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.
