by Guy d'Armen
“Really?” said Ardan, amazed.
“Yes. Unlike his yellow-furred cousin in the Indian jungle, this kind spirit of the snows will take us home. He knows how to avoid chasms and precipices hidden by the snow. We just have to follow his track and we’ll soon be in the valleys.”
Milarepa was proven right as the feline seemed to be traveling down the mountain towards the plateau below. So they followed it diligently and, half a day later, they were leaving the Kingdom of Eternal Snow and trudging the rocky paths of the Himalayas.
“We must travel East,” said Milarepa, “or else we risk encountering some of Kharbin’s bandits.”
Ardan’s knowledge of the stars proved useful in helping them chart the proper course.
Unfortunately, the weather changed again at midday and another snow storm swelled and broke just before sunset.
Again, they found themselves trudging through heavy snow. They had been walking for ten hours and Ardan decided it was wiser to stop and build another shelter before nightfall. They did so in the shadow of a chorten, a small stone edifice of religious significance to the natives.
Now, Ardan had run out of food, and they had to go to sleep hungry, with the storm raging outside.
During the night, the young man was twice forced to rebuild their precarious shelter, when it was damaged by the wind. But the storm passed around 5 a.m. and they could end the night in relative tranquility.
When they awoke, it was again sunny and bright. But another surprise awaited the two travelers: as they emerged from their shelter, they came face to face with a creature that, at first, Ardan thought was a bear, because of its size. But, upon gazing into its simian face and discovering signs of a rudimentary intelligence in its coal-dark eyes, the young man revised his first impression and decided it was one of the legendary “Snowmen” of Tibet.
The beast appeared gifted with herculean strength and its clearly hostile attitude was of great concern. Milarepa, despite all her courage, was trembling with fear.
“The yeti,” she said, shivering. “They’re man-eaters. We are lost.”
Ardan looked at the chorten behind them and, grabbing the young woman by the waist, deposited her on the steps of the strange monument. From there, she could climb to what he hoped would be relative safety. With a mighty jump, he then followed her.
Just in time, too, as the yeti, roaring, leaped towards them.
From his superior position, Ardan began to grab rocks and chunks of masonry and threw them onto the creature’s head, trying to keep it at bay. The young man hoped that the yeti, discouraged by the resistance, would go looking for other prey.
Unfortunately, the bombardment only obtained the opposite effect: enraged, the beast became more determined to ravage the two impudent travelers. His roars became even fiercer and his eyes blood-shot.
Ardan, who stood slightly below Milarepa, could now study the face of the monster and decided it must be a cousin of the ancient pithecanthropus who had somehow managed to survive in the Tibetan wasteland.
Remembering that he still had the bottle of the tincture of iodine in his pocket, he waited for the right moment, then threw whatever remained of the liquid right into the creature’s eyes.
The monster roared in pain, then began rubbing his eyes fiercely, wandering off in the direction whence he had come.
Ardan grabbed Milarepa’s hand and they quickly got down to the ground and ran in the opposite direction, towards the valley.
“That was amazing,” said the young woman, panting. “I have never heard of anyone ever escaping from the clutches of the Abominable Snowman!”
“Let’s hope we don’t meet another one, because I used all the iodine I had left on that one,” said Ardan smiling.
With the decreasing altitude, and the rays of the sun, the snow around them was melting and, soon, they were walking on a rock-strewn plain, with sparse vegetation and a few bushes around. Ardan also noticed yak’s droppings, sign that they were on a road well traveled by the long-haired bovines that were a part and parcel of Himalayan society.
“I hope we come across a caravan or a camp soon,” said the young man. “I could use some yak milk.”
“When we do, remember that you’re my blind and mute servant,” said Milarepa. “I carry some identification that should guarantee us safe passage.”
CHAPTER IX
Inn of Peril
Ardan and Milarepa walked for hours across the arid plain without encountering any other traveler. This long march was excruciatingly tiring and extremely boring.
Suddenly, the young man began to feel dizzy and slowed his pace. A violent nausea shook his body and he had to stop to throw up.
“What’s wrong with me?” he asked his companion.
“In some parts of these plains, a bit of carbonic acid seeps up from the underground. Normally, the wind blows it away, but today has been a calm day—our bad luck. Horsemen don’t even notice it because it clings low to the ground. I’m more used to it than you are, which is why I’m not as sick as you, but I’m starting to feel it too.”
“Let’s put handkerchiefs over our faces,” said Ardan, tearing two strips of fabric and making them into improvised masks.
“The only hope is to get out of this area as fast as we can,” said the young girl, her voice muffled.
Another hour passed and they began to feel the pangs of hunger.
“If only we had a rifle, we could shoot ourselves some game,” said Milarepa.
“What game?” said Ardan. “I don’t see any.”
“You’re not used to our countryside. Look over there!”
Milarepa’s experienced eye had spotted three deer whose fur was almost the same color as the landscape. The animals were cavorting and drinking from a partially frozen pond.
Tip-toeing towards them, the two young hostages managed to reach the pond, and hid behind a big boulder. Then Ardan took the strip of cloth that he had used as a mask, and picked up a round pebble, saying:
“That one should do just fine…”
“What are you going to do?” inquired Milarepa.
“I plan to use this as an improvised slingshot and kill one of the deer.”
Ardan had learned the art of the slingshot from an old game warden named Thierry, at his father’s estate in Normandy. He whirled the stone silently in the air a few times before propelling it towards the closest deer.
The animal was hit squarely on the head and collapsed.
The two young hostages jumped from behind the boulder while the other two deer ran away.
“Now we can eat,” said Ardan looking at the fallen deer. “The problem will be to start a fire…”
“We don’t have to,” said Milarepa. “I smell smoke in the air. And look over there,” she added, pointing at some signs of human activity, “women have been doing washing here. I think we’re close to a hamlet. We can trade the deer for food and lodging.”
Ardan lifted the dead animal and threw it over his shoulder. Milarepa had been right: fifteen minutes later, they saw a tiny hamlet composed of three wooden barracks and a dozen yurts. There were yaks tied to wooden posts, and a few people busy tanning hides or preparing food. No one paid them any special attention.
Milarepa walked towards one of the wooden houses, which looked as if it might be an inn. An old woman sat near the threshold.
“Would you have two rooms available for us to spend the night?” Milarepa inquired.
“The rooms are 40 trangkhas each,” said the Old Woman, trying to guess how much profit she could squeeze from the two weary travelers.
“My servant could sleep in the common room,” said Milarepa.
“That’s 10 trangkhas for him, and 40 trangkhas for you, then.”
“How much would you give us for this deer?” asked Milarepa, pointing at the animal.
“15 trangkhas.”
“15!” exclaimed Milarepa. “But that’s only half of what it’s worth!”
“Only when kill
ed during the lawful season—which ended two months ago.”
“Offer us 20 and both my servant and I will stay in the common room, which will make us even. That’s all we can offer.”
The Old Woman judging that this was the best she could expect, nodded and invited them inside.
They soon found themselves on a large room at the top of the house, an attic converted into a dormitory with a dozen empty “beds” made of hay piled inside low wood boxes. There were only three other guests and the attic was dark, except for the candles the guests had brought with them. They were traveling salesmen discussing their respective wares and relative success in the region, and paid them no attention.
Across from them was a hearth in which a fire made of yak dung was burning softly, radiating a comfortable warmth through the room.
The two young people were so tired that as soon as they lay down on their cots, they fell asleep.
It was about 3 a.m. when Ardan woke up suddenly, due to his strange ability to sense danger. He heard voices coming from the ground floor. Without making a noise, he crawled up to Milarepa and gently woke her up.
“What is it?” she asked.
“I think they’re talking about us downstairs. It can’t be good.”
They stuck their ears to the floor and managed to hear what was going on.
A male voice they didn’t recognize was inquiring about them.
“We heard report of a Frenchman who’s escaped from the Top of the World. He’s traveling with a girl. He’s dangerous. He must not reach Lhasa.”
“There’s no Frenchman here! If any westerner had showed his face, I’d have immediately sent a messenger to alert the keng-chung!” protested the Old Woman, using the local term for the governor of the district.
“It may well be so, but I need to verify your guests’ identities in person,” replied the man.
“You have no right to do that! You’re not a policeman!” said the pugnacious Old Woman.
Ardan thought that the newcomer was too well informed about them and had to be connected somehow to Mendax’s gang. That fact that he knew he was French was significant, because virtually all of the westerners traveling in Tibet were Englishmen.
One thing was certain: they had to leave the inn at once or risk being recaptured.
“We have to get out of here,” he said to the girl.
She nodded, confirming her own fears of being apprehended, and added:
“But we can’t go back downstairs.”
“Obviously. Let’s check the roof.”
Fortunately, the three salesmen were sound asleep, snoring like a trio of bears.
The two young people discovered the roof was made of a thin layer of dried grass laid over a network of bamboo. They soon found a skylight but it was closed with a thick slab of wood. However, if they could open it, they would be able to climb onto the roof and escape.
Ardan spent a good five minutes pulling out the nails that held the primitive lock in place until he was able to push the skylight open.
He helped Milarepa climb up onto the roof; then it was his turn. As he grabbed the ledge, and was being helped up by the girl, he heard one of the salesmen turn around and grumble in his sleep. But it was a false alarm and the man did not wake up.
Once on the roof, Ardan looked around and spied a massive tree on the other side of the building.
“Perhaps we could grab one of the branches and get down to the ground that way?” he told Milarepa.
“It’s worth a try. Let’s look.”
They tip-toed to the other side, trying not to make any noise, aware that the newcomers might burst into the attic at any time and notice their absence.
Once at the edge of the roof, Ardan grabbed Milarepa in his arms and lifted her up.
“I’m going to throw you towards the nearest branch. It looks solid enough to support your weight. Can you grab it?”
“Yes,” replied the girl, understanding that this as their only way to avoid capture.
“Grab that rope tied around my waist,” Ardan instructed her further. “When you’re stable, tie one end to the trunk and throw me the other end.”
“Yes.”
The young man proceeded to do as he had announced.
A minute later, Milarepa was sitting on the fork between two branches, had tied the rope and thrown it back to Ardan, who tied the other end to thick, corner beam that rose from the foundation of the inn. It was then child’s play for him to use the rope to gain a foothold onto the tree.
From there, they both stepped down from branch to branch before eventually sliding down the trunk.
Three minutes later, their feet touched the ground.
Not a moment too soon, for, suddenly, they hear loud cries coming from the attic. It was the salesmen who, brutally woken up by the newcomers, loudly protested their innocence and objected to the verification of their identities.
The argument was cut short when one of the newcomers spotted the open skylight.
The sound of several men trampling on the roof ensued, and then several shots rang out as they fired at Ardan and the Milarepa who were running away into the darkness.
CHAPTER X
Deadly Pursuit
“Run!’ urged Ardan.
He had heard their pursuers rush towards the other end of the roof and knew they would be sitting ducks if they stayed put.
Before climbing down, he had untied the rope from the tree, so at least they would not be able to follow them that way.
As they ran into the darkness, they heard the shouts and vituperations of the men and several shots fired at random in the dark.
After running straight into the wilderness for a good twenty minutes, they stopped and listened. They heard nothing, except the whistling of the night wind on the plateau.
“I think I recognized the voice of the man who interrogated the Old Woman,” said the young Frenchman as they caught their breaths.
“There’s no doubt that these were men in the employ of Captain Mendax, paid to recapture us and take us back to his Everest citadel,” replied Milarepa. “What I was able to hear only confirmed my suppositions. But Tibet is vast and there is more than one road to reach Lhasa.”
“Where do you think we are?”
“Based on the conversation of those salesmen I overheard in the attic, I think we’re about 40 kilometers west of Tinki Dzong, a small town in the Valley of Dingri. If we go east and find the river, we can just follow it down to Kampa Dzong.”
Ardan had only a vague idea of the location of the towns she had just mentioned, but nodded. It was cold and they needed to be on their way, if only to warm themselves.
They started back on their trek at a brisk pace. The road—if indeed that barely passable rail deserved such a name!—was littered with bones, both animal and human, as if the caravans which had taken it had all perished and withered on the spot.
They walked for an hour or so without exchanging a word in that utterly bleak landscape. Suddenly, Ardan stopped.
“Did you hear that?” he asked.
“Yes,” replied Milarepa. “It sounds like—hooves?”
“There must be some yaks around... Let’s go and check it out...”
After cautiously stepping onto a pile of icy boulders, and climbing down on the other side, they discovered a frozen lake with a herd of thirty yaks led by a jovial herdsman who didn’t seem bothered by either the freezing cold of the night or the icy condition of the surface. He was whistling happily, stopping only to shout orders to his animals to move on.
“I’m surprised he doesn’t use a dog,” observed Ardan.
“He doesn’t need one,” replied Milarepa, smiling. “The yak is an obedient animal with many good uses. In fact, I have an idea...”
The young man, surprised, saw the girl walk towards the herdsman and engage in what appeared to be an animated exchange.
A few minutes later, she returned, holding two yaks by their bridles, while the herdsman waved her a
polite good-bye.
“How on Earth did you manage that?” asked Ardan.
Milarepa laughed.
“I had a turquoise necklace, which I kept hidden on me for a circumstance precisely like this one,” she explained. “I used it to buy two yaks from this man; he was very honest and didn’t try to take advantage of our situation. They’re very placid, having been crossed with Indian cows, and will make excellent mounts. Also, they’ll provide us with some fresh milk.”
“Bravo!” applauded Ardan, climbing on top of one of the animals.
Soon, they were back on the trail, making good time. The only thing that slowed them down was the taste of the yaks for gem salt which littered the road; the animals often stopped to lick the crystals and had to be pulled or kicked to move forward.
A little later, they spied, ahead of them, by the light of the Moon, what looked like the valley of the Dingri and the landscape began to change.
They had decided to make a brief stop and let their animals rest before going down into the valley when, suddenly, they heard the unmistakable sound of galloping horses.
They saw a dozen riders coming after them. They were all armed with rifles, and sabers hung from their belts. They quickly displayed their hostile intentions by shooting at Ardan and Milarepa. Their bullets, however, only hit the boulders on the side of the road. But as they got closer, their aim would no doubt improve...
The two fugitives tried to gallop away, even though the yaks were not meant for that task. Fortunately, the road on which they were was very twisty and their foes could not get a clear shot at them, nor catch up easily. The two brave yaks, as if they were aware of the peril threatening their new masters, were doing their best to flee from these noisy pursuers.
“Let’s take the next trail to the right,” shouted Ardan.
“But isn’t that going to bring us back to where we were before?” asked Milarepa.
“Precisely!” answered the young man, without bothering to explain.
Milarepa shrugged and steered her yak to follow the young Frenchman as he began the climb back towards the plateau.
