Beyond the Summit (45 page)

“I’m so very cold and tired,” Dorje finally whispered.

“Yes, sleep now, my son, and don’t be afraid. I’ll take care of you.” Mingma lifted him into his arms and Dorje was a boy of five again. Nestling his weary head against his father’s shoulder, he closed his eyes, feeling safe and loved, knowing he’d never had to watch and wait again. Swaddled in a snow blanket, his bloodied face whitened with hoarfrost, Dorje smiled as he drifted into a deep hypoxic reverie.

As Beth watched Dorje and Marty disappear behind a tilting sérac, an ominous specter moved into her and settled down with hands clasped behind his head and legs outstretched, intending to remain until Dorje’s safe return. She tried evicting this unwelcome guest by telling herself the morning’s fight eliminated Dorje’s chances of going to the summit, and he’d already been through the icefall and Cwm, so no danger there. But her heart knew any logic professor would fail her on that bit of spurious reasoning. Slamming the door on fear, Beth strode back to camp determined to concentrate solely on how beautiful the clouds were this morning hanging above the peaks in layers of purple and pale pink.

That strategy worked until she witnessed the doctor treating Rinji’s frostbitten feet and learned most of his toes would be amputated. Then how would this sweet, little man support his family? Was there some kind of Sherpa insurance to protect them from the dangers imposed by inane westerners who felt compelled to prove themselves? Dorje had told her none of his people cared about climbing before the
mikarus
came. Even now, most did it only for the money, but at what cost she wondered. Relying on these thoughts to occupy her mind, Beth added them to her journal. During the afternoon, she chatted and played cards with the doctor and reporter—anything to fill the space nightmares tried to invade.

Shortly after lunch one day, she heard a horrendous boom and watched the very sérac that had swallowed Dorje from view crumble in a white explosion shooting powder hundreds of feet in the air. Knowing that melting in the afternoons created instability in a land already in flux, she whispered,
Don’t travel then
in her private conversation with Dorje. Having convinced herself he heard her thoughts, Beth was confident she’d know if something happened. Otherwise, the waiting would be intolerable.

When Mark and Sean returned to Base Camp to recoup before the final assault, she learned that Dorje and the others were all right. Beth gave fear a shove toward the door but it braced its feet against the jambs. Unable to oust it, she consoled herself with visions of Dorje simply carrying a few more loads through the Cwm to earn rupees for Shanti and the baby and then coming back to her. However, the arrival of Henri, a climbing Sherpa, and Roger with bandaged head and ribs the following day buried all such illusions. Beth did the math. Two Sherpas had quit earlier and now this one had come down. That left only Dorje and two others to supply the upper camps. Not feeling much like eating, she joined Henri and Roger in the dining tent for details.

“Your Sherpa’s in better health than the American,” said Roger.

“And might end up having to be his partner,” added Henri. “Rumor is Paul and Jarvis don’t trust Marty and won’t climb with him.”

Unprepared for this, Beth choked on the words. “But Dorje and Marty had a terrible fight the morning they left. How could they go up a mountain together?”

“I don’t know that they will.” Henri shrugged. “It’s just my guess.”

Beth turned back to Roger but he opened his hands in a show of equal uncertainty. Her bouncing leg unsettled her stomach even more. “When would they go?”

Henri leaned forward and rested his arms on the table while stirring his tea. “The first team in a few days, I suppose, or whenever the weather looks promising. There aren’t many climbing windows before the monsoon.”

“Not until the first team comes down,” Roger answered and rose from the table. “I’m still dizzy and have a horrific headache. I need to go to bed so we can leave for the hospital early tomorrow.”

Shivering alone in her tent, Beth pulled the bag over her ears to drown out the endless groaning and cracking of shifting ice. Tomorrow, she would write of Sherpa families forced to endure every trekking and climbing season knowing that a father, son, husband, or brother might not return. She didn’t know how they stood it year after year.

Mingma stood on the spot where he had carried his five-year-old son on his shoulders for his first view of the highest point on earth. His breath rising in a mist, Mingma looked at the snowy summits of Everest, Lhotse, Nuptse, and Ama Dablam etched sharply in the crystal air.
“What drives my son to go where you forbid?” he cried to the mountain gods. “Why does he risk a most precious incarnation by defying you? Help me to understand.” In the high mountain air, the gods were silent because only Dorje knew the answer.

A familiar voice rose behind him. “Droma Sunjo said I’d find you here. I have news from Everest.”

His heart trembling, he turned to Pemba. “What do you know of my son?”

“Only that he is alive and twice saved a porter named Rinji who arrived at the hospital two days ago. They must cut off his toes.”

“I’m sorry for the porter. But the goddess will keep punishing us as long as we trespass and pollute her. This has to stop.”

With a western hat resting atop his large ears, Pemba said, “You are blind in one eye, my old friend. She has also rewarded us with great wealth to build finer temples and train more monks.”

“Who must now pray for the souls of those who died on the mountain. All your rupees can’t buy them back.”

“We’ll never agree on this and I’m tired of arguing,” Pemba said. Turning back toward Namche, he tossed words over his shoulder. “I just came to tell you about Dorje.”

Proud of his own inner strength and how he had survival great sorrow, Mingma found it difficult to seek help from someone he had recently considered his enemy. “You’re the only one I can turn to.” Pemba paused and looked back. “Please come to Everest with me. I have a heavy feeling that danger awaits my son.”

“As do I,” Pemba said, his shoulders slumping. “You know I care for him too. We’ll take five yaks loaded with tents, blankets, food, and water, plus have room to bring things in return.”

Mingma found Nima on a hill north of the village. Instead of lying blissfully among the wildflowers, his peaceful, younger son was at great unrest, pacing and yelling at the animals.

Learning long ago that Nima sensed things the way his mother had, Mingma trusted him. “That’s why Pemba and I are going after your brother to bring him home.”

“I’ll come too,” Nima added in a gray voice that made the journey seem even more ominous.

Leaving at dawn the next morning, they reached Base Camp four days later a few hours after it had begun to snow. Having had no reason to come here previously, Mingma didn’t know what to expect. The debris left by earlier expeditions appalled him and confirmed his belief that foreigners polluting the mountain had angered the gods.

“Follow me,” said Pemba. “I’ve been here many times in the past buying what’s left from expeditions to sell in my teahouse. I got chocolate from the Swiss, caviar from the Russians, tea from the British, cheese from the Dutch, and made a huge profit from American goods in 1963.” He led Mingma and Nima to the supply tent where the cook and kitchen boys were selecting items for dinner. “We’re looking for Mingma’s son Dorje.”

“He’s on the mountain with the others,” said the cook.

“But what do you know of him? Is he well?” asked Mingma.

“He was strong and healthy when he left here about a week ago, but you can ask his woman. She stands every day at the bottom of the icefall waiting for him.”

“Shanti here?” Nima exclaimed. “How could Dorje let her come? It’s not good for the baby. Father, you must make her go back to her family.”

When Mingma hesitated, Pemba said, “Go to your future daughter-in-law. She needs you. Nima and I will put up the tents and prepare our beds.”

The cook pointed the way and Mingma left walking blindly in the heavy snow, the uneven surface of the glacier cold and threatening under his soft leather boots. He finally spotted a dark figure standing at the base of a frozen waterfall. When she heard his approach and turned, Mingma met not the square face and long black hair of the Sherpani bearing his grandchild but the woman who had made his son’s heart cry with longing through all of winter and spring. Part of him was angry at her for intruding in Dorje’s life, but the other part was grateful his son had experienced the passion he might not ever feel with Shanti. This blue-eyed woman was Mingma’s Nimputi, and a man finds that kind of love only once in his lifetime. So when she looked at him, her eyes brimming with tears, he couldn’t turn away. Opening the wings of his robe, he enfolded her in his arms for she was also his lost daughter. Her body shivered as he laid her head against his chest. He quietly stroked her snow-matted hair and whispered all was well. Tomorrow Dorje would come bounding through the icefall. Knowing she didn’t understand his words, Mingma hoped she recognized the tenderness and love in his voice.

With his protective arms around her, they walked in silence toward a glow emanating from the kitchen tent. When they reached the dining tent where two
mikarus
were waiting, she surprised him with a large hug that reminded him how soft a woman feels and how sweet the aroma of her hair. Tonight he would weep for Dorje, Nimputi, his two daughters, and also this woman whose eyes were plucked from the sky on a spring morn.

Knowing the American had also entranced his younger son, Mingma waited for him to make the conclusion. It seemed easier than trying to explain.

Nima searched everyone’s face, his eyes begging for an explanation. Then it hit him. “When did the American woman get here?” he asked the cook.

“She arrived in Lukla with the other
mikarus
. I first saw her there. She and Dorje have been making sauce and offended the goddess. That is why we have bad weather.”

“She’s possessed my brother just like she did me,” Nima said, starting for the door. “And turned him from his baby and the beautiful woman he’s to marry.”

Mingma’s outstretched arm barred him. “I will not have this family torn apart by anger and jealousy any longer. Your brother’s only sin is falling in love. And you will not rob him of that as I was robbed. So leave her be and go to bed.” Nima faltered. “Do as I say,” his father ordered. “And treat her as a sister.”

Mingma followed his son to their tent and then sat wrapped in yak wool blankets praying to the goddess to forgive Dorje’s actions. “The boy is young and meant no dishonor,” he whispered to himself. Throughout the night, he chanted the Tibetan scriptures memorized over many years of recitation and prayed the sun would shine again on the morrow.

Fear a permanent resident now, nights were the hardest for Beth as she struggled with not knowing where Dorje was or if he was dead or alive. The comforting intonations from Mingma’s tent gave her some strength against the creaks and groans that made sleep sporadic. When she woke in the morning, sunlight was dancing on the roof, an auspicious sign. She dressed quickly and went outside, confident that Dorje would ski through the icefall today. Hearing Nima's voice, she walked toward two tents pitched 100 feet from camp. “
Namaste
,” she said bowing.

“
Namaste
,” replied Mingma with a warm smile, but his younger son wouldn’t acknowledge her.

“
Namaste,
Nima,” she repeated.

When he looked up with those freckles and sweet, boyish eyes, she said, “Please be my friend,” and hoped he remembered some of the English lessons. “You and I wait for Dorje together.”

His rigid lips softened at the corners and turned up in a subtle smile. “No clouds,” he said pointing to the sky.

She grinned. “Yes, no clouds for us to play with, my brother.” Buoyed by his smile and the clear sky, she asked the cook to prepare enough breakfast for Dorje’s family and invited them to the dining tent.

Pemba spent the rest of the morning bargaining for goods while Beth, Mingma, and Nima took turns waiting at the base of the icefall. First to spot Jarvis and Paul in the sérac forest, Nima ran to camp, screaming and waving his arms. Beth’s spirit soared thinking Dorje had finally returned but quickly plummeted as she watched two
mikarus
struggling down the glacier, their bodies stooped, barely able to lift one foot after the other. After ordering hot tea and soup, she set a place for them in the dining tent.