Sacred Mountain (6 page)

Philip looked up. “You were in Calcutta during the war?” he asked, a spoonful of rice poised before his mouth.

The Indian nodded. “All through it. Things got even better when the Americans arrived; they wanted souvenirs for their wives and girlfriends and paid in dollars. They were flying supplies to the Chinese over the hump, that’s what they called the Himalaya. They were known at the Flying Tigers.” He shook his head. “They were incredible pilots but so many of them died. I went with them on several trips, flying into Kunming, hoping there might be gem stones to trade but the authorities usually managed to stop me.” He put down his empty plate and smiled. “Luckily the pilots were very well paid and never argued over my prices.” He chuckled. “It must have seemed cheap to them but to me it was a fortune. I spent a lot of time with them, doing business, hanging out. That’s when I picked up this accent, to help fit in. My father would have hated it. He wanted me to speak like an English gentleman saying it would help me get on. Trouble was that in Calcutta many of the colonial English gentlemen didn’t want a Tibetan Indian to succeed or socialise with them, so I found myself mixing with the Sammy’s.”

Philip nodded. “I did wonder how you’d got your accent. I spent some time in Calcutta around then so I know what you mean,” he said, putting his untouched spoon back on his plate, his appetite gone. “I was only there a few weeks on leave so I didn’t get to know it that well, but I do remember the old boys at the club complaining at such a junior officer being let in.”

“That must have been the 300 Club,” Tashi said, looking at him. “That was where everybody used to socialize. There may have been a war on but jeez did they know how to live. I think more tigers were shot than Japanese considering the number of hunts the officers went on. Who knows, I might have even seen you there. Your face doesn’t ring any bells but there were so many soldiers coming through Calcutta in those days it’s hardly surprising.” He shook his head sadly. “Many of them never returned.”

There was a silence as both men continued eating and then helped themselves to some fresh fruit that had been laid out for them. Philip thoughtfully peeled a small milk banana that Old Gompu had bought from some villagers that morning.

“I haven’t thought of Calcutta for years. It seems a lifetime ago.” He bit the banana and chewed. “I spent so little time there and yet the memories of it were once very important to me. I lived them over and over and what I would do if I ever got to return.” He finished the banana and tossed the skin into the undergrowth. He looked back at Tashi. “What happened after the war? Did business dry up?”

The Indian shook his head. “Not at all. There were the British leaving before Independence and then the partition with the Muslims fleeing to East Pakistan. They all needed jewellery to carry their wealth with them.” He looked at Philip and winked. “When that died down I contacted some of my old American buddies from the war. They helped me out by flying some of my goods to the States where there is a good market for my stones. It helps cut out the … the red tape shall we say.”

Tashi stood, brushing some spilt rice from his lap. “I must be heading on. Thank you for the food, no doubt we’ll see each other again soon.” Picking up his bag he turned and walked off down the trail.

Philip watched him go. He liked the Indian, even if he didn’t trust him. It certainly hadn’t been the coincidence that they’d both happened to be on the same path out of Kathmandu at the same time. Philip knew it was the attraction of his permit that had drawn Tashi there rather than his company, but as there’d been no problems at the small police check point near the mountain pass out of the valley, he’d been happy to let it go. Although they weren’t camping together, they covered similar distances every day so naturally came across each other frequently on the trail.

Philip had twice passed Tashi as he sat talking to Tibetans, a steady stream of whom were heading towards Kathmandu in the opposite direction. With their long hair pinned up under a colourful headdress, and their distinctive black clothes and colourful bibs they were easy to spot against the poor Nepali peasants working in the fields. They were always polite, putting their hands together in greeting, although the younger children tended to run off or hide behind their mothers in terror, having rarely, if ever, seen a large white man before. If they were camped they would often stop to look at his tents, table and chairs in wonder, accepting a drink of strong Tibetan tea from Old Gompu.

That evening, after they’d made camp and eaten supper Philip was sitting beside a large camp fire, lost in thoughts of Calcutta. He started, aware suddenly of being watched and instinctively reached for a non-existent revolver. He could make out dark figures standing just out of the glow of the firelight, silently watching him. Mingma, who was boiling the kettle, looked over to where Philip was staring and called out, having a quick conversation with the mysterious figures.

“They are from the East,” Mingma explained, beckoning a group of twelve or so Tibetans to the fire. When they’d settled he talked to them some more, the language alien to Philip who was able to understand little more than the occasional word. “Their village was burnt by the Chinese so they fled to Lhasa for protection.” He shook his head. “The Chinese are there too, rulers in all but name. When they ordered all Tibetans to disperse home they decided to flee to Nepal.” He looked at a young woman with a small baby strapped to her back. “To come over the high mountains passes to a country you’ve only heard about, they must be very desperate.”

The Sherpa talked some more with the oldest woman in the group, resplendent in a large felt hat the point of which curled over to almost touch her wrinkled forehead. It reminded Philip of a Punch and Judy hat from shows he’d seen at the village fete as a boy.

“They have no food,” Mingma said at last, glancing up at Philip. “They’ve sold everything they brought but the little money they got has been spent. They will have nothing now until they reach the Buddhist shrines in Kathmandu. The local farmers and villagers here have little to spare and there are now so many refugees.”

“What did they sell?” Philip asked curiously, looking around the group.

“All their jewellery and two old silk thankas”, the Sherpa replied, shaking his head. “They should have received a lot more for them but they were desperate for the children and baby.”

Philip looked at the old woman. Her face was deeply lined with age, the skin leathery from the bitter climate of the Tibetan plateau and a life of cooking over smoky fires. Her hair was flecked with grey, several of her teeth were missing and the others stained brown. He could now see the hunger; the prominent cheekbones and sunken eyes, the thin wrist protruding from the heavy cuff of her tunic. She was looking at him, pride trying to hide the desperation that lay behind them.

He looked around at the group. The men were all thin and weary, the children watched him silently through huge eyes too large for their faces, reminding him of other children from years before. He breathed deeply, trying to control his emotions. “Tell Gompu to cook dhido for them all. They can sleep by the fire. Tomorrow give them rice for the day when they leave.” He turned to the old woman. “Mingma, can you tell them that tonight they’re our guests.”

Mingma did so and the Tibetans bowed to Philip, mumbling their thanks. They sat close to the fire in an exhausted silence, disturbed only by the crackle of the burning wood and the clanging of pans as Gompu prepared the maize paste. When they were eating Philip excused himself, retiring to his tent. He lay on his camp bed, the hiss of the storm light and murmur of conversation slowly lulling him off into a deep, exhausted sleep.

*

Everything was dark. He smelt rotting leaves and felt something crawling through his hair. He didn’t move. He could feel sweat sticking his clothes to his body, his feet squelching in tightly tied boots. His stomach ached. Not a grumble or hunger pang. It hurt. It was so constricted it felt stapled to his spine. His intestines kept going into spasm, waves of pain flowing through his chest to the back of his patched throat that throbbed with hunger. All he could think of was scones; raisins and sultanas peeping through the sides, thick butter topped with strawberry jam. He scratched absent-mindedly at the lice that infested his shirt. Damn it, he’d go for the cream too. It wouldn’t kill him.

He heard a voice and sat up. There was the porter with a cup of bed tea in his hand. It was morning. He could see the blue light of dawn behind the boy, feel the cold air on his warm skin as he reached out for the mug. Sitting up, he ran a hand through his hair, rubbing at the growth of stubble on his chin.

“Tato Pani,” he said to the boy, who, delighted at hearing his own language smiled and raced off to get the hot water. Philip quickly dressed and walked from the tent. The camp was deserted.

“Mingma,” he called, nodding as the Sherpa appeared from the cook tent. “What happened to our guests?” he asked. “I thought they’d be staying for breakfast?”

Mingma shook his head. “They left at first light. The temperature dips at dawn so they need to walk to be warm. They will rest in the sun later.”

“Did you give them rice?” he asked.

The Sherpa nodded. “They took it. Enough I think for two days if they are sparing.” He pulled something from his pocket. “They left you this.” He walked forward and handed Philip a small leather pouch on a strap, looking down awkwardly, as if not sure what to say.

“They wanted to thank you for your kindness. They respect you greatly for it. They also…” he shuffled awkwardly from foot to foot, “… they also wanted to help you with your night terror. They heard you shouting in your sleep. The old woman says that this charm is powerful and will keep the demons away when you are resting.”

There was silence. Phillip reached out and took the pouch, feeling its contents grating as he gently rubbed them between his fingers. He didn’t know what to say, touched that the old woman with so little should show such concern for a stranger with so much.

“Thank you,” he replied at last, “for sorting out the food. Poor devils. What a journey to have to make.” He reached up and tied the strap around his neck, tucking the pouch inside his shirt. “We’ll head straight off,” he said, sitting to lace up his boots. “I’m not hungry this morning.”

*

Over the next week Philip became more aware of the steady stream of refugees heading towards Kathmandu. Some stopped to look at the strange man and talk to Mingma, while others trudged on, heads down as if already defeated by the journey. On several occasions he came across Tashi, usually sitting in a tea shop or porters lodge along the trail, talking to the Tibetans. The Indian invariably waved, cheerfully gesturing to Philip to join them but he always declined, uncomfortable with what he was doing.

The journey settled into a routine, his body adapting to the hard physical day and uncomfortable nights. After the jet-lag and bustle of Kathmandu and the initial days in the jungle, he enjoyed the clean, cool air and aura of peace that the mountains brought. The trail had turned north now, no longer endlessly climbing and descending the ridges and valleys that ran off the main mountains. The valley they were following had a large river raging down it, the trail often crossing the white water on rickety bridges. At the start of the trip these bridges had been suspended from sturdy steel cables but as Kathmandu fell away they became less robust, sometimes made of local hemp rope, other times of two tree trunks rested on piles of stone and covered in turf to allow yaks and dzos to cross.

The villages got fewer, the fields smaller as the valley sides steepened and the altitude got higher. What didn’t change were the children who still came every night to sit in silence and watch Philip as he sat in his Mess tent eating his supper or writing his diary. They would start a safe distance back, serious eyes following his every move. At some point he’d usually sneeze and pull a large silver rupee coin from his nose, at which point the children would laugh and edge closer. Small magic tricks he’d learn to idle away boring hours years before now became a language with which he could communicate with them. They would try to teach him their games, especially a local form of chess which involved tigers chasing buffalo around a board, at which he always lost spectacularly. Their spontaneity and joy, despite their hard lives, made Philip enjoy their company as he hadn’t done with anyone in years.

One morning Philip found himself lying on a huge boulder that jutted out from the bank into the frothing torrent of the river, letting the sun warm his aching muscles. He’d seen his porters pass by an hour or so ago while eating his breakfast on a small sandy beach, and was letting them get a head so that camp would be ready upon his arrival in a few hours.

As he lightly dozed he became aware of voices above the roar of the churning water. Sitting up and shading his eyes against the sun, he saw Mingma talking with a tall young Sherpa. He looked over at Philip and beckoned him over, still deep in conversation. Philip jumped down from the rock onto part of the dry river beach and made his way over to where the men were standing.

“This is Ang Sarkey Sherpa,” Mingma said, the young man nodding with hands together in greeting. “He is working for Mr James as a messenger. He left Thangboche with a dispatch two days ago.”

Philip looked closer at the young Sherpa. He could see why he’d been selected as a dispatch runner. He was tall for a Sherpa and lean, but the muscles on his legs, which could be seen below the filthy trousers he’d carefully rolled up to the knee, were well defined and strong. On his back he had a stout canvas rucksack.