Beyond the Summit (17 page)

When Dorje pointed the way, the man quickly took off, his large, awkward body appearing to move in sections rather than as one coordinated mass. As if in competition with him and each other, Royd and Kirk immediately followed at the fastest pace Dorje had ever observed in a foreigner
.
Right behind them, Dorje kept shouting, “Go slowly.
Bistarai, bistarai
,” but no one listened. Racing past smiling children who rushed out to greet them, past the terraced fields cloaked in muted shades of green, and even past women thrashing millet, the Norwegians could be more trouble than the ladies. Hamar, an unusually large man with his upper and lower body constantly at odds, screamed and purposely bounced the first suspension bridge as if he were possessed by a
shrindi
ghost.

Scratching his cropped, red beard, Royd said, “He gets a little too enthusiastic at times.”

“To run across with such noise angers the river god. Bad things will happen,” Dorje grumbled.

Removing his toothpick, Kirk winked at Royd and slowly walked onto the bridge composed of two iron-link chains hanging in a deep U. He carefully sidestepped large holes in the rotted planks lining the bottom. After four more such irreverent crossings, the group reached the base of the 2,000-foot Namche hill. “Half way up is your first view of Everest,” Dorje explained, trying to maintain his helpful-Sherpa demeanor.

“I’m there,” Hamar announced and took off with long, loping strides.

Staying right with him, Dorje kept repeating, “
Bistarai, bistarai
, or you will get sick.”

“Not me.” The Norwegian raced ahead but was soon stopping every few minutes, breathing heavily with sweat pouring down his body.

He would have missed the viewpoint if Dorje hadn’t muttered, “There it is.” The glow that spread across the man’s face almost made it worth putting up with him. And when Hamar’s eyes watered, Dorje couldn’t resist liking this ungainly Norwegian who cried upon seeing his beloved mountain. Hearing the others, Hamar quickly wiped his cheeks and gave Dorje a look that begged silence.

Kirk and Royd arrived, glanced at the mountain, and doubled over with their hands on their thighs, gasping for breath. Dorje stuffed the desire to say
I warned you
. His ego riding a little higher, he announced, “We must go,” when the first large, wet, snowflakes began to fall.

Royd laughed and held his hand out, palm up. “Looks like we angered your gods by not paying proper respect on the bridge.”

Knowing they considered him an ignorant peasant and were mocking him, Dorje kept his mouth shut and simply smiled. Arguing with tourists didn’t earn tips.

Snow fell during the rest of the climb and while they set up camp. Then it stopped abruptly and the sun came out melting everything. After instructing the Norwegians that they would remain in Namche two nights in order to acclimate, Dorje left amid complaints of headaches and nausea. Perhaps now they would listen to him, but the satisfaction of being right diminished as soon as he left camp.

The scathing words he had flung at Mingma during their last meeting crawled out of the recesses where he had stuffed them. All quarreling was a sin and he had dishonored his father. Westerners spoke of a loving god who forgave sins and offered salvation, but the fate of Dorje’s next reincarnation depended solely on the balance of merit (
sönam)
and guilt he accumulated in this lifetime. Every act of virtue added to his store of merit; every negative action decreased it. Before facing Mingma again, he needed to replenish his supply. At the end of May, villagers would celebrate the Niungne rite to cleanse themselves of sin and earn
sönam,
but Dorje’s soul was too edgy and restless to wait. To perform his own Niungne, he went to the great stone
chorten
and
mani
wall at the south end of the village and removed his hiking boots to show penance by walking barefoot as he circumambulated the wall clockwise three times. In the village temple, he sought forgiveness by reciting 21 prayers beginning with an invocation of the serpent deities of the four quarters and then paying respect to fierce, man-eating spirits. He asked that his mind and body become one with the great god Pawa Cheresi and obtain release from the effects of all sins. During the recitation, Dorje prostrated himself 90 times by kneeling and sliding his arms and hands along the floor until his forehead touched. Tomorrow, he would repeat the entire ritual and again the following morning before departing Namche with the Norwegians.

Taking deep breaths and exhaling slowly to expel any negative emotions about to erupt, he climbed the hill from the village center. “Father, I am humble before you,” he began rehearsing a speech. “At our last meeting, I spoke too soon and out of anger. For that I am sorry. As your dutiful son, I will gladly marry Shanti.” Pausing at the base of the final twisted, rock-strew path, he struggled with
humble
and
dutiful
. How could he sound convincing when his heart was ever proud and headstrong?

Reaching the lower room, he anticipated the warmth and odor of Droma Sunjo milking
naks
but found it strangely empty. He dismissed it, needing to focus solely on his contrite demeanor.
Lower your shoulders and bow your head
, he told himself as he climbed the stairs. Say,
Thank you, my honorable father. I am forever dutiful and humble
. Pausing on the landing outside the door, he tried to calm his stomach.

Facing the window, Mingma didn’t acknowledge Dorje’s presence even though he had surely seen him coming. His cousin Dawa made up for it as he did every time Dorje returned. The short squat body ambled across the room with its awkward tilting gait and pressed so close he seemed attached to Dorje. This proximity made Dorje uncomfortable but he’d given up trying to explain that to Dawa who simply didn’t understand such things. With Droma Sunjo at the hearth preparing dinner, a private reconciliation wasn’t possible and it was too late to turn back. Mingma was already striding across the room with an upraised arm and that damn loose sleeve waving like a vulture’s wing. Anticipating a possible blow, Dorje gently pushed Dawa aside

“Must both of my sons betray me now?”

Dorje didn’t know what was going on but the wrath in his father’s eyes and voice implied that every grievance in the world was somehow his fault, and he resented the accusation.
Honorable, humble, and dutiful
wouldn’t pass through his lips.

“You sold your soul to foreigners
,
” Mingma said with his sleeve waving in Dorje’s face. “And have corrupted your brother too. Four days now he hasn’t brought the
naks
home in time for milking. And yesterday, Phuri from Khumjung returned my most valuable yak—the one that will bring the most rupees at market because of it prized light coat. He found it trying to reach grass on a dangerous ledge. If he hadn’t intervened, I would have lost a second one in a few weeks. I’m not a rich man and won’t tolerate this negligence.”

At a complete loss but pleased he wasn’t the target for once, Dorje promised to find his brother and take care of things. After a quick sweep through the village, he headed for the meadow and found the herd scattered all over the place and with some missing. “You catch me,” from his brother’s voice in English astounded him. Impossible. Nima, who had refused to learn a single word, was shouting to someone? Whipping around a boulder in Dorje’s favorite shirt, giggling, and covered with grass, Nima stopped cold when spotting him.

“Who speaks English?” As the question left his mouth, Dorje glimpsed Beth racing around the boulder with a handful of grass and then darting back out of sight. Struck dumb, he wrestled with the words but they fell flat at his feet with no shape or meaning. “Huh. How?”

“Because she wants to study us,” Dorje answered, “like the Japanese who come to study our glaciers. We’re just another hunk of ice.”

Water forming in the corners of his eyes, Nima yelled, “That’s not true. She likes me.”

Dorje held his brother’s arm to reassure him. “I know how you feel. I liked her too. She lets you think she cares, but it’s only a way of amusing herself. Ask Pemba. He’s seen it often and warned me of such things.”

Nima jerked free, picked up a pile of fresh dung, and hurled it at Dorje. “You want her for yourself just like everything else. You go wherever you want, do whatever you want, and leave me to take care of the yaks. When I find someone who makes me happy, you want to take that away too.”

“That’s not fair. I tried to get you to come with me.” Dorje reached for him again but Nima stayed out of reach with tears rolling down his freckled cheeks. “Father’s right. You think only about yourself and don’t care about us. You are no longer my brother.” He turned and ran with Dorje right behind him.

“You’re wrong, Nima. Two legs of the same frog, remember?” Ignoring him, Nima left with Dorje’s words hanging like dark, gloomy clouds. As Dorje realized this was the first time anything had come between them, an immense emptiness opened inside him.

Only a very powerful witch could have caused such pain and separated them. Dorje strode back to the rock where Beth had disappeared and found her sitting ashen-faced and slump-shouldered among a field of purple asters. Before he could amass enough scathing, biting words to spew at her, she said in a voice coming from deep inside, “I heard you fighting with Nima and know it was about me. I’m sorry for any problems I caused.”

She straightened up and slowly shook her head, eyes closed. “I only provided company to a lonely boy who wonders why his beloved brother has forsaken him.”

“I’ve done no such thing and would never hurt Nima.”

“Nor would I.”

Dorje then accused her of being selfish and insensitive to his culture, all in self-defense against those poppy-blue eyes. He thought he had cleansed her from his heart, but being this close aroused an uncomfortable stirring in his loins and he needed to escape. As a final shot, he told her to leave the Khumbu and never return. Before she could seduce him with any more words, he turned his back to her and headed for Khumjung in desperate need of fortifying his resolve by making love to Shanti that night.

Pacing outside her house until dark, Dorje waited another half hour after the butter lamps dimmed. As he tiptoed across the room, Shanti’s father gave the usual cough announcing,
I know you’re here.
That irritation plus all the negative feelings of the day dissolved the instant Dorje felt her warm, comforting body next to his. “I missed you so much,” he whispered, burying his face in her silken, black hair to inhale every part of her being. “I want to celebrate our
dem-chang
as soon as possible and make you mine.”

“I’m yours already. Now quit talking.” Always playful, her giggling elicited a cough from across the room and Dorje had to kiss her to hush her. He made love with the same passion they had shared last summer and fell asleep wrapped tightly around her. She was his salvation.

Dorje left just before dawn after making love to Shanti a second time. Always ready to receive him, she was the perfect lover and they would have a good life together. As the darkness of night dissolved to gray, silhouettes emerged like goblins. In spite of their menacing appearance, Dorje felt indomitable strolling back into the Norwegian camp—confident of his immunity to Beth and his ability to make amends to both his father and brother.

His first test arrived when Beth approached him at breakfast wearing a blue top that matched her eyes and revealed her hard nipples in the cold morning air. “I know you’re angry at me, but Nima was like the little brother I never had. Nothing more. I still need your help and won’t leave until I’m finished.”