At dawn the next day, a man with a face full of wrinkles and sunspots, like an old shepherd, came to the door on a tricycle. Speaking in a thick local dialect, he gestured as he explained his purpose. He took several carefully wrapped books from Korela, glanced at them, muttered something under his breath, casually tossed them into the rear bed of the vehicle, and left.
Clutching crumpled banknotes, he bought several packets of spices, two lambs, and a barrel of cheap liquor at the market. Then, amid the puttering of his tricycle, he vanished into the windblown sand beyond the city. After another day on the road, he arrived at a desolate village.
"What's this?"
The villagers gathered around and tore open the package. Seeing the colorful illustrations inside, they were greatly disappointed. "There ain't even a naked broad in here. What the hell did you buy?
"It's too stiff even for wiping your ass..."
The old man on the tricycle expressionlessly snatched the things back. "What are you pawing at? Don't get them dirty."
With some disgust, he raised his sleeve and wiped away the grimy handprints. "These are for the mountain."
At once, no one spoke.
The next day, the old farmer led his mule laboriously up the mountain, knocked on the gate of the ruined temple, and carried the grain, rice, and flour from the package inside.
The sun-darkened Old Monk lifted a pot and offered him a bowl of oil tea. After chatting briefly about how things had been in the village lately and whether there had been any trouble, the old farmer led his empty mule back down the mountain.
A few days later, at dawn, several bare-chested young monks carried heavy wicker baskets down the mountain again. After walking several miles, they