. But I knew that her public display of repentance was merely a façade. Despite her beauty, she was the most insecure person in our village, and her reputation for denigrating others, which she had refined into an art form of its own, I found vastly repugnant. She might enter the vihara and say her prayers, but she would exit the sacred place with a soul as unrepentant as when she entered.

As the celebration wore on many of the sisters, including myself, became intoxicated from drinking too much wine. I rarely drank liquor except for special occasions, and even then I limited my consumption to only a few cups. But the fact that our harvest had been so successful put everyone in an utterly joyous mood, and I allowed myself to be swept up in all the excitement. After many hours spent drinking and eating, I was quite inebriated. The next thing I knew, I was staring at a bunch of blurred faces through eyes made dim from imbibing too much rice wine.

"What are you doing on the grass, Francesca?" someone asked me.

I opened my eyes and saw an indistinct face looking down upon me. "Who are you?"

"Who am I?" the voice replied mockingly. "Are you that drunk that you don't recognize your best friend?"