Sacred Mountain Page 9

  “Sagarmartha,” said Mingma, following Philips gaze. “Mt. Everest. It’s lucky the climbers are not there today. Look at the snow being blown from its summit. They would not be able to even stand up in a wind that strong.”

  Philip stared at the summit, unable to comprehend how any man would get to such a place. He pointed to the wall of rock and ice before it. “Do they have to climb over that first?”

  Mingma shook his head. “They climb up a glacier that runs around to the west. It’s this ice flow they then follow onto Everest itself.”

  Philips eyes dropped down to the monastery and then into the valley. Somewhere in there was Izzard. He needed to find him and discover whether he had a transmitter or not. It felt strange in such a beautiful and remote setting to be thinking about work.

  “Do we know where Izzard is camping?” he asked, making himself concentrate.

  Mingma pointed down into the valley, to just over half way up the far slope. “There is a spring about half way up from the river. It is in a small clearing used by the trading caravans to water their animals. That is where the runner said he was.” He looked at Philip. “That was two days ago. I asked in Namche and he has not returned there but he may have moved further up the valley.”

  Philip sighed. Izzards permit had only allowed him to go as far as Namche, but who was there to stop him? Since the checkpoint at the head of the Kathmandu valley nobody had asked to see his permissions. He’d initially hoped that he might be able to get the local authorities to keep the Mail journalist away from the expedition, but now he doubted that would work. There was a small police post in Namche and Philip made a mental note to call in there on his next time through.

  He watched spellbound as a Golden Eagle soared down the valley, effortlessly floating on the warming morning air and passing only a few feet below them. It swung out over the valley and within moments was no more than a speck disappearing over the distant monastery.

  “I wish we could travel like that,” Philip remarked with a wry smile.

  Mingma nodded and started walking down the trail. “Whoever returns as an eagle must have lived very devoutly in this life,” he said, smiling. “After all that time I’ve spent in Kathmandu I think I will be coming back as a yak.”

  They laughed and Philip followed. For the next few hours they descended, steadily dropping down to the river. Philip felt as if he was descending an enormous staircase; the path was a constant progression of rough stone steps built over the years to allow laden porters and pack animals to negotiate the steep gradients more easily. His knees started to ache from the constant pounding, but at least it was easy on the lungs so he and Mingma could talk.

  “One time when my brother and I were looking after the goats we were high up in a meadow where the winter snow was just melting.” He stopped and turned to Philip, holding his hands wide apart. “We saw huge footprints!” he exclaimed, eye wide. “They led off across the slope and then climbed high into the mountain. We followed them for a while but we were young and got scared. Everybody knows what Yeti’s do to you if they catch you.” He pointed back up the slope. “In the village of Khame a Sherpani was found bitten in half after she went out at night to get some firewood. No scream, nothing!”

  “And has anyone actually seen one?” Philip asked.

  “Of course,” Mingma replied, waving an arm dismissively. “Many people have. My uncle has seen one on this very trail when he was heading to the monastery to make an offering. It was early morning when he saw some musk deer run across the trail, taking no notice of him in their fright. Next thing, a yeti crashed from the trees and dived into the forest after them.” Mingma shook his head. “He ran straight back home. I still remember the look of fear on his face as he burst into our house.”

  Philip was silent and Mingma, clearly sensing his scepticism, spoke again. “Anyway, you can see the head of one for yourself if you wish.”

  Philip looked up, stumbling on an uneven rock as he did so. “Really? Where?”

  “There is a scalp of one at the shrine in the village of Pangboche.” He pointed up the valley towards the mountains. “It was brought there as an offering many years ago from herders who killed it as it tried to attack their flocks. They said it was old and weak which was the only reason it didn’t kill them all first. We will pass there on the way to the mountain.” He sped off down the trail. “Then you will believe for yourself.”

  At the valley floor they rested for a few minutes by the river. Philip splashed some icy water over his head, his hands going instantly numb in the freezing melt water. They shared some food that Mingma produced from his bag, cold potatoes and dried fruit and Philip opened a bar of chocolate. Soon they were off again and their progress slowed considerably. It was now all uphill, easier on the legs but much harder on the heart and lungs. The sun was high in the sky and despite being in the shade of the forest Philip could feel its rays burning the back of his neck. He tried to get into a rhythm, steadily counting off the steps until he allowed himself short breaks and a swig of water. After a time he stopped and looked back, pleasantly surprised at how far they’d already climbed up from the river. The rhododendron trees gave off a delicate smell, the colours of the flowers vibrant in the sun. Near the river their flowers had been a deep red, but as they climbed and the air temperature fell with the altitude they’d faded to a pink and finally a pure snow white. Thick clumps of lichen hung from their twisted boughs, while the floor was carpeted in vivid green mosses and clumps of small alpine flowers clinging to crevices in the rock. They continued on to a sharp switchback and looking around the corner Philip could see a clearing up ahead.

  “This is where Izzard was camping,” Mingma remarked, following Philips gaze.

  As they climbed towards it, it became increasingly clear that he wasn’t there anymore. When they arrived at the small meadow it was deserted, the only noise a trickle of water that ran from a rough stone trough tight up against a rock overhang. They walked over to it and Philip could see where a small spring seeped from the rock and filled the trough.

  “Well,” said Philip at last. “He’s certainly not here now. He must have moved higher into the mountains.”

  Mingma had walked over to the remnants of a camp fire that lay on the far side of the clearing and reached out to touch the stones that surrounded it.

  “Cold,” he remarked. “They must have left yesterday.”

  “Is there anywhere else he could go?” asked Philip, looking around the clearing. “Are there any other trails around the valley?”

  Mingma stood and thought. “There is only this trail. The valley is too steep for him to have climbed out of it.” He pointed up the trail. “He must have either continued higher to Thangboche or returned towards the river. It is the only crossing place. If he returned that way he must have taken the trail to the upper villages, as he has not been seen in Namche.” The Sherpa scratched at his hair. “But I don’t know why he would want to go up there as it is away from Everest.”

  Philip nodded. “Well, we’ll soon know. Let’s push on to Thangboche and see James. He’ll know if he’s been there or not.”

  They set off again, climbing up through thinning trees which soon became a rough juniper scrub. His mind was distracted by Izzard, trying to work out what he could be doing, and he fell into a steady pace. In what seemed like no time they suddenly crested a ridge and found themselves in small fields, divided by rough stone walls. In them grew a few small potato plants and some thin looking barley.

  Two skeletal dogs ran out to meet them, baring their teeth and barking angrily. A couple of stones thrown in their direction by Mingma, together with a few choice words, soon drove them away. They passed two tall chorterns, painted white and standing like gate posts at the entrance of the village. Prayer flags hung between them, limp in the still afternoon air. The village itself comprised of squat stone houses all built together in a huddle, piles of firewood stacked in every available nook.

  The only str
eet was roughly paved, set lower than the surrounding houses, with ledges and low stone walls running down either side. Three small children sat on a doorstep, a green mucus oozing from their noses and dribbling down undisturbed off their chins. The eldest, herself no more than six or seven years old, had a baby strapped to her back that contentedly slept with its head resting on her shoulder. Their faces were grubby with soot, a consequence of sleeping in houses with no chimneys to keep in warmth during the freezing nights. Philip smiled and waved but was met only by large watchful eyes.

  Looking up Philip could see the roof of the monastery, its three tiered roof topped off in the small golden spire he’d seen from the other side of the valley that morning. The street opened into a wide meadow, from which the monastery entrance, a large arch, ornately carved and covered in prayer flags and wheels, led to a wide flight of stairs. This space, Philip guessed, must be used for ceremonies and dancing during festivals. At its far side was a small band of trees and behind these he could make out a long line of tents. Most of them were small sleeping tents like his own, but a couple of larger ones were obviously designed to hold a lot of people and would only be here for one thing. The Expedition.

  They started walking across the meadow, its gently sloping grass sprinkled with a covering of primulas. Philip could see people wandering around the camp, some carrying boxes and crates. He stopped and starred as two men appeared from the biggest tent, a large dome, with oxygen cylinders on their back and faces covered by full masks, slowly walking off towards the valley walls. As he got closer he noticed a group of three tents pitched by themselves, some fifty yards from the main expedition. Outside one of them sat a man at a small collapsible table writing in a large notebook, a large mug beside him from which he took frequent sips. He glanced up and Philip recognised him, changing his direction towards him.

  After a few moments the man jumped to his feet and strode towards Philip, stopping only when they grasped each other’s hands.

  “Philip!” exclaimed James Morris, The Times Special Correspondent to the Everest trip. “You’ve made it and in good time. I wasn’t expecting you for another week.”

  Philip smiled. “We pushed on a bit over the last few days because we had some reports about Izzard.” He nodded over towards the table. “Get me a comfortable chair and I’ll tell you all about it.”

  *

  That evening Philip and James sat around the table in the small Mess tent, their empty plates pushed back. Each had a small mug of whiskey and took occasional sips as they filled each other in on what had been going on.

  “I haven’t seen or heard of him since we left Kathmandu,” James replied, when Philip had enquired about Izzard. “I got a note from Hutch saying you were on your way to help but after that there’s been nothing.” He scratched the light stubble on his chin. “If he was camped just below Thangboche then he must’ve been up to something, probably trying to intercept my runners. I’ll go and see Hunt tomorrow and make sure he reminds the climbers not to speak to any other reporters. To be honest I’m more concerned about the expedition porters. It he manages to talk to them, a few dollars will go a long way.” He shook his head. “I can’t believe he came through Thangboche and wasn’t spotted by anyone. Sherpa’s are like hawks for gossip.” He took a mouthful of whiskey. “I’ve met him before you know. We both followed a story in Egypt last year. Lovely chap, excellent company. I think he’d have dropped in to say hello if he had passed through since he knows I’m here.”

  Philip nodded. “What I need to discover is whether or not he’s got a damned radio transmitter. That’d give him a big advantage in getting news back to London.”

  “I know,” James agreed. “We made a mistake there. The Swiss told us that they didn’t work so we didn’t bring one. And now I know that’s not true.” He stretched, arms held above his head, “When we were passing through Namche I found out that an Indian Army post has just been established there with a radio link to Kathmandu. They want to monitor the border apparently. Something to do with worries that that the Chinese are using the refugee situation as a smokescreen to send spies over into Nepal and India.” He smiled. “It’s run by a charming Indian called Tiwari, who actually sent a quick dispatch for me. It went to the Indian Embassy in Kathmandu who sent it round by runner to Hutch. He’s kindly agreed to send any urgent messages for me, so we do have a way of speeding things up if push comes to shove. I also got him to shake on only doing it for us, so in theory no other papers can use him. Mind you, I wouldn’t trust them in Kathmandu as far as I could throw them so,” he sat forward, leaning on the table, “I’ve also been working on a code that only we’ll know. That way, if the other hacks do manage to get their hands on the message, they still won’t be any the wiser!”

  Philip smiled. “Good idea. I’ll be heading back towards Namche in a couple of days to find Izzard. If you have the codes ready by then I can take them with me and give them directly to Hutch when I’m back in Kathmandu. That way we’ll know they’re secure.”

  The conversation turned to the progress of the Expedition.

  “I saw a couple of them earlier walking around with oxygen cylinders on. Training I assume?” Philip asked.

  James nodded, gently swilling the contents of his mug. “They’ve been practising with the breathing apparatus since we left Kathmandu. Some have slept in it, others wear it while walking during the day.” He laughed. “Scares the hell out of the locals I can tell you. Since we’ve been at Thangboche, Hunt’s had them out doing a bit of climbing in the masks as well, seeing how they get on. Apart from getting hot and sweaty, they seem to work fine.” He took a drink. “Spirits seem high anyway. They’re all fit and well and cannot wait to get started on the mountain.”

  Philip nodded, watching at the man opposite over the top of his mug. He’d often seen him around the Times office in London, although as he was a more senior Staff reporter they’d never really socialised. With short black hair and the shadow of a beard, he had a youthful face, friendly eyes with a confident gaze looking out over a prominent nose. For a young reporter this was the assignment of a lifetime. Many of the staff at The Times had been envious when they heard he’d be assigned to it and yet nobody had begrudged Morris his opportunity. Philip could see why. He was modest and unassuming, with an easy manner about him that made you want him to like you.

  The story of how he was invited by John Hunt, over lunch in the Garrick Club, to join the expedition as the Special Correspondent had already been often recounted, normally with much amusement as Morris had never actually done any mountaineering before and was now expected to write reports from high on Everest itself. Looking at the man Philip had no doubts that he would manage.

  “Anyway,” James continued, “You’ve arrived at an excellent moment. The abbot of the monastery has invited us all to a blessing ceremony tomorrow to wish the expedition a safe climb. You can come along and meet everybody.”

  They chatted a bit longer but Philip soon excused himself and wandered back to his tent. A few minutes before dusk Old Gompu had arrived, followed by his weary porters, carrying all his camping equipment. It was amazing what the promise of double pay could do. Mingma had wasted no time in getting the tents erected and everything unpacked and it felt luxurious to be back on his old camp bed rather that the hard floor and greasy woollen blankets of the previous night. He had a slight headache, a consequence he thought of the altitude rather than the whiskey, and lay there thinking, warm in his sleeping bag.

  Seeing James had been good, the chance to clarify exactly what he was here to do and to catch up on the expedition’s news. But it was to Prem and the other Gurkhas that his mind kept returning, still finding it hard to believe that they’d actually met. It had been just over ten years since he’d last seen them. For the first two he’d been driven almost insane by not knowing what had happened. Then he’d learnt to block it out, to forget and get on, as best he could, with his life. That they’d survived made him feel a sense of relief
so overwhelming that he couldn’t linger on the thought without becoming dizzy. But there were other memories he wasn’t sure he was ready to face.

  Chapter 7

  Despite not having to be up at dawn, Philip was awake early and upon emerging from his tent found it to be a beautiful, still morning. Smoke from the village fires was rising straight up into the sky and Sherpas were scurrying around the expedition camp. Old Gompu came over and handed him a large mug of breakfast tea which he gratefully took, cupping it in his gloved hands and enjoying the sensation of the heat through his woollen gloves.

  Turning towards the monastery he could see that things were busy here too. Monks in their distinctive purple robes were hurrying to and fro, while a group of village women had arrived with heavy loads of firewood that they were piling by the entrance.