Sacred Mountain Page 3

  He put his finger on their position and sighed. They’d made reasonable progress, considering the terrain and their physical condition. They were now high in the Mangin Hills, about three hours walk, give or take, from their next food drop. It was due at midday the next day so they had enough time he hoped to get in position and recce the area first. He felt the urge to get the radio out and call HQ to confirm the drop but knew they only had enough power left in the batteries for a minute or two of transmission and needed to conserve them. He had to hold his nerve and trust that the RAF would be there.

  He glanced up as a soldier arrived with a mug of tea, the steam rising into the air as if it was a chill winter’s morning. He took it and carefully placed it on the jungle floor beside him to cool. He lifted up his right foot, resting it on his left thigh so he could inspect a large ulcer that had formed on his shin. It had started as an ant bite but, like most cuts and scratches in this climate, it had quickly become infected and now formed an ugly crater the size of a Crown piece. Gingerly he peeled away the small piece of field dressing that covered it, wincing as it pulled pieces of dead flesh and crusty discharge with it.

  He waved his hand to keep an excited fly from landing and in the fading light tried to examine it. It looked white and puffy, a little blood seeping into it but with no sign of a scab forming. At least he couldn’t see the bone and there weren’t any maggots. He picked up his tea, drinking the bitter brew quickly and feeling strength come back as the liquid ran into him. The last mouthful he left in his cup, added a couple of drops of iodine, and braced himself.

  The pain as the liquid ran into the ulcer on his leg was excruciating, as if a knife was being dragged across it. He forced himself to keep still, trying to keep the liquid in it for as long as he could bear, before straightening his leg and letting the foul fluid run down his foot and into the forest floor.

  Glancing up he saw Corporal Prem standing respectfully a few yards away and sitting up stiffly he beckoned the Gurkha over.

  “Is the camp secure?” he asked, trying to keep his voice authoritative.

  “Sir,” replied the soldier with a nod. “Teams of two on sentry all night, changing every three hours.”

  Phillip nodded. “Good. Get the men to make enough tea and boiled parnee tonight for the morning, we’ll be breaking camp early. Canteens need to be full. Then get the fires out and everybody resting.” He looked around at the men, sitting exhausted around the small fires, their faces lit by the pale flickering light as thousands of insects swirled around them. “They’ll need their strength. At least hopefully they’ll get a decent meal tomorrow night.”

  The corporal saluted. “How far to the drop?”

  “About three hours if the terrain stays like this, then we’ll need to have a good dekko around and secure the drop zone.”

  The corporal turned to go. “Oh, and send the burrif to me when he gets in please Corporal,” Philip added, “I want to hear how things went back there.”

  Philip ate his food in silence, cutting cheese straight from the tin and then chewing half-heartedly on some dried dates. He popped some rock salt crystals in his mouth and sucked unenthusiastically. They’d run short of salt a week before, a serious problem given the sweltering heat in the jungle, but the burrif always somehow managed to find natural deposits of rock salt. It was gritty and course but kept them going, each man having to suck two pieces a day to supplement his meagre ration.

  Having tidied everything away he took a small tin from the side of his pack and lay back, using his pack as a pillow. He could see a few stars through the canopy of trees high above, the branches motionless in the still night. Some thin shafts of moonlight sliced down to the forest floor, forming tiny pools of silver white in the otherwise dark jungle. The fires were out and with the lack of cigarettes it was the only light. The night was filled with the sound of lizards and frogs, a chorus that drowned out the fidgeting and coughing of the men. It was a harsh sound, but a comforting one as it would stop and warn them if anybody tried to approach.

  Opening the tin he removed a folded letter, carefully sliding the thin sheets of paper out of a grubby envelope. He held it towards one of the small pools of light but could still barely see the neat hand writing, his eyes no longer working well in the dark. It was of little consequence, since he’d received it in an airdrop just over two weeks earlier and had read it so often he knew it by heart.

  5th January 1943

  My Dearest Philip,

  I pray that this letter finds you safe and well. I hope you received the Christmas card we sent. I wanted to send you a fruit cake but your father said that it would be eaten by the ants before it reached you. I rather think he was more concerned with his dwindling brandy supply than the insects of India.

  Old Peters managed to get us a rather scrawny goose for Christmas dinner, I suspect from the marshes rather than the butcher, but as there were so few of us at the house this year it sufficed well enough. Kim was unable to get leave, his ship is goodness knows where and Mary was busy driving her ambulance around London. She did get to come up at New Year and sends her little brother a big hug.

  Our Christmas was rather spoilt by the news that young William Spalding had been killed in North Africa. I’m sorry to have to give you such bad news, I know you were friends and remember you running wild together across the estate, lost in whatever game you’d invented that day. It’s got everybody quite upset, as if the war has finally arrived in our little world in North Norfolk.

  His mother was trying so hard to be brave at the WI but she quite fell to pieces when we were clearing up at the end. I felt so guilty, trying to comfort her but at the same time so relieved that you are in India.

  The Reverend Fisher and his wife came round for drinks at New Year and he kindly blessed the enclosed St. Christopher medal. Please wear it, it’s only tiny and I’m sure would slip around your neck unnoticed. It would be such a comfort for me to know you had it with you, keeping you safe on these travels that I cannot accompany you on. Mrs Fisher burst into tears when I asked, remembering you from her Sunday School lessons, and saying she couldn’t believe you were away fighting a war. A sloe gin seemed to revive her spirits.

  We are now nearly halfway to our Spitfire! Fund-raising has been rather slow of late, what with the winter weather keeping people inside. I’ve been busy however chasing the tenants and it’s amazing how much scrap metal you can find in some of the farmyards. Some things seem to date from the time of the Ark.

  Your father sends his best regards and says that he hopes your aim has improved since the last shoot you attended. (He’s only joking dear, that’s his idea of small talk.) He’s been busy organising the Home Guard and I doubt you and your friends could march better than the poor old souls he has out in all weather. Still, it is keeping him busy and he is pleased to be doing his bit, even if he finds it hard some days. Too many memories.

  Stay safe, my love. Wear the St Christopher as with it come our prayers that you be kept safe and well. I hope Christmas in Calcutta was bearable and beware of the local food. Your great grandfathers digestion was never the same after his time out there.

  With all my love,

  Your Mother.

  He slowly folded the letter and carefully returned it to the tin. His stomach still twisted every time he read about Will’s death. It seemed impossible that the ball of energy he’d grown up with, searching for treasure, racing Bentleys and building dens on the estate, was dead. He’d been Philip’s one true childhood friend. The son of the local blacksmith, neither had cared about the size of the others house or the reputation of their school. They were friends of choice, not circumstance.

  Will would have known what to do to get these men home. He’d always been the one with the clever schemes, admittedly ones that usually landed them in trouble. He wished he was alive, that he was with him right now to help him out of this mess.

  He lay back and looked up, noticing that another shaft of moonlight was lighting
a small patch of branch high up in a nearby tree, spotlighting a tall orchid that grew in a mossy crevice. It was a pale purple, a thing of such delicate beauty that it seemed completely out of place in such an unforgiving habitat. His mother had one at home that was almost identical, which she tended lovingly most days in her conservatory. It was part of the collection she’d grown from seeds and cuttings brought back on her father’s trading ships from the East when she’d been a girl. He’d always loved helping her water and trim them, mesmerised by their dazzling colours and sweet aromas, as she told him stories of the lands they’d come from. He lay for a few minutes staring up at it until the mosquitoes got too bad, making him pull his blanket up over his head and hiding himself from the hell of his existence.

  Chapter 3

  Nepal, 1953

  Philip woke in the dark, completely disorientated. He was dripping with sweat, his pyjamas clinging to his skin. He could hear a chorus of insects and frogs providing a backdrop of noise that merged with the soothing sound of a fast-flowing stream. On his back was a heavy canvas back-pack and in his hand a mountaineer’s ice-axe, its sharp point glinting in the light of a half-moon.

  He heard running footsteps and swung around. “Who’s there?” He heard his voice but knew his cracked lips hadn’t opened. There was a burst of radio static and the indistinct sound of Chinese or Japanese fading in and out. He felt a hand on his shoulder and a strong voice yelled in his ear.

  “Khabaradãra!”

  There was an explosion, a blinding flash of light that physically knocked him backwards. The ice-axe had changed in his hands to a gun, its grey metal icy to the touch. The explosion dulled as something grew to eclipse it. It was a body of a young woman flying towards him, tears falling from her black, intense eyes that were fixed onto his.

  He fell to his knees. “I’m sorry!” he screamed, dropping the gun. The girl’s spinning body exploded, her head, her mouth flying straight at him. He woke with a start, bolt upright in bed, dishevelled covers on the floor and the first rays of dawn forcing their way in through the old, warped shutters. He sucked in long, deep breaths of the cold morning air and ran his hands through his hair, scraping away thick sweat.

  *

  Philip didn’t really feel like breakfast. He wandered into the deserted dining room and sat at a table overlooking the rather overgrown garden. “Just coffee and toast,” he said to the waiter. While he waited he watched a bald peacock pecking forlornly at the dirt on the patchy lawn.

  The toast, or rather toasted naan, arrived, together with some greasy butter and apricot jam. He took a bite and chewed half-heartedly for a few moments before dropping it onto his plate and pouring himself a large cup of thick black coffee. It was piping hot. He stirred in a large spoonful of sugar and sat back, feeling his mind focus as the caffeine entered his system.

  Fresh coffee always reminded him of his mother. When younger, she’d taken him with her on her travels to Europe; to Rome and Naples and many other places he hadn’t appreciated or cared about at the time. As they dined together she’d often let him sip at her wine or coffee, making him feel very grown up and important.

  His father always stayed on the Estate in Norfolk and he’d secretly been glad he had, giving him his mother’s undivided attention as she told him stories of his grandfather and great-grandfather, both in turn merchants from Kings Lynn and their colourful voyages to the Eastern colonies.

  He often wondered how his parents had ever married. His father was quiet and reserved, a product of old style public school and club. His mother was independent and strong-minded. Had it not been for his father being thrown from his new hunter as he tried to break him in it would probably never have happened. It was his mother who’d fearlessly caught the horse as it ran through the surf on Holkham Beach, there swimming with her sisters. Ever since then his father had been devoted to her. When he’d returned from the war they’d married, her strength helping him through the hard years that followed.

  Throughout his childhood he’d known not to disturb his father in his study when thunderstorms rolled in from the Wash, once spying on him through its window and seeing him motionless at his desk, body shaking so violently that the whiskey barely made it in the glass to his mouth. It was never spoken of, his father staring icily ahead if a visitor should ever mention the war and often stalking from the room. Now Philip understood it was too late. His father was gone and it was his turn to face demons that others couldn’t comprehend.

  He made himself focus, running through the day ahead. The first task was to organise his trek into the mountains. It had been arranged by the Times’ London office, a telegram had been waiting for him the previous afternoon with details of where to go.

  Twenty minutes later he walked out of the hotel gate, following a young boy he suspected to be the son of the hotel manager. It was a beautiful morning, the sky deep blue and the air crisp. Ahead of him, above the terracotta rooftops and golden pagoda tips, he could see the Himalayas, their jagged peaks glistening white in the morning sunshine. They were so clear he felt he could reach out and touch them, a stark contrast from the choking smog of London that often hid the far side of the street and only a few months before had killed thousands in one night.

  With the absence of cars he was able to walk along the middle of the street, avoiding the stagnant puddles that gathered at the sides. These were fed by small trickles of water and waste that ran from side alleys and doorways. Along the road walked a tide of people, carrying loads of firewood, potatoes and vegetables from the countryside to sell in the markets of the city. Soon he had a crowd of followers, all silently walking a few paces behind and watching his every move. When he turned to look they smiled at him without breaking stride. Stalls started springing up, further congesting the way and on a couple of occasions small groups of Tibetans, with their distinctive clothes and long braided hair, accosted him and tried to sell him some battered trinkets. By the time they’d reached his destination they were hardly moving, such was the crush.

  The British Embassy was an imposing building which looked at first glance as if it had been plucked from the countryside of Surrey and dumped into the heart of Asia. Two guards stood in front of a white sentry box, set beside large wrought iron gates. As Philip approached they turned to face him, scaring away his young guide who ran off at full tilt back towards the hotel.

  “Good morning,” he said, smiling and touching the rim of his hat. The soldiers nodded back, staring at him enquiringly. “I’ve an appointment here with Mingma Sherpa.” He paused, looking at the soldiers. “I’m Philip Armitage from the Times in London. It’s to do with the Everest expedition.”

  “Certainly, sir” the taller soldier replied, pointing towards a small side door that stood open beside the gates. “The remaining expedition staff and equipment are housed in the tents on the rear lawn. If you report there, I’m sure you will be able to locate Mr Sherpa.”

  Philip thanked the soldier, walking past him into the grounds. After the bustle and clamour of the streets it was like walking into an oasis. The lawn was a deep green, hand-trimmed to a length suitable for the croquet equipment set up on it. Thick bushes of red rhododendrons grew against the tall perimeter wall, from which a small flock of sunbirds emerged, squabbling noisily as they flew past him and disappeared into the thick purple bougainvillea that covered the house.

  “Armitage sahib?”

  Philip turned around to see a young man striding towards him.

  “Yes, hello,” replied Philip. “Mingma?” He held out his hand.

  The small Nepali held his hands together in front of him and gave a small bow before straightening up to take Philips hand.

  “You are very welcome to Nepal sir,” he said, his smile beaming. “I hope it was correct of me but I went ahead and made the necessary arrangements for your trek. I was told by the officer who brought the message from the Times that we had to be quick about it.” He glanced at Philip nervously. “I have employed five porters for t
he camping equipment as well as a cook and four porters for your food.” He paused and pointed back in the direction from which he’d come. “I have them here for inspection if you would like to see?”

  Philip followed Mingma towards a row of stables that ran along the back of the grounds and as they walked he studied the Sherpa. He was, like most Nepalese he’d so far met, short, not even reaching up to his shoulder. His features were, however, distinctly different from the citizens of Kathmandu, looking more Tibetan in origin. His hair was jet black, covering his neck and held back from his eyes by a thin red cord that ran over his head and behind his ears. He was dressed in old mountaineering clothes, a western appearance that looked rather incongruous with his features, a vast woollen jumper hanging off his small, sinewy frame. Despite his youth, early twenties Philip guessed, his face was burnt a deep brown. It was wrinkled and lined, the result of living a hard, outdoor life at high altitudes where the air was dry and the sun unforgiving.

  Turning a corner Philip saw the trekking staff huddled in a group, crouching on their haunches. The porters all stood as he approached, and after a few sharp words from Mingma they put their hands together and bowed. Philip returned the gesture before turning as Mingma introduced an ancient Sherpa.

  “This is Old Gompu,” he announced proudly. “He’s the best camp cook in Nepal and has agreed to come with us.”

  Philip stared at the old man, doubting whether he’d manage to reach the outskirts of Kathmandu let alone Everest. He looked back up at Mingma. “Us?” he asked, “are you accompanying us?”

  Mingma looked awkward, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “Indeed sahib,” he replied. “Now the expedition has gone and Mr James has also departed there is nothing more to be done here.” He glanced at Philip anxiously. “I’d like to visit my family who live near the mountain, in the town called Namche. We would pass through it.”