Holding On

by Pamela Clare

  “Om muni muni maha muni shakyamuni soha. Om muni muni maha muni shakyamuni soha.”

  Om, wise one, wise one, greatly wise one, wise one of the Shakyans, Hail!

  Time lost all meaning, the mantra spinning itself over and over again, weaving through Conrad’s consciousness until his mind was blank, the emptiness bringing with it a sense of peace. No pain. No regret. No guilt.

  Then it was over.

  The monks shuffled out, but Conrad stayed as he was, sitting, waiting for the tourists to leave, his eyes closed. Any trekker or climber who came to this region likely knew who he was. Some would stare. Others would try to get his autograph. Some would ask questions, and those questions would bring the darkness rushing back.

  He willed himself to focus on the feeling of emptiness, trying not to hear the shuffling and whispering around him.

  “Is that Harrison Conrad?”

  “Yeah, man.”

  A hand touched his shoulder. “Hey, dude, can I get an autogra—”

  A familiar voice silenced the first. “If he wanted to hand out autographs, he wouldn’t be meditating, would he? Let him be.”

  Megs.

  Conrad’s eyes flew open. What the hell was she doing here?

  “You’re Megs Hill!” said a guy in a Peruvian ski hat.

  “You win the prize. Want me to sign that?” Megs took a notebook and a pen from him and scribbled her signature across the page. “Okay. Show’s over. It’s time to go. This is a prayer hall, not a party.”

  Megs walked over to Conrad, waiting until they were alone to speak. “It’s time to knock this shit off and come home. Do you think you’re the only climber who’s ever lost a partner?”

  Conrad’s temper surged, but the exhaustion on Megs’ face broke his fury. He knew only too well that she had lost friends, too. “What are you doing here?”

  Tengboche was high in the Himalayas on the route to Everest Base Camp, but it was the end of August now. Climbing season was long over.

  “I came to bring you home.”

  Conrad got to his feet, staring down at her, too astonished at first to say anything. Getting here from Kathmandu involved a flight to Lukla, followed by a tough hike of a few days over gorges and mountain terrain. “You wasted a lot of time and money. I’m not going back.”

  “So, you’re converting to Buddhism and plan to spend the rest of your life drinking yak butter tea, chanting mantras, and enjoying celibacy.”

  When she put it like that…

  “No.” He ran a hand through his hair, suddenly self-conscious about the fact that it now reached his shoulders. And his beard … Well, he hadn’t shaved or gotten a haircut in more than a year. “I just need some time.”

  “It’s been fifteen months.”

  “Did my agent put you up to this?” His agent had been contacting the monastery almost weekly for most of a year now, probably worried that her gravy train would dry up if Conrad didn’t do something to appease his sponsors soon.

  “Do you think I’d come all this way for your agent’s sake?”

  Conrad thought about that for a half second. “Probably not.”

  Conrad walked out of the Dokhang and down the empty hallway, Megs keeping up with him as he made his way to the front entrance of the main building.

  “Rain just had a baby girl with Joe,” she said, as if they’d been talking about Scarlet Springs all this time.

  “Wow.” Everyone knew that Rain and Joe had a thing for each other—except for the two of them. It seemed they had finally figured that out. “They had a baby?”

  “They got married at Knockers last Christmas. You should have seen Rain’s gown. Rumor is it cost a fortune.”

  Conrad had all but forgotten about Knockers. Scarlet Springs felt so far away—like part of another time, another life.

  Megs went on. “Vicki had her baby the day I landed in Kathmandu.”

  “Wow. Hawke’s a father? How did that happen?”

  “A lot of unprotected sex. That’s my guess.”

  Megs had always been a smartass.

  Hearing his friends’ names brought their faces to Conrad’s mind, an unexpected pang seizing his chest. He missed them.

  Joe. Rain. Hawke. Victoria. The rest of the Team.

  “The town is in the middle of a baby boom. We had a blizzard that dumped seven feet last December. I don’t think I’ve ever seen more pregnant bellies at Food Mart than I have this past summer.”

  “Wow,” he said for the third time.

  Clearly, it had been a while since he’d had a real conversation with another human being. His vocabulary had shrunk.

  “Kenzie is still single.” Megs let that hang in the air.

  “Huh.” He tried to sound indifferent to this news, even as an image of Kenzie with her long dark hair, big blue eyes, and sweet smile lodged itself in his mind.

  If there had ever been a woman who tempted him to settle down …

  Kenzie was everything a man could want, but Conrad’s father had taught him not to shit where he ate. He hadn’t asked her out because she was on the Team, too, and he didn’t want to risk a professional association for sex. Besides, Megs frowned on casual hookups between Team members. It wasn’t against the rules exactly, but no one wanted to get on Megs’ bad side.

  More than that, Kenzie wasn’t into his crazy lifestyle. If Conrad had learned anything growing up, it was that two people had to want the same things in life to make a relationship work, and Kenzie didn’t climb.

  Neither do you. Not anymore.

  “Does she still have Gizmo?”

  “Of course.”

  Conrad opened the heavy, wooden door for Megs, following her outside and down the steep front steps. Prayer flags in red, yellow, blue, green, and white snapped in a chilly wind, storm clouds obscuring the views of Everest and Ama Dablam, the air sharp with the promise of rain.

  “Is Ahearn here?”

  Legends of the climbing world, Megs and her husband did most things together. They had met in Yosemite in the Seventies and then come to Colorado to tackle its fourteeners. They’d started the Team after a friend of theirs had died of hypothermia waiting for a rescue.

  “Mitch is holding down the fort in Scarlet.”

  “You came all this way by yourself?”

  “Hell, no.” Megs looked up at him as if he were nuts. “I hired a nice man with a couple of yaks. I brought a bunch of ghee for the monastery—a thank you to the Lama for hosting you.”

  That stopped Conrad in his tracks. “Why are you doing this?”

  This trip, the Sherpa and yaks, the ghee, the permits—it must have cost her close to ten grand.

  “You’re one of mine. I can’t just leave you here.”

  Her words washed over him, made his throat go tight. He drew her into a hug, her head barely reaching his chest. “It’s good to see you, Megs.”

  She hugged him back. “That’s what you say now.”

  Conrad had dinner with Megs at her lodge. Most nights he cooked for himself on his camp stove, so this felt like a luxury. Tonight, the lodge’s dining room—which consisted of three rough-hewn communal tables and a wood stove—was all but empty. A row of windows looked out toward the obscured mountains, fat raindrops pelting dirty glass, the fire barely enough to warm the space.

  “What have you been doing—besides meditating and growing facial hair?” Megs took a sip of her black tea, still wearing her down parka and woolen hat.

  Conrad stirred his thukpa—a thick noodle soup of chicken broth and vegetables flavored with turmeric and cumin—waiting for it to cool. “I’ve done a lot of handyman work for the monks, repairing buildings and walkways. I helped them erect a new stupa for a shrine up the trail.”

  “You put your homesteading skills to work.”

  Conrad had grown up in Alaska with parents who lived off the land—until his mother had given birth to a stillborn baby and gotten sick of roughing it. She’d taken him to Anchorage, where they’d lived in a little a
partment. He’d only seen his father and the homestead during the summer after that. “I didn’t want to be a burden.”

  Their host arrived at the table, setting down two mugs of tongba, a hot millet beer drunk through a straw, and a basket of momos—steamed dumplings with vegetables. He gave them a broad smile and a polite bow.

  Conrad thanked him in the Sherpa tongue. “Thuche.”

  For a while, neither he nor Megs spoke, the two of them eating in companionable silence. That was one thing Conrad liked about Megs. She didn’t do small talk.

  “What happened up there, Conrad?”

  Then again, small talk wasn’t all bad.

  Some part of Conrad wanted to ignore her question. He hadn’t spoken about that day with anyone other than the monks since leaving Base Camp and then only vaguely. Besides, Megs had surely read the story in a climbing magazine or online somewhere. But Megs was a good friend, a fellow climber, and she’d come a long way for his sake.

  Unable to meet her gaze, he looked out the window. “Bruce wanted to lead. Luka and Felix were in the middle. I brought up the rear.”

  “That makes sense. This was Luka and Felix’s first attempt at an eight-thousand-meter peak, wasn’t it?”

  Conrad nodded, doing his best not to feel. “I was crossing a ladder over a new crevasse that had opened up that season. There was a crack and a rumble. Before any of us could react, the serac collapsed, crushing the others and knocking me off the ladder. I must have been hit by a chunk of ice because I was unconscious for a time.”

  “Jesus.”

  “I opened my eyes to find myself dangling upside down over the crevasse, still roped to the others. The ladder was gone. It took me forever to climb the ice to get out. Other than my rope, which trailed away beneath the ice, there was no sign anyone had ever been there. I tried to follow the rope to dig them out, but my ice tools weren’t enough. Then the rescue team came.”

  If Megs had tried to comfort him or showed him sympathy, Conrad might have broken, but she kept it technical. “Thank God your harness held.”

  “Yeah.” His life would have been shorter—and a lot simpler—if it hadn’t, but he couldn’t think about that. Not now. “What else is going on?”

  “The Team helped rescue a woman who’d been attacked by a couple of escaped cons. Remember Winona’s wolf, Shota? He found her. Chaska married her.”

  Conrad stared open-mouthed. “Belcourt is married now, too?”

  “That’s what I said.” Megs sipped her tongba through the straw. “Naomi, his wife, is Lakota, too. She’s an artist. She opened a gift store on Main Street. It’s a nice place—lots of beautiful things. She and Chaska are starting a summer camp for kids from the reservation. They’ll bring them to Scarlet for a couple of weeks, read Lakota stories and history for literacy, and do outdoor adventure stuff to boost their confidence. A lot of the Team wants to be involved.”

  “Huh.” Chaska had never seemed like the paternal type to Conrad, but what the hell did he know? “What did Rain and Joe name their baby?”

  This was going to be good.

  “Angel.”

  All things considered, that was a disappointingly ordinary name for Rain. After all, she’d named her first daughter, who was now in her early twenties, Lark.

  “How about Hawke and Vicki’s son?”

  “They named him Caden after an ancestor of Eric’s who was murdered by Joe’s great-great-great-grandfather, Silas Moffat.”

  “I never heard that story.”

  “Neither had most of us. Moffat Street was named in honor of Silas, remember? Right before I left, the Town Council voted to rename it in honor of Joe instead.”

  “Moffat Street became … Moffat Street?” Conrad couldn’t help but laugh.

  Only in Scarlet.

  Megs shared other news with him, mostly about the Team, telling him about some of the high-profile rescues they’d done over the past year. “We’ve had a good year for fundraising, but I need my lead alpinist.”

  He’d known she’d get back to this sooner rather than later. “I’m done with climbing. Even if I come back, I’m off the Team.”

  “Fine. Leave the Team if you want. Just quit hiding and come home.”

  His anger flashed hot. “I’m not hiding.”

  “Right. You’re just hanging out in one of the most inaccessible places on the planet for the fun of it.”

  Conrad drew a deep breath, unwilling to shatter the small amount of peace he’d found by yelling at someone he respected. “I don’t want to deal with the media shit storm. I don’t want reporters ambushing me and asking for details. I don’t want every person I meet to ask me what happened like you just did.”

  “People are going to ask questions. Ignore them. As for the media, no one but Mitch knows I’m here. There won’t be any media—not when we arrive, at any rate. Of course, someone could always mistake you for the Yeti and call the tabloids.”

  Conrad glared at her, rubbed his beard. “I’m not that hairy.”

  Megs arched an eyebrow in challenge, then let it go. “There are people in Scarlet who love you, Conrad—or who at least miss you.”

  For some reason, Kenzie popped into his mind again. “I’ll think about it.”

  “Think fast. We leave the day after tomorrow.”

  Conrad sat in the small room he rented from the monks, a row of butter lamps flickering against the saffron-colored walls. He’d tried meditating, but he couldn’t let go. A part of him wanted to go home, to return to his old life, to see Hawke and Taylor and Kenzie and the other Team members, but it would never be the same.

  Bruce had been his best climbing buddy, the man who’d tackled the Seven Summits with him, who’d fought his way up K2 beside him, who’d climbed Ama Dablam with him for the hell of it after their last Everest expedition. He was gone, leaving his wife and two sons without a husband and father.

  God, how Conrad missed him.

  Luka and Felix had been in their late twenties—so young to die. Their mother and father had lost both sons in an instant. Conrad had called them from Base Camp to give them the news along with his condolences, their mother’s cries shattering what had been left of Conrad’s heart. He had promised to watch over them.

  What an idiot he’d been to make that promise! On Everest, a man had enough to contend with trying to keep himself alive.

  Conrad would never make that mistake again. He would never be responsible for any life but his own. He was done with climbing.

  If he went back, he would have to deal with his agent and his sponsors, who would drop him soon if he didn’t climb again. He would have to get a job doing … something. Without a degree, he had no idea what that would be.

  He would also have to contend with the media. Once they found out he was back, they would stalk him, at least for a while.

  A knock came at his door.

  He opened it to find himself staring into the smiling face of the Nawang Tenzing Gulu, the Incarnate Lama of Tengboche, who stood together with a few of the monks.

  Conrad stepped back to allow the men to enter, then pressed his palms together in front of his forehead and bowed deeply.

  Tenzing sat in the only chair in the room, motioning to the bed. “Please sit.”

  Conrad sat cross-legged, careful not to point the soles of his feet at these venerated men—a sign of disrespect. The Lama had never visited him in his room before, though he had spoken to him elsewhere in the monastery and shared tea and meals with him a few times.

  A monk entered with tea and served a cup first to the Lama and then to Conrad.

  “You have a guest,” the Lama said at last.

  “Yes. Megs Hill. She’s a good friend.”

  “She said she has come to take you home. I came to talk with you about this, to see where your heart lies.”

  “I don’t know how I feel.” Even if Conrad had wanted to, he couldn’t have lied to this man. Besides, the old monk would probably see right through him. He carried the unmi
stakable energy of one who had devoted his life to enlightenment. “It is probably time for me to return home, but…”

  The old man watched him patiently, waiting for him to finish.

  “I don’t know how to face the world again.”

  The Lama gave a slow nod, nothing but compassion on his weathered face. “You still blame yourself.”

  “I know in my rational mind that there was nothing I could have done to save them, but some part of me can’t accept that I’m here … and that they are all gone. Survival guilt, I guess.”

  The Lama sipped his tea, expectant silence filling the small room.

  “Such tragedies are difficult to understand,” he said at last. “It is no wonder that your mind is troubled. But consider this: If you did not bring about their deaths, why should you feel guilty to be alive? Is your survival not a gift, a cause for gratitude?”

  “Yes.” Conrad gave the Lama the expected answer—but he didn’t feel it.

  The Lama smiled, not fooled in the least. “We have been happy to have you as our guest. We are grateful for your help with our repairs and especially the new stupa. You are always welcome here. But I fear the answers you seek cannot be found within these walls. If your truth were here, you would already have found it.”

  They talked of other things after that, finishing their tea in amicable conversation, but the Lama had delivered his message.

  It was time for Conrad to leave Tengboche.

  Conrad spent the next day fixing a leaky roof for the monks, buying what supplies he and Megs would need, and packing his things together. He also borrowed a razor from the monks and shaved off his beard.

  “Oh, thank God,” Megs said when she saw him. Then her gaze landed on his expedition backpack. “That’s all you’ve got?”

  “I left most of my gear at Base Camp.” He’d taken only what had fit in this backpack, leaving thousands of dollars of junk behind.

  “Someone at Base Camp must have thought they’d won the lottery. Harrison Conrad’s gear for the taking.”

  Conrad couldn’t care less.