Sacred Mountain Read online

  Without speaking, they slowly moved forward. The yak stared at them dolefully, its heavy load still balanced on its back, and when they got closer it was apparent that the blood didn’t belong to the animal. They moved on and edged around a bend in the trail. Philip could now see the bridge ahead, a couple of hundred yards downstream. It was a large suspension bridge, built of heavy ropes supporting a floor of rough wooden planking, covered by a thin layer of packed earth. It looked deserted but he couldn’t see where it joined the bank they were on, its end hidden behind a small rocky outcrop.

  It felt wrong. They’d dropped out of the breeze and the air felt oppressive. With the exception of the river, everything was still. There were no birds flying in the thick foliage or perched on the rocks. Thick clumps of lichen hung down from the boughs of the rhododendron trees, making the woods look dark and sinister. Philip turned to Mingma and held his finger to his lips, before slowly moving along the trail, staying close to the fringe of the forest.

  He could now feel an updraft of cold air coming from the icy river water as it roared past down the valley, the chill adding to his sense of foreboding. He kept his eyes forward, fixed on the furthermost point he could see. Another yak wandered past, almost knocking Philip over in its enthusiasm to reach some grazing in the forest behind.

  Philip’s mind was still trying to work out a plausible explanation for the gunfire. Perhaps it had come from a group of porters or traders from the Hindu lowlands who’d been out looking for game. Prem and the other Gurkhas might well have guns and would be happy to eat fresh, free meat. That didn’t, however, explain why there were bloodstained yaks wandering around. His mind sharpened as they reached what he thought was the last corner in the trail before the bridge.

  He felt his senses heighten, aware of every noise and movement. He could smell something. It was triggering something in his mind, something that was telling him to run. He sniffed the air again, his eyes scanning around for anything that looked out of place. A mantra he’d long forgotten flooded back into his head; never tread on what can be stepped over. Never cut what can be broken. Never bend what can be moved. He could sense that something wasn’t right, wasn’t natural. He just had to see it. He glanced down to the water, wondering if anything had been dropped or fallen from the trail and his eyes fell on something in the rushing water.

  At first it didn’t really register what he was seeing, just knowing that something wasn’t right. Dropping his rucksack to the ground he crossed the path and scrambled down the steep slope to the river’s edge, a narrow strip of boulders and silt that had been deposited there during the summer floods. Crouching down he put his fingers into the icy water and immediately realised what had caught his eye. The water here wasn’t crystal clear. It had a pink tinge to it as swept past where he was kneeling, before quickly diluting and vanishing as it entered the main flow of the river.

  He turned and slowly worked his way up stream, climbing on top of a large boulder that jutted out into the main river. Looking down he saw that behind it a small pool had formed where water from the main current got trapped, eddying around. In this, floating face-down, was the body of a man. The water around it was bright crimson, spiralling in the current and a small hint of this was being dragged out by escaping water into the main stream. It was this that Philip had noticed.

  He slid down the rock, beckoning to Mingma to follow. The pool wasn’t deep, reaching to just over his knees but he gasped as its icy temperature made his legs go numb. He grabbed the man’s clothes and dragged him to the bank, trying to roll him over to get his face clear of the water. Mingma took hold of an arm and between them they dragged him onto a small silt beach.

  Philip recognised him at once. It was the Llama, the Tibetan monk who’d been sitting next to the Abbot at the feast in Thangboche the day before. His distinctive yellow and purple robes clung to his thin body, a silver ring with a large piece of engraved coral still on a white, shrivelled finger. A neat hole, still seeping blood, showed where he’d been shot in the head, just above the ear.

  Philip and Mingma looked up at each other, too shocked to speak. Mingma glanced up towards the trail, fear in his eyes and Philip, realising the danger they were in, grabbed his arm and pulled him over the body. They scrambled backwards until the large boulder hid them from view, sitting on the beach, leaning up against it.

  It was Mingma who spoke first, shouting above the roar of the river into Philip’s ear. “It’s one of the Tibetan monks,” he said, shaking his head in disbelief.

  Philip nodded grimly. “Somebody certainly wanted him dead.” He nodded towards the body. “That shot to the head was done at close range; you can see the burns from the muzzle flash. It looks as though he was executed and his body thrown down into the river.”

  Mingma looked shocked. “But who would do it? He was a holy man, a higher incarnation.”

  Philip shrugged. “I don’t know but it wasn’t robbery.” He pointed to the ring. “Whoever did it knew exactly what they were after and didn’t hang around afterwards to loot anything.” He glanced around. “We cannot stay here; we’re sitting ducks if whoever did this is still around.” He pointed up the slope. “We need to get up above the trail. That way we can approach the bridge in the forest without being seen. We need to find out what’s happened to the other monks, see if there are any survivors.”

  Mingma nodded, following Philip as he climbed cautiously back up to the path. After a quick glance in each direction they sprinted across and threw themselves into the undergrowth. They lay still for a few seconds, ears straining to hear anything above the water, before Philip slowly pushed himself up and started to scramble up into the forest.

  The slope was steep and the thick undergrowth kept snagging on his clothes. Philip swore silently as one branch scratched a painful cut in his forearm. After about thirty yards the gradient eased and a thin ledge, formed where a softer stratum of rock had eroded away, seemed to run off parallel to the river. Crouching, Philip examined it and realised it was used by animals as a pathway, probably deer which he’d seen quite frequently crossing the trail. He beckoned Mingma to follow him up before turning and carefully setting off along the game trail.

  It was slow going. The surface was loose and they had to tread carefully, trying to avoid sending small stones bouncing down the slope onto the path below. The forest got thicker, low branches obstructing their way and the hanging curtains of lichen blotting out any view. Frequently they had to climb over or duck under boughs or push through thick foliage. At least, Philip reassured himself, the river would drown out the racket they must be making.

  After a couple of minutes the path started to descend and as it did so the trees thinned. Philip slowed, his body tense and eyes constantly scanning ahead. Something moved, catching his eye and he stopped, holding up his hand to Mingma and then pointing down. He could see movement through the leaves, but didn’t have a clear view it. He crept forward, stopping when a small break in the undergrowth revealed a man, his back turned to them, searching the body of a monk that lay sprawled across the trail in a pool of blood. The man stood up and walked further down the trail, kneeling again beside what Philip assumed was another body.

  Philip edged forward, the path dropping until it ran parallel with the main trail, about ten feet above it, along the top of a small bluff that was a continuation of the rocky outcrop. Looking down he could see the man was still absorbed in searching the bodies which lay all around. He beckoned Mingma to join him and they looked out over the carnage. He counted seven dead monks, some lying on the trail, others half hidden in the undergrowth. Most had been shot, while others seemed to have been beaten or slashed with knives. Philip felt nausea rise inside him, the smell of blood and sight of death making him dizzy.

  He felt a hand on his shoulder and spun round, fist raised to strike out. It was Mingma. He’d forgotten where he was and shook his head, spitting the taste of bile from his mouth.

  “He is not armed,” whispered t
he Sherpa, looking down the trail. “When he comes up the path we’ll wait until he is passed the rock and then jump on him. He will not hear us over the river.”

  Philip nodded, the words sounding distant and cumbersome. He took several deep breathes, trying to regain control of himself. Mingma squeezed his arm, nodding towards where the trail emerged and glancing up, Philip saw a shape walk below them. He felt Mingma’s body explode past him and instinctively followed, flashing from the dark of the undergrowth into brilliant sunlight.

  The man had no idea what was happening. Mingma hit him full on the shoulder with his knee and sent him crashing to the ground. Before he could draw breath Philip landed on top of him as well, knees slamming into the small of his back. They pulled his arms back, which the man had instinctively raised to break his fall, and roughly tied them behind him with the silk scarf the abbot had given Philip the previous day. Philip quickly frisked him for weapons and finding nothing, stood up. Mingma gripped the man’s shoulder and rolling him over. The man was gasping for air, still recovering from being winded in the attack, face dirty and bloodied where it had slammed into the rocky ground. It took Philip a few moments to recognise him but as realisation dawned he found himself looking down into the terrified face of Tashi Banagee.

  Philip stared at him, speechless. Tashi rolled onto one side and spat a mouthful of blood onto the ground. “Don’t kill me,” he pleaded, still breathless. “I’ll say nothing…” He paused, desperately sucking in air and squinted up into Philip’s face. “It’s you,” he spluttered, confusion sweeping his face. His head fell back onto the ground, his body relaxing. “Thank God. I thought the soldiers had returned and were going to waste me.” He rolled himself up into a sitting position and rolled his neck painfully.”

  Philip studied him in silence, perplexed as to what the Calcutta trader was talking about. Tashi’s eyes fixed on him and realisation swept his face. “You think this was me?” he asked, incredulously. “That I shot these people and then decided to hang around for someone to turn up?”

  Philip continued to stare, trying to understand something of the chaos. Finally he replied. “These monks were carrying a priceless Tibetan artefact. The kind of thing an antiquities dealer would,” he raised his eyebrows, “kill for.”

  Tashi shook his head vehemently. “No. You are wrong. I was camping a little way downstream from the bridge,” he said, flicking his head down the valley. “I arrived here yesterday and decided to stay. There is a small beach about a hundred yards downstream that’s soft to sleep on. An overhang in the bank gives me shelter. I thought it would be a good place to meet refugees as they cross the river. I brew some tea on a small fire, offer some food and buy what they have to sell.” He looked Philip in the eyes. “Precious stones. Some old Thankas, maybe some jewellery. That’s all.”

  He spat more blood from his mouth, wiping his chin on his shoulder. “I heard the shooting from my camp and stayed hidden in the rocks. After an hour or so, when everything was quiet again I came out and found this.” He shook his head. “I was trying to help, seeing if anyone was still alive, when you jumped me.” He looked around, shaking his head. “If you want my two-cents worth, whoever did this knew what they were doing and were packing some pretty serious firepower.”

  “Did you see anybody?” Mingma asked, distrust bristling in his voice.

  Tashi shook his head. “Whoever it was were long gone by the time I arrived.” He nodded down the trail. “But the monk I just left is still alive, although not for long. You could try asking him. I was just going to get him some water.”

  Philip dragged Tashi to his feet and pushed him ahead of them, letting him lead them to the body of a young monk. He’d been badly beaten. His robes were soaked in blood which ran from wounds that covered his body. His face was almost unrecognisable; his nose smashed, an eye bruised and closed and with blood trickling from an ear. Mingma kneeled beside him and pulling round his water bottle from where it hung, carefully dribbled a little water into the monk’s mouth. For a few seconds nothing happened, then the young man’s eyes flickered and he gagged, the water running pink from the corner of his mouth.

  Mingma said something to him but there was no reply, just the laboured rattle of the man’s breathing. The Sherpa leant forward and said the same thing again. The monk looked surprised and then relaxed as his eyes focused on the young guide’s face. Philip saw the man’s lips move, more watery blood running down his cheek.

  “Rinpoche,” was the only word Philip could make out, the rest was too quiet to hear.

  Mingma leant down until his ear was almost touching the man’s lips. He listened intently, waiting patiently as the man spluttered and gasped for air between words. A couple of times he asked what sounded like questions. Both times the young man gave hardly perceptible nods.

  After less than a minute Mingma slowly sat back up, and Philip could see that the Sherpa’s body was shaking. With a trembling hand he reached forward and gently closed the eyes of the monk which were now staring vacantly at the sky.

  “Could you make out anything he said?” Philip asked.

  The Sherpa nodded and got slowly to his feet. “It is very bad,” he said, his voice cracking.

  Philip was confused. He’d never seen Mingma so shaken, his face ashen grey.

  “I’m sure the authorities will be able to recover this Kanjur,” he said, trying to sound reassuring. “They’ve a long way to go to smuggle it out of the country. We’ll send a message from the transmitter in Namche and get the authorities in Kathmandu to be on the lookout.” He stopped and rubbed at the stubble on his chin. “From what I hear it’s fairly large and distinctive to look at, so will be pretty hard to hide.”

  Mingma shook his head. “It’s not the Kanjur.” He paused, trying to compose himself. “That was just a decoy. The real treasure they were escorting wasn’t a sacred book, it was a person.”

  Philip stared at the guide, not understanding what he meant. He looked back up the trail towards the body of the Llama they’d found in the river. “But who would want to kill a Llama, however important?”

  “They didn’t,” replied Mingma. “He was only outwardly in charge, for appearances sake.” He took a deep breath. “Whoever did this knew exactly what they were after.” He shook his head. “It was the Rinpoche,” he continued, “they’ve captured the Rinpoche.”

  There was a pause. “I’m sorry,” Philip said, confused. “I still don’t understand. Who’s the Rinpoche?”

  It was Tashi who answered. “He is one of the highest incarnations in Tibetan Buddhism. The Rinpoche is the Llama who is the public voice of the Dalai Lama, their sacred leader. Most importantly, he is the one who leads the search for a new Dalai Lama when the old one dies.” He looked at Philip and obviously seeing his confusion continued. “They believe that when the Dalai Lama dies he is reincarnated into the body of a baby or child. It is the Rinpoche who leads the search for this child, bringing with him the favourite possessions of the old one to see if any child recognises them. Without him it would be impossible to replace the current Dalai Lama when he dies.”

  Philip nodded slowly. “So what the hell was he doing here?” He rubbed his eyes. “Why was he trying to escape from Tibet?”

  Mingma shook his head. “I don’t know,” he replied. “The monk died as he was trying to tell me.”

  Philip shook his head and walked off towards the bridge, trying to think amidst the slaughter. Bodies littered the path, making him tread carefully around sticky pools of congealing blood. One young monk had obviously put up a strong fight. His knuckles were bloody and raw from the punches he’d thrown but his skull was caved in from a heavy blow. He lay across one of the wooden crates they’d been carrying, about the size of a small suitcase. Its lid was ripped off, hanging by one hinge and lying open. Philip rolled the dead man off it and looked inside.

  A cloth of shimmering yellow silk had been ripped aside to reveal a magnificent book. Philip reached forward and pulled the sil
ken package out, the cloth falling smoothly away as he did so. He could feel a jagged edge where the front cover had been ripped off and turning it over saw that it had originally been bound in silver sheets, embedded with garnets and other jewels. A text of beautiful characters was written in sheet gold on parchment that had been dyed jet black. He flicked through, spellbound as intricate pictures and illuminations flashed past. It was the Kanjur, and other than being looted for its gem-encrusted cover, it had been left to rot.

  Philip stood up, still holding the book, and was turning to return to the others when something else caught his eye. There was something lying partly covered by the broken box. He pushed it aside with his foot and bent to pick it up.

  It was a cap, sticky with concealing blood. It was green, with a soft green peak above which was embroidered a large red star. He turned and brought it back to the others. Tashi, who was still sitting on the ground, took one look at it and spat on the ground.

  “Chinese,” he said. “It’s part of the uniform of the Red Army.”

  Mingma stood up and snatched the cap. “They cannot just come over into our country and kill people.”

  Tashi shrugged. “From what I know of the Chinese Army, they do whatever they want. And this is important to them. If they have captured the Rinpoche they can make him talk to the people, even put their own Dalai Lama in charge instead of the old one. Then they’ll have all Tibet under their control.”

  There was silence again. Philip looked around at the broken bodies and drying blood. A ray of sun broke through the clouds, bathing the valley in a warm light. He glanced up, captivated by the beautiful canopy of red flowers that covered the rhododendron forest. His eyes moving higher, to the meadows and glaciers of the upper valley and then to the soaring white peaks of the Himalayas themselves, glimpsing their wind-blasted summits high above the breaking layer of cloud. How could such terrible things happen in a place of such beauty? Scenes like this were understandable on a battlefield, after the desperation of battle. But here?