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Before the girl's eyes the smoke unraveled.  Each voluptuous curve of soft white was reminiscent of spoken verse, unbroken and poetic, and every one made Elizabeth, who was sitting bundled up in coarse blankets in the dusty corner, wish she were nowhere else but in her host's squalid hovel.  This smoke had been her concern for the entire morning; it soothed her, made her trust that the mountains all around would not crumble, even though the meaning of its whispers were lost with each gust of wind.  She was cold.1

"Elizabeth, I brought you tea and chapatis," said her mother in a singsong voice from behind her.  Elizabeth didn't move.  "Please, hun.  I want you to eat.  In a few days we're moving on to Beni, OK?"  A single tear escaped from her blue eye and clung, freezing, onto her black eyelashes like a peasant on a king's crimson cape.  She turned and took the plate and steaming cup from her mother.2

"Leaving," murmured Elizabeth to the empty room as her mother rejoined the rabble of porters outside.  With each passing minute her tea grew cold and her bread brittle.  Once in a while voices would be carried to her, a mixture of broken English and Nepalese dialects.3

Elizabeth hated her mother for bringing their coarse language to this village . . . she wanted so much to listen without understanding the words spoken.  She was but nine, and could still identify how blasphemous it was and thus refused to speak it to anyone; especially the old sage.  For hours he would sit on a cracked bench outside of his house, and she would stare at him.  She was a beggar around him, hoping he'd impart to her but one scrap of the overwhelming peace that hung from him like white and glistening robes to a god.4

She was in love with him.  He was as brown as the short and knobby trees that grew out of the gray stone, and covered in deep wrinkles, but still beautiful.  He was not gaudy or ephemeral like the rest of the world, but jubilant in his simplicity.  He would never waste away at the hands of a riving anger inside of his chest, or fade because of the slow drip of a whisper; but only grow with the consistency of beings who do not surrender to the woes of life.  Elizabeth wanted so badly to crawl into his lap and into his embrace, to coalesce completely with his pure and unflawed beauty.  But that was selfish, to want to better herself through him, was it not?  Her young mind couldn't fully comprehend such inhibitions, but only knew that because of a feeling she had inside her, a sick, mournful feeling, she would have to leave with her mother in a few days.5

With this sadness tripping along her consciousness, Elizabeth was driven to go sit and watch him again.  Although she was sluggish from the intense cold, he was draped in only a cloak.  As always, he seemed oblivious to her desperate presence.  Or perhaps the better word would be unconcerned.  After a few moments the girl caught sight of her mother rounding the side of the house carrying their old radio.6

"Hun, we've got to go now.  I've just heard on the radio that the government's sending in some people by helicopter tomorrow and I don't want to be held up by their questions and what not.  I just know they'll invalidate all my papers out of sheer boredom if we don't leave."7

"What are they gonna do here?  I don't want to leave," Elizabeth said with the fearful tremble of a child.  Her mother retorted with a deprecating glare.8

"Don't you give me any trouble now, Elizabeth."9

"Tell me what they're going to do."10

"What they always do, hun.  They're excavators.  The people coming in tomorrow are, most likely, going to map this town out, see what they can do with it.  Eventually, they'll make it into a tourist resort like in the capital.  Kusma is a perfect place for something like that, actually, since it's so close to Pokhara.  Anyways, it'll help conservationists like me keep tabs on the locals.  And in a few years, if all goes well, they’ll be makin' money and speakin' English in no time."  As her mother finished Elizabeth jumped u p from her crouched position and ran to the old man, grabbing hold of his wrist with both her small hands.11

"Please come with us," she pleaded loudly, breaking her vow of silence towards him.  In an instant her mother was at her side and prying her hands lose from the man.12

"Elizabeth!  What in the world do you think you're doing?  For Christ's sake!"  But the man only smiled at Elizabeth as her mother yanked her back, saying very quietly and in broken English,13

"They come, this I realize too.  But no matter, I have bench to sit, and head to know."  With his words a raw sadness rose in Elizabeth like a tidal wave.  It reached its climax but would not crash, and it stayed poised in her breast, an awful beast that made it hard to breath.  14

Breaking free from her mother for an instant she threw her arms around his neck.  Enveloped in the thick cotton of his cloak her heart ached.  He held her there for a moment while she sobbed into his hair that felt like bundled brushwood, soft upon her cheek. 15

“Elizabeth,” her mother scolded sharply.  She tumbled backwards, filled with love for the man who smelled of cloves and fire.  But then, with nothing more than a small smile, he waved to her as they both departed, and she knew that there was nothing to be done.16