Sacred Mountain (10 page)

After a few moments the man jumped to his feet and strode towards Philip, stopping only when they grasped each other’s hands.

“Philip!” exclaimed James Morris,
The
Times
Special Correspondent to the Everest trip. “You’ve made it and in good time. I wasn’t expecting you for another week.”

Philip smiled. “We pushed on a bit over the last few days because we had some reports about Izzard.” He nodded over towards the table. “Get me a comfortable chair and I’ll tell you all about it.”

*

That evening Philip and James sat around the table in the small Mess tent, their empty plates pushed back. Each had a small mug of whiskey and took occasional sips as they filled each other in on what had been going on.

“I haven’t seen or heard of him since we left Kathmandu,” James replied, when Philip had enquired about Izzard. “I got a note from Hutch saying you were on your way to help but after that there’s been nothing.” He scratched the light stubble on his chin. “If he was camped just below Thangboche then he must’ve been up to something, probably trying to intercept my runners. I’ll go and see Hunt tomorrow and make sure he reminds the climbers not to speak to any other reporters. To be honest I’m more concerned about the expedition porters. It he manages to talk to them, a few dollars will go a long way.” He shook his head. “I can’t believe he came through Thangboche and wasn’t spotted by anyone. Sherpa’s are like hawks for gossip.” He took a mouthful of whiskey. “I’ve met him before you know. We both followed a story in Egypt last year. Lovely chap, excellent company. I think he’d have dropped in to say hello if he had passed through since he knows I’m here.”

Philip nodded. “What I need to discover is whether or not he’s got a damned radio transmitter. That’d give him a big advantage in getting news back to London.”

“I know,” James agreed. “We made a mistake there. The Swiss told us that they didn’t work so we didn’t bring one. And now I know that’s not true.” He stretched, arms held above his head, “When we were passing through Namche I found out that an Indian Army post has just been established there with a radio link to Kathmandu. They want to monitor the border apparently. Something to do with worries that that the Chinese are using the refugee situation as a smokescreen to send spies over into Nepal and India.” He smiled. “It’s run by a charming Indian called Tiwari, who actually sent a quick dispatch for me. It went to the Indian Embassy in Kathmandu who sent it round by runner to Hutch. He’s kindly agreed to send any urgent messages for me, so we do have a way of speeding things up if push comes to shove. I also got him to shake on only doing it for us, so in theory no other papers can use him. Mind you, I wouldn’t trust them in Kathmandu as far as I could throw them so,” he sat forward, leaning on the table, “I’ve also been working on a code that only we’ll know. That way, if the other hacks do manage to get their hands on the message, they still won’t be any the wiser!”

Philip smiled. “Good idea. I’ll be heading back towards Namche in a couple of days to find Izzard. If you have the codes ready by then I can take them with me and give them directly to Hutch when I’m back in Kathmandu. That way we’ll know they’re secure.”

The conversation turned to the progress of the Expedition.

“I saw a couple of them earlier walking around with oxygen cylinders on. Training I assume?” Philip asked.

James nodded, gently swilling the contents of his mug. “They’ve been practising with the breathing apparatus since we left Kathmandu. Some have slept in it, others wear it while walking during the day.” He laughed. “Scares the hell out of the locals I can tell you. Since we’ve been at Thangboche, Hunt’s had them out doing a bit of climbing in the masks as well, seeing how they get on. Apart from getting hot and sweaty, they seem to work fine.” He took a drink. “Spirits seem high anyway. They’re all fit and well and cannot wait to get started on the mountain.”

Philip nodded, watching at the man opposite over the top of his mug. He’d often seen him around the Times office in London, although as he was a more senior Staff reporter they’d never really socialised. With short black hair and the shadow of a beard, he had a youthful face, friendly eyes with a confident gaze looking out over a prominent nose. For a young reporter this was the assignment of a lifetime. Many of the staff at
The
Times
had been envious when they heard he’d be assigned to it and yet nobody had begrudged Morris his opportunity. Philip could see why. He was modest and unassuming, with an easy manner about him that made you want him to like you.

The story of how he was invited by John Hunt, over lunch in the Garrick Club, to join the expedition as the Special Correspondent had already been often recounted, normally with much amusement as Morris had never actually done any mountaineering before and was now expected to write reports from high on Everest itself. Looking at the man Philip had no doubts that he would manage.

“Anyway,” James continued, “You’ve arrived at an excellent moment. The abbot of the monastery has invited us all to a blessing ceremony tomorrow to wish the expedition a safe climb. You can come along and meet everybody.”

They chatted a bit longer but Philip soon excused himself and wandered back to his tent. A few minutes before dusk Old Gompu had arrived, followed by his weary porters, carrying all his camping equipment. It was amazing what the promise of double pay could do. Mingma had wasted no time in getting the tents erected and everything unpacked and it felt luxurious to be back on his old camp bed rather that the hard floor and greasy woollen blankets of the previous night. He had a slight headache, a consequence he thought of the altitude rather than the whiskey, and lay there thinking, warm in his sleeping bag.

Seeing James had been good, the chance to clarify exactly what he was here to do and to catch up on the expedition’s news. But it was to Prem and the other Gurkhas that his mind kept returning, still finding it hard to believe that they’d actually met. It had been just over ten years since he’d last seen them. For the first two he’d been driven almost insane by not knowing what had happened. Then he’d learnt to block it out, to forget and get on, as best he could, with his life. That they’d survived made him feel a sense of relief so overwhelming that he couldn’t linger on the thought without becoming dizzy. But there were other memories he wasn’t sure he was ready to face.

Chapter 7

Despite not having to be up at dawn, Philip was awake early and upon emerging from his tent found it to be a beautiful, still morning. Smoke from the village fires was rising straight up into the sky and Sherpas were scurrying around the expedition camp. Old Gompu came over and handed him a large mug of breakfast tea which he gratefully took, cupping it in his gloved hands and enjoying the sensation of the heat through his woollen gloves.

Turning towards the monastery he could see that things were busy here too. Monks in their distinctive purple robes were hurrying to and fro, while a group of village women had arrived with heavy loads of firewood that they were piling by the entrance.

“Morning,” he heard from behind and looking over his shoulder he saw James emerging from his tent, boots unlaced. “Time for a quick breakfast then off to the monastery.” He rolled his eyes. “I’ve been told by Tenzing that these ceremonies can go on for hours so better get some food inside us. I dread to think what they’ll be giving us afterwards.”

Gompu and James’ cook had combined to provide an excellent breakfast of pancakes with honey and some boiled eggs they’d managed to buy from the village. After polishing these off Philip felt much better and he was just finishing a large mug of Camp coffee when he heard the most extraordinary noise, making him jump and spill some down his shirt. It was a low pitched moan, a noise that seemed to make his heart vibrate inside him. He looked up at James in alarm who’d started laughing.

“Christ, the look on your face,” he said through guffaws. “Don’t worry, it’s just the horns from the monastery. Bloody great things. It must mean they’re ready for us. Come on, we better get going.”

They walked out of the Mess tent and crossed the meadow towards the monastery. Philip could see a large group from the Expedition already there, standing beneath the entrance arch, and happily spinning the large prayer wheels embedded in its walls.

“Gentlemen,” James announced formally when they reached them, “and New Zealanders. May I introduce Philip Armitage, another humble scribe from my illustrious publication. Please be nice to him as he’s just arrived.”

Several of the men smiled or raised a hand towards him, but before much else could happen the door in the archway opened and two monks appeared, beckoning them inside. They all shuffled forward and started climbing a wide flight of stone steps. Philip found himself walking beside a tall young man with a large smile.

“George,” the man said, holding out a hand. “George Band.”

Philip took the hand and smiled back. “Philip. Pleased to meet you.”

“Looks like you’ve arrived just in time for the fun,” Band said, looking around as they entered an inner courtyard. “I’ve been trying to get in here for the last week.”

The two monks indicated that they should remove their shoes and then beckoned them forward, giving each a small stick of burning incense. When everyone was holding one they led them off, walking around a large Golden statue of a seated Buddha with outstretched arms. Everyone had gone silent, the only noise the repetitive chant of several monks sitting before the statue and the chiming of small hand-held chimes that swung rhythmically in their hands.

It was dark inside, the windows covered by intricately carved shutters and with only a few lamps and candles lighting the way. Philip could see that the walls were painted red and covered in thankas, larger and more intricate than the ones Zigsa had shown him back in Kathmandu, depicting scenes from the Buddha’s life. Gold and purple statuettes lined the walls in a procession of small niches and hanging down from the beams were rough wooden masks he guessed were used by the monks during the various festivals held every year.

When they’d circled around and were back at the front door the monks took the incense sticks and pushed them into pots of sand that stood before the statue. There was a loud ringing of a bell, or at least that’s what it sounded like until Philip looked up to see a monk standing on a balcony beside an empty oxygen cylinder, hanging from its nozzle. The monk struck it again with a small brass hammer and everyone fell silent.

Everybody’s attention fell on an ancient monk who was standing on the lowest steps of a small staircase that climbed to the upper floor. He held his hands outstretched and with a warm smile spoke for over a minute, talking a dialect Philip didn’t recognise. When he finished a young woman, who had been standing in the shadows beside him, stepped forward and started to speak in a quiet but clear voice. Philip stared at her.

“Our Abbot of Thangboche welcomes you to this monastery, the most important in the Sherpa lands. He is honoured that you have visited and assures you that the monks have said prayers for the safety of the men on your trip.” She looked down as if carefully choosing the correct words to use. “He says you are welcome to pray in his monastery. He says that a feast is prepared for you in the main room and you are all to join him there to celebrate the new friendship.”

She turned and bowed to the old Llama, walking backwards to one side, and as she did so Philip saw one of the mountaineers walk forward. He recognised him immediately from photos he’d seen in the newspapers. It was John Hunt, the expedition leader.

Hunt turned to face the assembled crowd, bowing first to the abbot. “We all thank the Llama for his welcome and his blessing. His monastery is situated in one of the most beautiful places I’ve had the privilege of visiting anywhere in the world. I can think of nowhere better to stay to inspire us for the task ahead.”

He turned once more to the Llama and gave a small bow, before stepping forward and placing a wad of rupee banknotes, tied together with a boot lace, before the main statue as an offering. The abbot held his hands together and returned the bow, before leading Hunt up the rickety staircase, shafts of daylight cutting down it and lighting up wisps of smoke rising from the burning incense.

Everybody started to shuffle towards the stairs, taking their time to study the magnificent statue as they passed. Philip was still slyly looking at the young translator, trying to make out her face in the poor light. She was a Sherpani, probably in her early twenties and with large, expressive eyes. Her long black hair was tied back in a tight pony tail, but leaving two long locks, one falling each side of her face. A small nose wrinkled slightly every time she smiled and bowed at a passing climber.

As he approached the bottom of the stairs, a few yards from where she was standing, she glanced over and caught his eye. A jolt of panic hit him, his mind flashing back in time; large, dark eyes framed by long black hair, the smoky interior dredging up terrible, long-suppressed memories. He shook his head in an attempt to dislodge them.

“Hello,” he mumbled, his tongue feeling like a splinter of wood. For a moment he hoped that he hadn’t been heard above the repetitive chanting of the monks which had started again now the speeches were over.

Her eyes remained on him, head tilted quizzically to one side as she calmly watched his face. “Namaste,” she replied at last, stepping forward into a patch of daylight that shone down the stairwell. “Welcome.”

Philip forced a smile, acutely aware that it must look like a painful grimace. “Thank you,” he replied at last, making himself look at her again. Now she was in the light he could see her features more clearly and the images in his mind dissolved. This face was fuller, the cheekbones higher and with a smile that fell easily upon it.

“Wh … where did you learn such good English?” he stammered, trying to cover the embarrassment that burnt at his cheeks. “You seem very fluent.”

“From my father,” she answered slowly, “and it’s not so good.” He could see her working through in her mind what she wanted to say. “He worked with the English in Tibet many years before. When he returned he taught all his children the language he had learnt from them. The rest we took from a book he had been given. It was by a man called Rudyard Kipling and told of animals who lived like men.” She giggled shyly. “How strange we thought England must be.”

Philip relaxed a little and caught her infectious laugh. “Sometimes I think animals would make a better job of running things that we do.” He looked at her. “These Englishmen, what were they doing in Tibet?”

“They were climbing,” she replied. “The English always climb. They came many times to climb Everest. Some died, some vanished but they never got to its top.” She stopped and glanced out of the open door through which the mountain could be seen, towering over the valley. “He believes that those who died are at peace on the sacred mountain with the spirits who live there.” She looked back at Philip. “Maybe this time you will succeed.”

Philip smiled. “Let’s just pray everybody comes back in one piece.” He stood transfixed, not knowing what to say next but not wanting to move away. He was acting just like a schoolboy. “So how did you come to be working in the monastery?” he continued quickly. “Seems a strange thing for a young woman to be doing?”

She laughed again. “I speak your language and can write. The monks need my help here rather than collecting their firewood.”

Their eyes were locked. “I don’t blame them,” he answered in a voice little more than a whisper. They were motionless. The pungent incense filled Philip’s senses, sweet, thick and sensual. The monks chanting seemed to drown out the world. A new beam of sunlight burst down the stairwell as another window was opened on the gallery to light up the upstairs rooms. Its rays fell on the girl, bathing her in red, her face shimmering crimson as if blood was running down her face. The smell in his nostrils became cordite, the chorus behind him one of moaning and weeping. He looked away from her, tearing his eyes up towards the light and gradually they focused on long red hangings beside the window, billowing in the wind and filtering the sun as if fell down upon them.

He tried to compose himself, embarrassed by his behaviour and desperate not to seem like a complete idiot.

“I … I would very much like to meet your father,” he said at last. “I’m a journalist and would love to write about some his memories.”

“He would enjoy that,” the girl replied after a thoughtful pause. “He would like to see an Englishman again before he dies. Come to the monastery gate this evening at sunset. We will walk to his house.”

She took a step backwards and added, “You can tell us about how animals in England really behave,” before turning and disappearing into the shadows of the shrine.

He leant against a carved, wooden column, greasy and black from years of lamp smoke. He felt breathless, legs weak, trying to calm himself. He couldn’t go through that again.

After a few moment he straightened and followed the rest of the expedition up the stairs and, after following a narrow corridor, into a large hall, windows set high in its walls through which daylight slanted in. Statues again decorated the walls, of many different sizes and materials and set in niches at the far end of the room were a line of impressive looking urns.

“Apparently they’re the old abbots’ ashes,” James whispered to him as he settled down. “Once they’ve been cremated they are put in those urns to be venerated.” He smiled. “That’s what you call a job for eternity, let alone life.”

The ceremony did, as Tenzing had warned, go on for hours. They were fed a constant stream of Tibetan tea as the monks chanted their mantras, talking quietly amongst themselves. Philip found himself next to George Band again and the young mountaineer began telling him about the expedition.

“I’m still amazed I got chosen to come, if the truth be told,” he’d confessed after they’d been talking for an hour or so. “Apparently they were impressed with all the climbing I’d managed to do in the Alps last year. It was a lot more than anyone else and showed how dedicated I was.” He chuckled. “I didn’t tell them that my old man had got me a rather easy job in Switzerland so I had plenty of time and a bit of cash. All the other poor blighters had to try to survive on £20 because of the currency restrictions.”

Philip nodded. Since the war the amount of money you could take overseas when you travelled was restricted to £20 per trip, which made long holidays all but impossible. He’d checked with his editor about this when told about the assignment but was informed that he’d be able to draw money through Hutchinson in Kathmandu as he was there for work.

“Plan is to move up to the ice flow in the next few days and establish the Base Camp.” Bands eyes sparkled with anticipation. “That’s when the fun really starts. Hillary and Westmacott will go first with a group of Sherpas, bringing up the first of the supplies and looking for a good place to position it. Somewhere near to where the serious climbing starts but out of the path of avalanches. After that we’ll all start shuttling up the supplies while they head off into the ice flow itself and look for a route up the mountain.” He smiled ruefully, “We all want to help but hands up, it’s fair to say that they’re the best at ice work.”

He was interrupted by a long blast on the huge horn which had now appeared in the hall and the level of the chanting rose as more monks entered, many with hand-held prayer wheels flashing in the sunlight as they spun around. They stood along the far wall, bowing low as a final group of monks entered. These monks looked thin and lean, their faces drawn and tired. They seated themselves on some rugs opposite and food suddenly appeared, carried by boy monks who giggled excitedly as they approached and served the climbers.