Shambhala (20 page)

A
FTER WALKING FOR
about an hour, he stops. Staring off into the cold shadow of the mountain forest, he feels empty, tired, and alone. “I have no idea where I am going,” he thinks as he stares at the sun that sits in the western sky. He continues North, and as the path becomes narrower, he has to climb up using his hands in several spots. Coming to a precipice, he looks out, noticing the forest below is far down. There is no way he can climb down there. Looking around, he realizes he can circumvent the gap by walking around the perimeter of a narrow rock ledge to get back around heading North again. Feeling drained, he decides to gather some firewood and set up camp here.
This is probably the safest place for the night
, he thinks, not knowing how far the rocky perimeter will travel until he can go North again. He doesn’t want to get caught there at nightfall.

After lighting a huge fire, he only has two matches left.
I must make it to Shambhala soon
, he thinks, untying the cloth of food from the Englishman. Bahi thinks he may be going a little crazy as he reflects on his logic of not following the men back for provisions. He takes out a piece of chicken and some bread, then makes a sandwich and slowly eats it. His stomach feels ill from all the emotions running through his body. Placing the small, clear glass bottle of rum in front of him, he stares at it as he eats. After finishing the sandwich, he unscrews the silver top, and taking a large chug, the warm sensation runs down his throat, heating his belly and soothing his aching mind. He sits and thinks about Ajee and how he misses him so much already. He thinks about his family and remembers laughing with them and begins to form tears as he takes another shot of the rum. The strong liquor doubly affects him. It kills much of his pain on the one hand, making him more sentimental on the other.

He looks wearily at the final portion of clear brown liquor and raises it up. “To Ajee,” he says as he tips back the glass, gulping down a sizeable shot, squeezing out every last drop of the small bottle. Standing up, he stares at the fire, his right hand dropped to his side, holding the empty bottle.
What is it all for?
he wonders.
What if Shambhala is a fairy tale?
he worries. He thinks of Kamini and Bandar, then remembers Eva.
Maybe I should have listened to her
. He wishes he were cuddled in her bed with the sweet smell of her hair in his face and the warm touch of her body secured to his. Suddenly he drops the bottle. He sits down, taking a deep breath, wrapping both shawls around his body. He hears a voice in the wind that whisks by his ears. “North,” he swears he hears as the fire blazes higher. Lying alongside the fire, feeling the security of liquid courage, he closes his eyes in exhaustion and falls fast asleep on the ground, bundled up in the shawls.

A loud crackling in the trees above him springs him awake. He quickly grabs a stick that practically freezes to his hands. Confused about where he is at first, he gains his wits and looks around, but can’t see or hear anything. His heart pounds in his chest as he throws a few more pieces of wood on the fire, creating more light. He hears the noise again far into the woods. Using the stick to stir the fire, he burns the end, making it red hot in preparation for any predators. Sitting in front of the fire, he stays awake, unable to sleep from fear that pumps through his veins. He sits for hours, feeding the fire until daybreak. The silence of morning eases his nerves. Standing up, he feels woozy from the exhaustion of not sleeping. Small patches of snow randomly dot the forest floor, covering brown leaves fallen from the slumbering, bare trees that live amongst the strong pines that dominate the area. He looks over at the empty rum bottle that lies next to the jagged-rock fire pit smoking out its last breath, Ajee’s words echo in his mind: “Nothing lasts forever.”

The air is a damp cold that seeps into his bones and pounds in his head. Tired both physically and emotionally, he secures the yak shawls tightly to his body, noticing the uncanny warming effect it has.
This would warm me if I were naked in an ice storm
, he thinks, trying to stay positive in an otherwise gloomy situation. He walks to the edge of the precipice, then looks off at the vast trees below that melt together in a sea of pine needles. Mind clouded, he sits at the edge, taking a deep breath as he closes his eyes slightly to meditate. He consciously relaxes his body and mind, then allows his mind to abide in the silence. Taking his attention from the busy thoughts that dominate his head, he brings it down into his heart. The damp wind presses itself against his face as he breathes out busy thoughts of his mind. His eyes are heavy from the burden of loss and no sleep, and his brain feels tight and tired, but finally he relaxes them and finds a small space of peace in which he abides for a few minutes, going deeper with every passing moment. Slowly he opens his eyes and gazes around at the forest before him.

He is drawn to the rock ledge that he believes will bring him back onto the northward trail. He realizes that to get to the ledge, which twists back to the North, he will have to walk back down, around and up the side of the mountain. So he acts quickly. He stands up and laughs at what the Englishman must have thought of this wiley white man set to find Shambhala.
I must be insane
, he thinks with a laugh. The winter storm warnings of the Englishman play over in his mind as he gathers his things to begin the journey once again northward. The sky is dark gray, making his already sullen mood even darker. Walking down the path, he smells the pine trees. The forest is silent. A bird hops around in search of a morsel. The wind grows stronger as he walks. His stomach rumbles. He feels like the bird, alone without any food, in the solitude of the snowy mountain forest. All the food is gone even the few nuts he ate after his meditation, which seemed to only make him more hungry. He begins to think more and more that his decision not to go back to the Englishman’s camp was a bad decision. He contemplates turning back, as he realizes he is foolishly unprepared for the vast mountains ahead of him. He does not know how to catch a rabbit. There are no fruit-bearing trees. His only hope is to find Shambhala or starve to death. Focusing on the task ahead, he diverts his mind from the hunger, which passes in waves.

Finally, he reaches the bottom of the slope, where he will begin his ascent up the rock ledge that wraps around to where, he hopes, will take him back onto the northern path. Standing at the almost vertical slope, he realizes he will have to climb the rock face in order to get to the flat edge above. He Grabs a jutting rock, then lifts himself to secure his foot in a divot a few feet up and continues on. About half way up he realizes this is higher than it had looked from below. Making the mistake of looking down, he feels his stomach buckle and mind spin. Staring the rock face directly in front, he breathes and calms himself before reaching for another rock, which crumbles in his hand. He thinks this is a bad idea. He contemplates going back down.
Maybe I should just go back to the village and get some food
. Thoughts of self-defeat begin to seep in, but he finds another stable rock to grab and ascends a few feet higher. Arms tired, he hangs on, trembling. Up further, still only a few feet from the top, yet far from the bottom, he knows that if he falls it would mean much harm or even death. Sweat beads his forehead and lines his body, mixing with the cool air. Desperately grabbing the edge of the ridge above, he struggles to pull up. Butterflies in his stomach propel his left leg atop the ledge. Now awkwardly hanging in limbo he tosses the satchel upon the ledge, takes a deep breath, and uses all his might to bring his body up, scraping his legs and arms on the cold, wet rock, which cuts through his skin. His mind does not worry about tearing flesh because the fear of falling trumps. He pulls and pulls, getting half of his body to the top, scraping his head as his hat falls off. It slowly floats to the ground far below as he finally lifts his sweating body secure to the flat top of the ledge, where he lies, gasping, on his back. Hi face is beet red, his heart hammers his chest, trying to escape this madman. He begins to laugh, psychotically grabbing his head as he looks over the ledge at his hat, before standing up. The wind blows thick across the flat ledge, acting as a corridor, streaming wind along the jagged rock wall that shoots up the mountain, offering only a narrow space where Bahi now stands, looking back at where he was earlier. He can see the barren fire pit still smoking from the embers, which are subdued by the now light snow that has begun to fall. Wet flakes sweep through, smacking his face like raindrops as he walks around the corner of the ridge, realizing he has a far walk along this rocky ledge before he makes his way to any open area in the mountain. The air suddenly grow colder and the snow thicker, hitting his face like ice pellets as the wintery air permeates his bones, prompting him to take the yak shawl from his bag and wrap it around his head and body. Instantly he feels warm from this almost magical shawl, which gives him the will to press on. The winds are against him as he works to both stay on the ledge and keep moving forward. The snow blows thicker with every step, and what he thought would have taken him an hour at most has turned into two. Traversing the narrow ridge, he feels a sudden gust of wind punch him in the chest as he grabs a piece of rock on the wall, losing his grasp of his shawl, which blows off down the cliff. “No! Damn it!”

He watches as the shawl flutters down, dancing in the windblown snow like a large, free-falling butterfly. Taking the former shawl from his bag, he wraps it around himself, barely shielding himself from the cold. It’s not as warm as the other shawl, but better than nothing. He keeps moving as the snow pours thickly down like white rain that is both beautiful and terrifying. Bahi walks on, tired and hungry, confused and angry, his face red from the frost that numbs his cheeks and burns his eyes. Finally he comes to a turn, and hoping this will lead to a secure opening, he walks faster. His leg begins to ache from the dampness as he nears the turn and rounds the bend only to find that the ledge stops at a rock wall.

“Dead end!” he yells out loud. “Dead end!” he screams at the rock wall as he falls to sit at its base, which shields him from winds that blow from the other direction.

Laughing almost uncontrollably, putting his face in his hands, he realizes he must go back down and seek some shelter from this storm.
Perhaps I can make it back to the village and regroup
, he thinks.

He stands up and walks back, forced to hold onto the rock wall that lines the ledge, as the winds have now accelerated. He walks slowly. He fears it will be dark by the time he reaches the bottom again and that he won’t be able to climb back down in this storm. His body is freezing and his mind reverts to a primordial survival mode, focusing on getting out of there like a hungry leopard in search of food for it’s young in the depths of winter.

A rush of energy washes over him, clearing his mind, allowing him to keep on. A few hours pass, and he reaches the spot where he had climbed up. His stomach is now a burning pit of hunger. His eyes are dilalated from the white world that has suddenly taken over, covering the mountain in a few feet of snow. Looking at the rock face, he realizes it will be almost impossible to get down.
But what choice do I have?

He tosses his bag down as he searches out through the falling snow.
The Englishman has formed a rescue group to come find me
.
Is that them?
He realizes that the human-like shapes he sees are only small pines disguised by the snow. Quickly shaking the fantasy from his mind, he takes a deep breath and begins to hang off the cliff to descend. One foot and hand grasp the jagged rocks. Then another, Then another—lowering him slowly. Making it halfway down, fear just doesn’t make sense to him anymore, adrenaline pumps through his veins, and he focuses on each next step down. Securing with his right foot, he releases his right hand as his foot slips.

Falling, he almost faints, then smacks into snow-covered rocks at the base of the cliff. A white haze washes over him as he passes out. Coming to, he sits and manages to drag his body up against the rock face. Bleeding from his head, feeling a familiar throbbing pain in his leg and arm, he tries to stand up and shrieks in pain. Now sitting, nausea rips through him like a storm, leaving him faint. The snows blow hard as he sits, defeated, staring out into the white forest, an odd feeling of numb serenity washing over him as he wonders where that little bird is. He surrenders to the mountainous forest, surrenders to the storm, surrenders all of his ambitions. He turns his head to the side, vomiting the little food he still has in is stomach from the night before. He tries once again to stand, but the pain in his leg and arm is excruciating. He knows they must be broken, and he refuses to look at his leg, which lies mangled and twisted. His breath is short and weak and his mind begins to shift, disconnecting from the pain, drifting off like the snow that covers his limp body.

Opening his eyes in an attempt to rally himself, he remembers his family. Tears freeze to his cheeks. He remembers Eva and the warmth of her body. He remembers all his friends on his journey as tears stream down past the pain, washing over his face. With a look of bliss and surrender, his eyes begin to shut.
Strange how the cold freeze of death seems to warm a man in his final hour, slowing the heart, glazing the eyes, drifting the mind back to where this all began.
Where did I go wrong?

Head nodding, he drifts away, body frozen in time. Darkness permeates his world. The wind howls and whistles in his ears until finally all is silent, all is lost, all is gone and he opens his eyes in a green, familiar meadow of dreamlike warmth. Trees grow oranges and apples lush in all directions. He notices a figure coming toward him. Crystal-blue eyes glow in her pure white skin, raising him to his feet as she gazes, drawing him into her arms. Swimming in the peace of her eyes, he takes her in as she smiles. Warmth fills his entire being. Picking an apple from a tree above, she says, adoringly, “Do you wish to stay here with me forever?” The words come out without her moving her lips.