Sacred Mountain (29 page)

The next morning they sat around the hearth with large mugs of warm chang in their hands. Mingma had been to the Police Post at first light to report the avalanche and had returned shaking his head.

“When I spoke to them they said you had never reported the dead monks by the river.” He looked at Philip. “The officer said that when you visited them last week you’d simply said that a monk was missing down by the river. That is why he did not act, thinking that the man would turn up later and it would be a waste of time sending his men. It was only after we’d left next day that he heard of the massacre from porters coming from Thangboche and realised they must be linked.”

Philip shook his head. “It’s my fault. I should have brought someone else with us to the Police Post to check what he was saying. Strangely enough, in the end it probably worked out better thanks to him. If it hadn’t been for him telling us about the main Red Army force we may well have been caught by them at Rombuk. They’d have massacred us.”

He looked around the group. “What are everybody’s plans?”

“I shall return to Thangboche,” the Rinpoche announced, looking around the faces of the men who’d risked their lives for him. “Lhamu and Mingma have offered to take me. I want to pray for those who were killed and to get a message sent to the Dalai Lama in Lhasa telling him what’s happened and that I’m well enough to continue.” He looked around the faces of the Gurkhas. “I can never thank you or your dead friends for what they have done for me and Tibet.”

He looked at Prem. “I will speak to the Abbot of Thangboche. Should the families of your dead comrades wish it, their sons will be welcomed there to study. Should they need it, alms will be given. They have only to ask, their names will be remembered and revered.”

Prem bowed his head. “I will tell them. Balbir always believed he’d been saved by the Lieutenant for some purpose. When the sahib appeared again he knew that the time had come and he went gladly to his fate. I will make sure their army pensions are changed to their widows so they do not suffer more hardship.”

Prem stood and the other Gurkhas followed his lead, draining their mugs and crossing to the bunks to fetch their possessions. Philip slowly stood, his shoulder still painful, and followed the corporal out of the door. He squinted in the bright morning light, sunlight bathing the small lane in a warm light that reflected off the white washed walls. He breathed in deeply, enjoying the sensation of the cool air in his lungs after the smoky lodge.

The two men stood facing each other awkwardly, unsure what to say. Prem slowly saluted. Philip smiled and nodded, sharply returning the salute before stretching out his hand. Prem lowered his salute and reached out to grasp the hand. The men stared at each other.

Philip faltered, trying to find words. There were none.

The Gurkha smiled and nodded, and with their hands still grasped they embraced.

The other Gurkhas had emerged and came over, hugging him, smiling faces he would now remember with fondness and pride. And with that they were gone, off down the small cobbled street and around the corner.

*

It was a beautiful day. Sunlight streamed down through a canopy of rhododendron, leaving pools of dappled light on the trail that contoured its way up the valley. The flowers were now in full bloom, huge splashes of pink and white that sat framed by the vivid green of the foliage. Ahead, high up on a spur, stood the gold pinnacled roof of Thangboche Monastery, glistening in the morning light.

Philip walked steadily along the trail, his body rested after a day of being fed up by Mingma’s mother back in Namche Bazaar. The only exertion he’d done the previous day was to take a short afternoon stroll up to the radio station, where he’d enjoyed a very pleasant hour drinking tea with the charming Indian operator, who’d been delighted to have a visitor in such a remote place. It would, he’d been assured, be an honour to relay any messages for the expedition. When Philip had enquired about the radio’s performance with the new parts he’d had to walk to collect, the man had looked at him bemused and informed him with a shrug that he hadn’t been out of Namche for nearly two months.

They rested for half an hour at the river, Philip finding it impossible to believe that such a tranquil place had been the scene of such horror only days before. The Rinpoche knelt and said prayers for the spirits of those who’d been killed, before they shared some dried fruit from their packs.

It was several hours later that they wearily crested the ridge and found themselves walking through the village of Thangboche once more. The chickens still scurried around, mangy dogs still lay sleeping in the shade and grubby children chased them gleefully. As they approached the monastery the great horn boomed its welcome, its note seeming to settle under the normal noise of the valley to lift everything upwards.

The monastery doors opened and the Head Lama scurried out, followed by a group of senior monks. They were followed by Mingma, who’d gone ahead with Lhamu, to warn the monastery of the arrival of their visitor. They all prostrated themselves before the Rinpoche, who acknowledged them with hands pushed together and told them to rise.

The abbot turned to face Philip and taking his hand pressed it to his head. He said something Philip didn’t understand.

Lhamu stepped forward smiling. “He says that you must eat with them tonight in thanksgiving.”

Philip smiled, rather embarrassed by the fuss. “Please tell him it would be an honour,” he replied, looking at Lhamu. “Although I have a very important appointment planned for later this evening so tell him to keep the prayers short.”

Lhamu giggled and translated the first part of the reply to the abbot, who smiled happily and turned his attention back to the Rinpoche, who was being ushered inside the monastery.

Before leaving Namche they’d arranged to meet up that evening at Lhamu’s family house where he was to stay as a guest. He smiled and winked at her. “I’ll see you later.” He nodded in the direction of where the expedition tents had been. “I’d better go and visit the Expedition and see if I still have a job. There should be a message or two by now.”

Lhamu waved as he turned and briskly set off across the small meadow. The camp was much smaller than it had been on his last visit. Most of the tents had gone and many of the crates of supplies had also been carried, he guessed, up the valley to the Base Camp. As he approached he saw a man busy unpacking what looked like oxygen bottles and using a screw-in gauge to check their pressure.

He walked over. “Major Roberts?” he enquired, recognising him from an introduction from James on his previous visit. “Philip Armitage, from
The
Times
.”

The man stood up, wiped his hands on a cloth that had been draped over his shoulder and shook his hand. “Oh yes, hello again,” he replied with a smile. “James told me you’d probably appear at some point. Good to see you. You’ve timed your arrival very well,” he continued, walking over to a table that stood outside in the sun. He rummaged through a mound of papers and pulled out an envelope.

“This came in for you this morning with James runner. He dropped it before heading off again at full gallop for Kathmandu. He said things seemed to be going as planned.” He pointed at the desk. “There’s a party of porters heading up in the morning with some of this oxygen. If you want to send a reply, write it now and I’ll seal it in the dispatch bag.”

Philip thanked him and sank gratefully into a canvas camp chair that stood beside the desk. After satisfying himself that James seal was intact he ripped open the envelope and started reading the message;

“Base Camp, 3
^rd
May

Philip, Base Camp established. Climbing started up the Ice-flow. Need to know that messages are secure. Any news on Izzard? Got a stinking cold. Wish I had my feet up in cosy Namche like you. Hope you’re not too bored! Best James.”

He smiled to himself and looking up, pulled over a sheet of plain paper from a pile on the desk being held down by a small lump of quartz. He picked up a pencil and started to write.

“James. Izzard no longer a threat and reports say has returned to Kathmandu. Dispatches can be sent with confidence, I suggest important messages are coded as planned and sent via the Namche radio who seem delighted to assist. I’ll head back to Kathmandu, checking for other reporters as I go.” He looked up, his eyes falling on the summit of Everest that was just visible above the huge snow ridge of Lhotse. It was a black pyramid of inhospitable rock, snow blasting from it as high altitude winds battered it from the north. On the other side of the mountain lay Rombuk, geographically so near and yet part of a different, turbulent world. He looked down at the paper and added. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll find something to pass the time.”

He sealed the note in an envelope and left it on the desk under the rock. He walked over to where Roberts was busy testing another oxygen cylinder, carefully noting its serial number and pressure before placing it in a porters load ready to be carried up the mountain.

“Did Hunt have anything interesting to say?” Philip asked after they’d chatted amicably for a while about the equipment.

Roberts looked at him. “I don’t suppose there’s any harm in telling you since James will have written about it in that dispatch that’s just gone. He’s told them whose going to be going for the summit. Tom Bourdillon and Charlie Evans are having first crack and apparently they’re looking strong. If they fail then it’ll be Tenzing and Ed Hillary’s turn.”

They chatted a bit longer until the sun dipped beneath the western wall of the valley and Philip excused himself, walked slowly back towards the monastery. He was welcomed at the door and given some ornate yellow slippers and a long white scarf to wear, before being solemnly led up to the banqueting room. He was embarrassed to see that he’d been placed on the top table, next to the Rinpoche, and blushed brightly when the room fell silent and the monks bowed as he was led to his place.

This time the meal went quickly, mainly because he was able to talk to the Rinpoche. He asked about the mission the Llama had been given.

“Our country has been defending itself against China for many years. The eastern border has moved back and forward on numerous occasions.” He looked at Philip. “That was the cause of your friend Tashi’s hatred for us.”

“I still find it hard to believe that he’d help the Chinese,” Philip said. “He was a Tibetan, surely they could have settled elsewhere in Tibet?”

The Rinpoche shook his head. “If the Tibetans took their lands they would have been exiled and the Chinese would not have taken them in. They want their own people in these areas to make their grip on the land stronger. Any ill will he bore the Chinese would have been lost in the great revolution, when he must have thought that at last the people would have their say. The Kuomintang ruled China when his family were refused entry, but in 1949 they were beaten by the Communists under Mao Tse-tung.” He shrugged sadly. “It was the Communists Tashi thought were his allies, as they’d beaten his Chinese enemies and then invaded his Tibet ones.

“His father must have brought him up to remember the wrong we Tibetans had put their family through and at some point, perhaps under the guise of trading on the High Plateau, he must have contacted the Communists and started working for them.”

Philip interrupted. “He told me that he used to fly into Southern China during the war with the American planes. Perhaps that was the start of it?”

The Rinpoche nodded. “The Communists were fighting with the Kuomintang against the Japanese at that point, he may well have come across them. They were recruiting their network of spies to help them seize control of China after the war. They were paranoid that Tibet would gain the support of India and that they would come to our aid. He was a useful agent for them to recruit if he was living in Calcutta.”

He shook his head. “I don’t know how the Chinese discovered my trip to the UN, but they must have contacted him and told him to get to Nepal. I guess it was he who located me and then guided the soldiers to where they could ambush us.”

Philip sighed. “It’s a great shame he couldn’t put his early life behind him. From what I gathered he’d done rather well for himself in Calcutta.” He scratched the back of his head. “For all the time we spent together I don’t even know if he had a wife and family.”

“You shouldn’t feel bad,” the Rinpoche replied, placing his hand on Philip’s. “You were right to see the good in him rather than dwell on the dark. You couldn’t know about his past.”

The Rinpoche was distracted by the abbot and Philip sat picking at his meal, his anticipation growing about seeing Lhamu again. Soon the abbot stood and escorted the Rinpoche from the room, marking the end of the evening. He turned to see Lhamu walking up behind him and beckoning him to follow. He stood stiffly, his legs numb after sitting cross-legged for so long, and descended the steps before crossing to the monastery entrance.

They slipped on their shoes and stepped outside. The whole valley was bathed in moonlight, the snow-covered mountains glowing in the distance under a dazzling array of stars. They descended the steps in silence and as they did so Philip felt Lhamu’s hand slide tentatively into his. He forced his body to relax and when they reached the gate they stopped and turned to face each other.