Sacred Mountain (11 page)

Philip kept glancing across at the young Sherpani who was now sitting behind the abbot, translating the conversation between him, Hunt and another monk who was dressed in a different style of robe. On one occasion their eyes met and she smiled shyly before he looked away in embarrassment.

When the food was eaten, a meal consisting of potatoes and vegetables, with jugs of millet chang that the monks seemed particularly partial to, Philip followed the expedition members as they slowly filed before the abbot to receive a personal blessing. Bowing his head, he stood with his hands together as if in prayer and felt a silk prayer scarf being placed around his neck. With a slight bow, he turned and walked away, examining the wood block print writing that covered the fine material.

Outside the monastery, he walked slowly back to his camp, enjoying stretching his legs after sitting cross-legged for so long. Glancing up he could see clouds building up and obscuring the high peaks, as often happened at this time of year prior to the arrival of the monsoon. James had returned to the expedition tents to try to get some quotes from Hunt and the others about the ceremony, so Philip got out his leather document case and pulled out a map. He’d been presented with them by Hutch on the morning of his departure, a whole sheaf of them that had come from the Forestry Department in Kathmandu. He hoped they might give him some indication of where Izzard may have gone.

If he’d headed back down the valley he would, as Mingma had said, have had to cross the river on the same bridge they’d used. It was the only crossing point below Thangboche and although only a few miles long at that stage, the river was already a raging torrent of icy, white water, not the kind of thing you’d want to ford on your own. Mingma was also right in that as there were no trails branching off near Thangboche, but if he’d climbed back towards Namche there was the trail that climbed to a village called Khumjung and the other villages of the upper meadows. Looking at the map Philip realised that these villages sat high up in the valley, on a small plateau well away from any of the tallest mountains and the obvious place from where to try to transmit a radio message.

He worked out a plan. At first light they’d retrace their steps down the valley and head for Khumjung. If Izzard was there he’d talk to him, if not they’d return to Namche and see if they could find out anything there. He’d also pop into the police post and see if he could get them to do anything about Izzard.

He called Mingma, who’d been lying on the grass on the far side of the clearing chatting to some other Sherpa’s. Once he’d explained everything and ensured that the necessary arrangements would be made, he head back to his tent for a rest, still tired after the exertions of the previous few days.

Lying on his camp bed, however, he couldn’t sleep. He was nervous. An excitement was running through him that he didn’t really understand or know how to deal with. It had been a long time since he’d felt so apprehensive about meeting a woman. Some of it, he knew, was a worry about making a fool of himself again, like he had back in the monastery. But there was more.

He’d never been very comfortable around girls, a result, he thought, of not really coming across them much in his life. His boarding school had been boys only and during the holidays on the estate there just weren’t any around. A brief dalliance aged fourteen with his friend Will’s elder sister had resulted in a few chaste kisses and awkward embracing, but had ended in humiliation when she’d started ignoring him on his hopeful visits to their family forge. Soon after she’d become engaged to a farmer’s son a few villages away and had disappeared from his world.

There’d also been his sister Mary’s constant parade of visiting school friends, but their attentions seemed firmly fixed on his older brother rather than him, something he’d been very grateful for at the time. A relationship with another Classics student at Cambridge had been cut short by the war and after his return he’d struggled to keep relationships going, despite a desire to settle down to a normal life, as illustrated by the latest break-up just before his departure.

Whenever he managed to get into a relationship, a glance or gesture, even a smell would fill his mind with memories that made him recoil and turn away. He knew he had to face up to them. Perhaps a friendship in such an isolated place, away from his normal world, would help heal and banish the images from his mind, letting him move onto better relationships when he returned home.

He sat up and tried to write his journal but found he couldn’t concentrate on that either. Eventually he walked over and asked old Gompu for a bowl of hot water he then used to shave with. A brush of his rather long and none too clean hair and as the day started to fade he emerged from his tent and head off towards the monastery gate.

When he arrived there was nobody there. He felt relieved, although at the same time disappointed. Perhaps she’d forgotten about their brief conversation or that he’d already missed her. He made himself wait, chastising himself for his initial thought of returning to the Expedition Mess Tent. The sun had disappeared and the temperature had dropped considerably, so he stood with his hands pushed deep into his pockets, collar up and stamping his feet in an attempt to keep them warm and steady his nerves. After a few minutes he heard the creak of the monastery’s heavy wooden door and glancing up saw her silhouetted against the yellow lamp light coming from the smoky interior. She closed the door and glided down the flight of stone steps towards him.

“Good evening,” she said, the shy smile just visible again in the last light of dusk. “I’m sorry if I kept you waiting.” She took a breath but paused as if searching for the correct words. “There are some important guests in the monastery and I was needed to help make them comfortable.”

“Please, don’t worry,” Philip replied, “I’ve only just got here. Let me introduce myself properly. I’m Philip, Philip Armitage.” He looked at the girl’s face. It was perfect. Her large hazel eyes dominated it, a warm smile now making him feel as if she really did want to see him and wasn’t just being polite. He suddenly felt very pleased he’d made himself wait.

She gave a small bow, hands together which Philip rather clumsily copied. “My name is Lhamu Sherpa,” she replied in a quiet voice, her mouth opening to continue. There was an awkward silence. “You must excuse my English,” she said at last. “Sometimes it is hard to get the correct word. I sometimes have to think in my own language and then try to remember the English. You have so many words.”

Philip shook his head. “It’s excellent, honestly, and it’s been a very long day for you. What with the Expedition and these other guests, the monks must be exhausted!” He smiled weakly.

She laughed, a contagious giggle that lit up her face. “That’s true. We go weeks without seeing anyone up here in the mountains and now suddenly everybody is here.” She leant in towards him and whispered. “The Abbot is very happy. The climbers left an offering of money that is enough to pay for the repairs to the roof, while the other guests are important Tibetan monks carrying with them a sacred artefact. It will give the monastery great status to have had it there.”

They started to walk, skirting around the side of the monastery towards the village.

“The abbot didn’t know they were coming until they arrived last night. Their mission was a secret as they didn’t want the Chinese intercepting them and taking what they have. Since they invaded a few years ago much damage has been done to the monasteries in Tibet and many sacred things have been stolen or destroyed.”

They’d entered the village by now, and before Philip had time to reply she walked up to a weathered wooden door of a small house on the main street. She put her hand on the latch but before lifting it, turned towards Philip. “My father is very old. I sent a message to say I was bringing an Englishman tonight and he is very happy. You will have to talk loudly as his hearing is poor.”

Philip nodded and he followed Lhamu through the doorway, ducking under the low wooden lintel. They entered a large room, lit by the cooking fire in the centre and two small lamps on stone ledges that jutted out from the walls, lined with gleaming copper pots he assumed were full of food. Philips eyes started to sting from the smoke and he felt the urge to cough growing at the back of his throat. There were six people already in the room and they all turned to look.

Sitting on a wooden stool by the fire was an old man, wrapped up in a thick padded jacket despite the warmth of the room. As his face creased into a smile, his few remaining teeth becoming visible. Lhamu crossed to him and standing behind him put her hands on his shoulders. “This is my father, Karma Sherpa,” she said loudly. She then said something into his ear in a language Philip didn’t understand, although he did catch his name. The old man pulled himself to his feet, using Lhamu as a support. Philip stepped forward and took the outstretched hand.

“It’s good to see an Englishman again,” he said in a surprisingly strong voice, looking Philip up and down. “They seem to make you all giants in that country!” He started to laugh, a chuckle that turned into a chesty cough and made him sit down on his stool. Lhamu introduced two of her brothers Tshering and Lhakpa, both also sitting by the fire, and a young woman called Chiki, who was the wife of Tshering and was stirring some pans that hung over the hearth. Lastly she dragged forward two young children who were hiding behind Chiki. “And these are Dali and Sarkey, my niece and nephew,” she said holding each by the upper arm so they couldn’t run away. “They are a little frightened to have someone so white in their house.”

Philip smiled at them reassuringly, making them go wide-eyed in terror, and then squatted down. “I’m pleased to meet you,” he said quietly, holding out his hand. With encouragement from Lhamu the children quickly touched the hand before retreating behind their aunt, faces buried in her long skirt.

“Please,” said the now recovered Karma, “take a seat by me so we can talk.”

He stood, crossing the room to a stool that Lhakpa had vacated and sat down. It was better when seated, the smoke rising to the rafters and leaving cleaner air lower down. Philip felt both his eyes and throat clear. Chiki came over and with a shy bow gave him a bowl of rice and lentils. The others were also served and soon everybody was eating, except the children who still stared at Philip suspiciously. Little was said until the bowls were cleared away and the men were all served with a large beaker of the strongest chang Philip had yet tasted.

“It’s been many years since I’ve had the opportunity to speak to an Englishman,” Karma said at last. “I often think of my friends from there who must now be old and useless like me.” He stared into the fire. “At least we got to live our lives. Sometimes I wonder what drives a man to risk his life and the prosperity of his family for one brief moment of glory.”

Philip nodded. “I’m afraid I agree with you. I shouldn’t really admit it but I think the climbers camping out there are mad.” He paused, glancing at the old man. “When was it you met these other Englishmen?”

Karma looked at him with a smile, enjoying the chance to reminisce. “It must have been thirty years ago. I was living in Darjeeling in India at the time, as that was where all the big climbing trips started. In those days Nepal was closed to all foreigners so to get to Everest the only way was through Sikkim and then Tibet.” He paused. “It was a long hard trek. But I was young and we were paid so much money it was hard for a young Sherpa to believe.”

“Do you remember any of their names?” Philip asked, a feeling of excitement growing.

The old man chuckled. “I remember their names better than I remember what I had for breakfast today. Three times I went with them. The first was just to make maps, but the other two times they tried to climb to the top. On the first trip it was run by Howardbury. He was a fine man but we were all a little bit scared of him.” He stopped and waited as Chiki came round and refilled their cups. After taking a long pull he continued. “It was the next two trips that I knew the men better. My English had improved and the younger climbers were keen to learn some Tibetan. I taught them. In the evenings we sat in the Mess tent and talked. A man called Bruce taught me to read English.”

He paused again, his voice now quieter and strained with emotion. “Many of my friends died on these trips. On the first I survived only because I was snow blinded and stayed in camp. Seven Sherpas, including my replacement, were swept away in an avalanche. The last time two of the sahibs vanished.” He pointed up in the air, as if seeing images from years ago. “They were climbing near the top and then we never saw them again. I like to believe they reached the top and the mother goddess of the mountain kept them with her because they were such brave men.”

There was silence. “That must have been Mallory and Irvine?” Philip asked at last. “I’ve read the book about it. It was 1924. It’s become something of a legend in Britain now, did they or didn’t they make it to the summit!”

Karma shook his head. “They were not a legend. They were my friends. It was Irvine sahib who leant me books to read.”

He gestured towards a battered wooden chest in the corner and Lhamu got up and walked over to it, lifting its creaking lid and reaching inside. She took out a package wrapped in a white silk cloth, from which she pulled a book and passed it over to Philip.

Just So Stories
by Rudyard Kipling. He read, the words embossed in faded gold letters on a green cover. Carefully he opened it and looked at the title page. There, written in strong copperplate handwriting was the name Sandy Irvine.