by Jack Higgins
'The old man doesn't look too good,' Drummond said. 'How long till we reach the monastery?'
'Maybe three hours,' Hamid said. 'It all depends on the state of the track.'
'I've been thinking,' Drummond said. 'What guarantee have we got that there will be anyone there when we do reach the place? It could have fallen into disuse years ago. There are ruined monasteries all over the mountains, you know that as well as I do.'
'At least we'll find some sort of shelter,' Hamid said. 'And that's something we're going to need just as soon as we can find it. It's no use pretending the old man or Janet and the child, for that matter, can stand much of this sort of thing.'
They moved back to the others and Father Kerrigan got to his feet. Whatever he had taken had certainly had a miraculous effect and he smiled, cheeks slightly flushed.
'I'm ready when you are.'
Hamid helped him into the saddle, Drummond passed the boy up to Janet and they moved on, skirting the base of the great face of rock slabs.
Over the years, the track had been marked by pilgrims placing their stones on conical cairns which marked quarter-mile intervals and these were still clearly visible in the snow.
An hour later, the track turned into a narrow ravine that slanted up into the rock. It was choked with boulders and loose stones, an indication of years of neglect.
Hamid took the lead, holding Father Kerrigan's horse by the bridle and Drummond did the same for Janet. He was soon tired and his arm ached with the strain of holding in the unwilling horse. He constantly slipped on the snow, sending loose stones rattling through the maze of boulders below.
Once or twice when they paused, he looked up at Janet and was shocked at the weariness in her eyes. Somehow she managed to smile and he smiled back.
Half an hour later they emerged from the ravine on to a ledge perhaps forty feet across that slanted upwards to the left, jutting out from the cliff face.
Hamid turned, still holding on to the bridle of the old man's horse. 'Everyone all right?'
Drummond glanced up at Janet and she nodded. 'Fine. Keep going.'
The ledge lifted steeply, following the curve of the wall and a sea of swirling snow cloaked the valley below. Drummond followed Hamid and Father Kerrigan, holding the horse as close in to the wall as possible.
And then the ledge narrowed until there hardly seemed room for man and animal together. He pushed forward frantically and came out on the edge of a great plateau.
Beyond them, the ultimate peaks of the mountains stabbed into the sky and great sterile valleys ran between, cutting their way through to the other side.
'The main plateau,' Hamid shouted above the wind.
'The monastery can't be very far away. We'll keep on going.'
It was cold at that height, very cold. No more snow fell, but the wind blew harder and harder until it cut through their clothing, whipping their bruised bodies with cold fingers and the child started to cry.
Janet held him close in her arms and Drummond took the reins of the horse, pulling it forward and then they moved over the crest of a small hill and paused.
Below them was a great natural arena into which many valleys spilled, and squarely in the entrance of one of them stood the monastery of Ladong Gompa. Hamid urged Father Kerrigan's mount forward with a savage cry and Drummond went after him.
The monastery walls had been painted red, green and black to signify the nature of the order, but the colours had faded with the years. It was of no great size and had a bleak, deserted look about it. There was no encircling outer wall, a usual feature of larger establishments, and the entrance was at the top of several steps, protected against the weather by a stone porch.
Snow had drifted in an unbroken line across the steps and a chain hung through a hole high in the wall, jingling faintly as it swung in the wind. When Hamid pulled hard on it, a bell rang hollowly somewhere inside and they waited as its brazen sound died.
After a while, they heard a rattle of wooden clogs on stone and a metallic rasping as bolts were withdrawn. The door swung back to reveal a Buddhist monk in faded yellow robes. He showed no particular surprise and came forward at once to give his hand to Father Kerrigan as the old man stumbled up the steps. Drummond held Kerim until Janet had dismounted, then handed him to her and she followed Father Kerrigan.
Another monk, a younger man, came down the steps and Hamid said, 'What about the horses?'
Like the other one, the young man did not speak, but motioned them to follow him and when he tucked his robe into his girdle so that it didn't trail in the snow, Drummond saw that his feet were bare.
There was an enclosed courtyard at the rear. They waited at the gate and after a while it was opened from inside and they moved in. There were the usual stables and a young novice took the horses from them and they followed the other monk into the monastery.
They walked along a narrow, stone-flagged corridor and entered a large, poorly-furnished room at the far end with a fire of logs burning on a large stone hearth.
Janet was sitting by the fire, Kerim nursed in her arms, while Father Kerrigan sat on a bench by a large wooden table, engaged in animated conversation in English with a much older monk in a yellow, conical hat with ear flaps.
Father Kerrigan got to his feet and the monk rose with him. 'Major Hamid and Mr. Drummond.' He made the introductions in English. 'This is the Abbot of Ladong Gompa. I've been giving him a brief account of our misfortunes. Apparently they still get a few pilgrims across during the summer. Lucky for us, eh?'
'I suppose we're pilgrims in a sense,' Drummond said. 'Pilgrims of hope.'
The Abbot smiled. 'I've been explaining to Father Kerrigan that the other members of our order here are under a strict vow of silence. Please accept that they mean no discourtesy.'
His English was slightly stilted and technically excellent, but was delivered in the grave, expressionless tone of a man who did not use his voice often.
'Can we stay here for a while?' Drummond said.
'As long as you wish.'
'Has Father Kerrigan told you that we are being followed by Communist troops?'
The Abbot nodded. 'Sound travels great distances at this height. We could hear your party coming when you were still crossing the main plateau. There will be ample warning. I will have food sent to you and then blankets. I suggest you all try to get some sleep.'
'And that's the most sensible thing I've heard in a long time,' Drummond said.
'I shall pray for your continuing good fortune.'
The Abbot left the room. Hot food was brought to them, steaming in a great copper bowl, and afterwards blankets.
Drummond draped one over his shoulders and Hamid spread the map out on the table. 'Where do we go from here?'
Hamid ran his finger along another valley, following the track over the top and down the other side of the mountain. 'About fifteen miles to the Indian border from here, that's all.'
Drummond looked across to where Father Kerrigan and Janet were already asleep in front of the fire wrapped in their blankets, Kerim between them.
'Do you think they can make it?'
'They'll have to. We don't have any choice.'
He lay down on the floor beside the others, pulling his blanket over his head, and Drummond stayed at the table. It was peaceful, quiet after the storm, the regular breathing of the sleepers rising and falling gently and after a while he rested his head in his arms and slept.
He awakened suddenly, yawned and stretched his arms so that the blanket fell from him. As he bent down to retrieve it he became aware that the Abbot was standing just inside the door watching him.
'How long have I been asleep?'
The Abbot came forward and sat on the bench on the other side of the table. 'About three hours. It is almost night.'
Drummond glanced across at the others sleeping quietly beside the fire. 'They're very tired. They've been through a great deal.'
The Abbot nodded and brooded quietly, face
expressionless and calm as the firelight played across it. Drummond felt completely rested and wide awake, but his feet pained him and the toes on his right foot were numb and lifeless.
He fumbled half-heartedly with the laces of his combat boots, but the knots were swollen and tightened by the constant damp of the past two days and he finally gave up trying.
'It would interest me to know what you think of my country,' the Abbot said.
'Frankly, I can't get out fast enough. I've seen enough of places like this, smoke rising from burning cities, refugees on the move.'
'But you came by choice in the first place, did you not?'
'I once read somewhere that life is action and passion,' Drummond said. 'That if a man failed to take part in it, he wasn't really living.'
He absentmindedly banged his right foot against the floor in an endeavour to restore the circulation and the Abbot said, 'A mistake to take that too literally. It was said by a man who, having experienced the horrors of war, devoted himself to the rule of law for the rest of his life.'
The Abbot crossed the floor and opened a pair of large wooden shutters revealing the night and the mountains. Drummond joined him on a small stone terrace.
It was very cold and he pulled his blanket more closely about him and shivered. During the past few days, his body had been alternately wet and frozen so many times, that he was now at a stage where his resistance was at a very low ebb.
Night was beginning to fall, cold and clear with great scatterings of stars, brilliant and luminous, strung away across the peaks. As he looked, it darkened quickly from east to west and the stars were blotted out before his eyes as though someone moved among them quickly, snuffing them out between finger and thumb.
'It will snow very heavily soon,' the Abbot said.
A small wind lifted the hair on Drummond's head as it skidded round the corner of the building. Gradually, the shadow moved across the night sky until there were no more stars to be seen and the wind howled mournfully as it sped down the valleys towards them.
'It isn't a night I'd like to be out in.'
The Abbot lifted a hand, motioning him to silence. Drummond strained his ears, but heard nothing. He was about to speak when quite suddenly, as the wind lifted, there was a faint jingling sound.
'They are coming,' the Abbot said simply.
'Are you sure?'
The Abbot nodded. 'Crossing the main plateau.'
Is there anywhere we could hide?'
The Abbot shook his head. 'This is a small place, not like some. As they are looking for you, they will search thoroughly.'
Drummond dropped his blanket, moved to the fireplace and shook the others awake quickly.
Hamid sat up at once. 'What is it? Trouble?'
Drummond nodded. 'We're about to have company. We'll have to get moving again, I'm afraid.'
'I will have your horses made ready,' the Abbot said and he hurried out.
As Father Kerrigan and Janet got to their feet, Hamid and Drummond moved across to the shutters. Hamid opened one and peered out. He closed it, his face grim. 'It's snowing again. How long are we going to last in the open on a night like this?'
Drummond turned to Father Kerrigan and Janet, standing by the fire. 'If we stay, Cheung will catch us, there's no doubt of that. He'll take this place apart looking for a hiding place.'
'That's all right, Jack,' Father Kerrigan said in a tired voice. 'It isn't your fault.'
The door opened and the Abbot came in with one of the monks, bundles of sheepskins in their arms. 'A sheepskin coat for each of you. Our shepherds find them very useful at this time of the year.'
As they pulled them on, Hamid said urgently, 'Is there anywhere we can go, anywhere at all? We won't last long on a night like this.'
'I think I can help you,' the Abbot said. 'I'll show you as you leave.'
Kerim was still asleep. Janet lifted him gently in her arms and the Abbot led the way along the dark corridor to the courtyard at the rear.
A monk brought the horses forward and helped Father Kerrigan and Janet into the saddle. They all crossed to the gate and the Abbot moved outside with them.
He pointed to the valley beyond. 'This is the best way, the only way. Eight miles and you're through to the other side of the mountain. You'll find a shepherd's hut at the end with wood for a fire, a lantern, everything you need. From there into the valley is easy. Five miles from the mountain and you will come to an Indian border post.'
Powdery snowflakes were already beginning to stick to their sheepskins as the small cavalcade moved away, Hamid leading Janet's horse, Father Kerrigan behind.
'Thanks for everything,' Drummond said.
The wind lifted snow around his legs as he walked away and the Abbot called quietly, 'Do not worry, my friend. You will reach India.'
The snow began to fall steadily till it filled the night and they were alone with it.
As they advanced towards the end of the narrow valley, the going became heavier and Drummond's feet sank ankle-deep into the snow. He walked with his head bowed against the wind, alone with his thoughts, and when a sharp stab of pain cut into his face, he winced and came to a halt.
To his surprise, he found that he was knee-deep in snow. When he wrenched off a mitten and touched his face, he felt caked snow and ice on his cheeks and his flesh had split in several places. He frowned and pulled on his mitten, and when he looked up saw that he was alone.
The wind was whipping the snow into a frenzy and it spun around his head and sliced at his cheeks, until his face was so numb he could feel no pain.
How long since they had left the monastery? An hour? Two hours? There was no knowing, and as a horse whinnied somewhere near at hand he blundered forward.
He peered down at the ground and saw great slurred hoofprints leading away through the snow and stumbled forward, half-bent so that he could follow them.
Time had stopped and his frozen mind had difficulty in thinking what to do next. The wind was howling like a lost thing and he was completely covered with frozen snow until he no longer resembled an ordinary man. He fell several times, and each time lay in the snow for a little longer before getting up.
A terrible iron band settled around his chest and he seemed to be struggling for breath. Again he heard the whinny of a horse and then it appeared from the whirling darkness, rearing up above his head, Father Kerrigan falling over the hindquarters and knocking him to the ground.
As Drummond sat up, the wind carried the sound of the horse's desperate cry and there was a coldness sweeping into his face, a sense of space, of limitless distance. He crawled forward, feeling the ground in front of him and then his hand touched nothing but air.
He crawled backwards, turned and went back to the old man. Father Kerrigan was on his hands and knees like an animal, his body coated with snow, and Drummond heaved him to his feet and they staggered forward.
It was no good. He was on his knees, the old man beside him in the snow, his arms moving feebly. Drummond took a deep breath, something deep inside, some essential courage that refused to be beaten giving him the strength to haul the old man to his feet.
They stood there, swaying together and then the other horse loomed out of the night, Hamid in the saddle.
What happened after that was something Drummond could never really remember afterwards. He was aware of Hamid pulling the old man up across the saddle with a supreme effort, of shouted directions that were snatched away by the wind and then the horse plunged forward, taking him with it, his right hand hooked firmly around the saddle girth.
It was Janet at the door of the hut with the lantern that saved them and the light drew them out of the storm. Hamid slid to the ground, pulling Father Kerrigan after him and staggered towards the door while Drummond hung on to the horse.
It was no use. As a sudden gust of wind slashed in from the valley driving razor-sharp particles of ice before it, the terrified animal reared up, knocking Drummond to the ground and galloped madly i
nto the night.
He was on his hands and knees again, crawling towards the doorway and the wind seemed to have got inside his brain, dragging him down into the whirling darkness.
14
The Last Round
HE awakened slowly and lay for several moments staring up through the gloom, trying to decide where he was. Realisation came suddenly and completely and he tried to sit up.
The hut was low roofed and built of blocks of rough stone. He was lying on a pile of mouldy hay with Hamid beside him. In the middle of the floor a fire burned brightly.
All his outer clothing had been removed and he was only wearing his underwear. He had been covered with sheepskin coats and he pulled them aside and examined his swollen, chapped hands. Gingerly, he touched his face and winced as fingertips probed great splits in his flesh.
His right foot felt heavy and numb and when he sat up, he saw that it had been bandaged. He reached to touch it and Hamid opened his eyes and pushed himself up on one elbow.
'How do you feel?'
'Bloody awful. What's wrong with my foot?'
'A touch of frostbite, nothing serious. All your toes are still there, if that's what you're thinking.'
'I can't feel a damned thing.'
'Janet gave you an injection. Something from the old man's medical kit.'
Drummond looked across to the other side of the fire to where Janet, Father Kerrigan and the young Khan slept peacefully. 'How is he?'
'He had a heart attack when I got him inside last night. Luckily he'd brought the right sort of drugs along and Janet was able to give him an injection.'
'He's in pretty bad shape then?'
'Couldn't walk another step and, in case you don't remember, we lost both horses last night.'
He took a cheroot from his pocket, broke it in two and handed Drummond half. 'The last one so make the most of it.' He walked to the door, opened it slightly and peered out.' Dawn's coming and the snow seems to be lifting.' He returned to the fire and pulled on his boots. 'I'll take a walk and find out exactly where we are.'
