‘Only if you propose to eat it all yourself, Eve. Personally I’m not all that keen on grilled vulture – if by some fluke you should happen to hit it in the first place.’ I sniffed.
The only exception to Apa’s rule about not killing animals unless you were going to eat them, was rats. They counted as vermin, so I could practise on them at forest bungalows as much as I liked. Which was why when Sirhan Sears wanted to tease me he gave me the nickname, ‘Mongoose’.
Mongooses have tiny little eyes and pointed, twitchy noses – so the greeting, ‘And how’s our little mongoose today?’ was guaranteed to raise my temperature as high as the Untadhura Pass – which was actually a bit of a disappointment. Yes, it was high – the highest I’d ever been, at 17,590 feet, and it was well above the snow-line – but it was a mess. The snow and earth had been churned up into a sea of mud by thousands of pack animals hurrying to Tibet. On this route they had to get over the three passes – Untadhura, Jayanti and Kungri-Bingri – in a single day, because there was no grass, no fuel, and it was cold. So despite regretting Tibet I was pretty pleased when immediately after the pass we veered left off the mud, and set off down for the river Girthi – and its about-to-be crossed gorges.
I could write a book about our journey across those gorges – after all, Dr Boeckh did, and an extremely long one, too – but don’t worry, I won’t. Some of the scenery was what you’d see in parts of Kumaon, anyway, the same roaring rivers in deep rocky ravines – but up here there were no forests and terraced fields and villages in between. What I liked best about the gorges was that you never knew what you’d find next – you’d be crossing a barren, rocky hillside over a precipitous drop of several hundred feet to a raging torrent below – and then round the next bluff there’d be a grassy green slope studded with bright blue rock geraniums, with a clump of stunted birch trees to one side.
We even passed a tiny, stone-built temple, where the porters left offerings of small coins, an old knife blade, a buckle. As my offering I left a used cartridge case, because Apa had shot a tahr for us, as promised – and pretty horrible it was too. Meat’s always tough in India, but if you keep chumping at it you can usually make headway – but this tahr was something else again. In the end, we just frizzled small scraps of it on the embers of the campfire. I informed Apa and Sirhan Sears that next time they’d better make it a bharal.
But before then I’d had my little mishap. I think I told you earlier that I’d tried to argue Apa into a later arrival at Naini Tal, but that wasn’t because I wasn’t keen on performing in ‘The Gondoliers’ – I was, very – but I didn’t see the need for anything much in the way of rehearsals. After all, Apa had sung the Duke of Flaza—Toro before, and he could teach me my songs and dances – he’d already been doing that on the way up to Milam. So as we tramped over the Girthi Gorges I entertained the porters with my songs – and with everybody else’s songs, too; I had quite a repertoire of Gilbert and Sullivan, since Apa had performed in most of their Operas at some time or another.
However, as it happens it was a ‘Gondoliers’ chorus I was singing that day. So I ended my rousing rendition of,
‘Sing high, sing low,
Wherever they go,
They all shall equal be!’
and then decided I was bored with singing, and instead I’d demonstrate one of my dances. Which is not a good idea on a narrow goat track over a sheer drop. A pretty stupid idea, actually. That’s the other side of being mountain-born and having no fear of heights; you’re inclined to forget that heights are generally found above some quite dangerous places. Anyway, I forgot, began my fandango – and within three steps I’d hit a loose stone and gone over the edge – backwards.
By a mixture of fluke and sheer panic I managed to turn over in the air and come down feet first – and because when you’re somersaulting you always land soft and relaxed I landed soft and relaxed then, too. So two points were on my side. The third wasn’t. It was a semi-scree slope with lots of small loose stones – all falling around me.
I let myself go with them – I had no choice. All I could do was order myself, ‘Be a snake, Eve,’ and become limp and boneless.
Then the stones I was bouncing over got bigger and firmer. ‘Be a monkey, Eve!’ My feet and hands shot out and I found two holds – one hand, one foot – on opposite sides, fortunately – then somehow I wedged my other toe into a crack and my other fingers found a slight bump and clung to it.
I’d stopped. Half-way down a precipitous gorge – or half-way up, if you take the optimistic point of view.
Two of my holds were decidedly insecure, but I didn’t dare move. Then I heard Apa’s calm voice from up above. ‘Well done, Eve. Now, there’s a ledge to your left, and slightly below you – I think it would be better if you moved along to that.’
‘Apa, I can’t!’ I was panicking.
Confident and firm, his voicer replied with the familiar assurance, ‘You can do it, Eve.’
I did it, somehow. It wasn’t much of a ledge, but I had proper holds now.
Apa called again, ‘Well done, Eve. Now, just stay there – and I’ll come down to you.’
The exquisite relief of those words. I had nothing more to fear, now. Apa was coming. All I had to do was wait for him.
He climbed down with the rope. A very big hint had been required from my father to secure the inclusion of that. ‘But Apa – we don’t need a rope!’ I’d protested.
And incredibly, now that I did need a rope, I didn’t want to use one. Apa had arrived, we’d soon be climbing back up together. I argued, ‘I don’t need a rope, Apa.’
‘You may not, Eve,’ he replied in a voice I’d never heard Apa use before. ‘But I need it – tied very securely round your waist.’ I let him tie it on.
As I climbed back over the lip of the path I saw Sirhan Sears and three of the porters braced on the rope. They waited until Apa was safely back up as well before releasing themselves. I felt so embarrassed; I knew I’d been stupid, but I wasn’t going to admit it. As I untied myself I said, ‘Well, that was exciting, wasn’t it, Apa? Quite fun, really.’
His reply was quiet. ‘Eve, I’d like a word with you – when we reach a more appropriate resting place.’
We reached it round the next spur – the track widened out there to form a decent-sized shelf. Sirhan Sears and the Pandit melted away to have a smoke with the porters, leaving me with Apa at the other end. Being told off.
Apa rarely told me off. When I’d done something inconsiderate or stupid he would talk to me, explaining, until I saw it for myself. But this was a telling-off. I was crying by the end of it. I hardly ever cried, but I did that time.
‘Oh Apa, I’m sorry – I am sorry.’
Putting his arm around me he drew me close and gave me a hug. Then he kissed me on the forehead and said, ‘Remember, Eve, you’re very precious to me.’
He’d seen it all. With that sixth sense parents have where their children are concerned he’d turned round just in time to see me dance myself over the edge of the precipice. Now that I realised how much I’d upset him I was pretty subdued for the rest of the day. I even went to bed early without prompting; I was tired, too, and my hands were stinging.
Later, I awoke to hear Sirhan Sears speaking outside the tent. ‘Evelyn, you can’t have it both ways – if you bring her up to be as bold as a boy, then she’ll inevitably get into the same sort of scrapes.’
Apa answered, ‘It’s not a case of being a boy or a girl – I want her to grow up free and fearless.’
‘Then don’t forget, old chap, that there’s a price to be paid for that freedom of hers, and you’re the one who has to pay it – as you had to today.’
Apa’s voice was so soft I could hardly hear his reply, ‘Yes, I know.’
Turning over I went back to sleep.
The next day my scrapes and bruises were forgotten as I ran backwards and forwards over a tree-trunk that crossed one of the Girthi tributaries. Apa had checked its stability
before letting the goats across, and then I was off after them.
But naturally once wasn’t enough. It was a fine, crisp morning, the narrow river was rushing gaily over the rocks below – and I was barefoot. A rare pleasure because Apa was usually strict about footwear outside – but we were too high for any truly venomous snakes – so off I ran again.
Later we came to a deep ravine, but there was a cave up a side gully, and we camped there, close by a waterfall. Then next morning we were out to face a steep slope of slabby rock. We crept along its narrow shelves using hands as well as feet, rounded a huge shoulder of rock – and saw ahead of us a green valley. We’d crossed the last of the Girthi Gorges. And we’d clipped two days off Dr Boeckh’s record – though I’ve got to admit that was probably due more to the presence in our party of Pandit Kishan Singh than to any brilliant organisation on my part!
We followed a narrow track that led up to those grassy slopes, marched over them and on into the Dhauli valley – and so back to civilisation.
Just to prove it the next bridge was a sanga; one of those where people either side had pushed logs out over the gorge, positioning each layer on top of the other and pushing it slightly further out until the gap in the middle could be spanned by a final pair of tree trunks.
As a further proof of civilisation we met a horde of goats and sheep, yaks and jibbus (half-yaks), all heading south, on their way back from Tibet. We clambered a little way up the hill-side to let them pass. The traders called out greetings, their hands busy with the whirling spindles that Bhotia men carry with them everywhere. They won’t waste their time just walking – they spin wool into yarn at the same time. A pack of huge, shaggy dogs brought up the rear, the sun glinting on their wide, iron-spiked, brass collars. They wear those to protect their necks from the leopards they fight in defence of their flocks. Bhotia dogs will tackle anything.
Since they were obviously heading for the camping ground at Malari we decided to turn north, and hope to find somewhere less crowded, at Bampa, or Gamsali. So we walked through a forest of scented pines to Gamsali, nestling at the foot of a mountain which rose in an almost perpendicular cliff behind the grey stone houses. Yet the valley itself was green and open, a welcome change after the barren Girthi Gorges.
We sold our now unladen goats at Gamsali, and then debated what to do with our extra days. Besides the two we’d saved we had another couple in hand; Apa had insisted on that in case we’d faced delays over the Girthi. The Pandit was going on up the next day to the village of Niti, which is thirteen miles below the pass with the same name, on the Tibetan border. He was staying with a friend there, and he suggested we might accompany him. It was only a few more miles, and then I would see the Niti gorge. I wasn’t particularly bothered about yet another gorge, but I was keen on anything which prolonged the trip. Apa agreed, on condition that we spent a full day up there, resting, before the long journey back to Naini Tal. Sirhan Sears said he’d come along too.
It turned out that the Niti Gorge was the most spectacular of them all. It was so narrow that there was barely room for the river, which roared and foamed and sent up bursts of angry spray. There was no room at all for the path in some places, so several hundred feet above the river iron supports had been driven into the rock face and timbers laid across them. Above us the rock rose straight and sheer, as if cut by a knife. Still clinging to the cliff the path dropped down again, until it crossed the Dhauli by a swaying log bridge. Soon after that we rounded a corner of rock – and suddenly the ravine opened out into a broad valley, which held the village of Niti. I still remember that village, vividly.
Obviously there were mountain slopes all round, but these slopes weren’t so ferociously steep as the one at Gamsali, and on each side of the river paths zig-zagged up from the valley, so you could stand on the hillside and look down on the roofs of the stone huts, and on the terraced fields leading down to the curving river.
Those stony fields were growing buckwheat and barley, just the same as at Milam, but the houses here were clustered together all higgeldy-piggeldy, with their behinds tucked into the ground, and their backs turned away from the route to Tibet. Niti was much smaller than Milan, and although it was higher it was less bleak – and less prosperous. The Pandit explained that it had been overtaken by the villages below, and it looked it – even the yaks seemed sad. Though actually yaks always do – it’s those big brown eyes of theirs, I think.
Anyway, I was rather taken with Niti, and when the next morning Apa said he and Kishan Singh were going to go up on the hillside again, to study the lie of the land, I told them I’d stay down at the camp, and do some drawing. I’m not a natural artist, but I can do a field sketch, Apa had taught me that, and so I’d decided to keep a record of my expedition. I’d dragged paper, pencils and rubber all the way over the Girthi Gorges, but so far not made a single sketch – there’d always been something more exciting to do. But today, I would make a start.
Sirhan Sears went off with Apa and the Pandit, and we’d given the porters a rest day, so along with Faizullah they’d already left for Gamsali – which was apparently more exciting than Niti. Anywhere is more exciting than Niti.
I found something to rest my paper on and started my sketch. The camping ground at Niti is a mile or so outside the village, and I’d intended to move nearer in, so as to have some features to sketch, but in the nick of time a boy appeared, leading a mixed flock of sheep and children. He was about ten, but the boys and girls with him were quite a lot younger. As soon as the sheep started grazing the children began to play, and I decided to sketch them. They were some distance away, so I wouldn’t have to draw their faces properly – I’m lousy at drawing faces.
But the truth is, I’m pretty hopeless at drawing figures, too, and by the time I’d rubbed most of them out, several times, I was wishing I’d gone with Apa and the others. I turned, and looked up the hillside behind me. I spotted them up there, and waved – they waved back. I’d have one more try at my drawing, and then go and meet them. I picked up my pencil again – and saw the Bhotia dog.
It was just standing by a boulder. It must have been lying asleep behind it – which was odd, because Bhotia dogs are usually kept chained up, unless they’re on the march, or on guard duty overnight. Then it lifted its big, shaggy head, and I saw the broken chain trailing from its iron-spiked collar. The boy had seen it, too. He stood there, keeping a wary eye on the animal – Bhotia dogs are pretty ferocious. He bent down, and picked up a stick, ready to drive it away.
The dog began to move forward. The boy shouted and waved his stick – but the dog kept moving towards the children – who were now huddled behind the older boy. He waved his stick again, shouted louder – and the dog lifted its head and howled – that unmistakable, hollow howl. The dog was mad.
Dropping my pencil I turned and rushed headlong back into the tent. Fumbling through Apa’s pack I found the cartridges, hauled up the Paradox, broke it over my knee and thrust two cartridges in – as I’d so often watched Apa do. Grabbing another handful of bullets I rammed them into my pocket. Then lugging the heavy gun in both my hands I burst out of the tent and began running foward.
The dog was running too – straight towards the children. The boy was shouting at the younger ones to scatter, but they hadn’t gone far – they kept turning to look back at where he stood, his thin stick held bravely aloft.
I was panting with the awkward weight of the gun – I’d only ever fired it once before, but I’d seen Apa do it, lots of times – only I must get closer. But the dog had reached the boy, who was fending it off, frantically – there was no time to get any nearer. I dropped down behind a boulder, propped the gun up on it and tucked the stock into my shoulder. I put my head down and looked square along the sights – and the boy and the dog were dancing round each other. I couldn’t shoot, because I might hit the boy, instead.
I can still feel the panic of those moments as I looked down the sights and saw those jaws snapping so close to h
is face as he danced his dance of death. And as that thought flew into my mind I knew I had no choice. Taking what aim I could, I squeezed the trigger.
Shaking with fear and the force of the recoil I looked up. The dog was staggering slightly – and the boy was still upright. He jumped back. But the dog wasn’t down yet, it began to move forward again, though more slowly now.
I rammed the stock into my bruised shoulder again – but it was easier this time, I could aim properly. I remembered Apa’s instruction: ‘Let finger, brain and eye work together…’ The gun slammed back against my shoulder. The dog was down.
I stood up, re-loaded, ran across to the dog and shot it at point-blank range in the head. It jerked and was still. The boy came running back and poked it with his stick. It was dead.
We stood looking down at the body between us, and then looked up at each other. We were both trembling. He said, ‘Thank you, Missy-sahib – thank you.’ He was obviously searching for more words to express his gratitude, and then, putting his hand to his waist he gave a small bow and speaking slowly and formally, announced, ‘May you be the mother of many fine sons.’
I said, ‘Thank you.’ Then we both ran out of words and simply stood staring down at the dog, watching as the tell-tale flecks of foam dried on its muzzle.
Soon I heard shouts. Apa and Sirhan Sears had come running full-tilt down the hillside, with the Pandit not far behind. The boy retreated to round up the children, as the men arrived at my side. I said, ‘It’s dead, Apa.’
‘Well done, Eve.’ He took the gun from my hand, broke it, and removed the remaining cartridge from the breech. Then he put his arm around me, and I could hear the pounding of his heart as be repeated, ‘Well done, Eve.’
They’d seen it all happen – but been too far away to do anything. Apa said, ‘It would have been far too long a shot, even if I had taken the Paradox with me.’
Eve Page 3
