Sacred Mountain Page 10

  “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.

  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 hu
miliation 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.