“How?”
“Their leader, the Llama, is reputedly wise and humble and will try to help all who approach him in need, no matter what their religion. The old man says this is the man I should approach.”
“Could you find him?”
“Ch’ang T’i says he will lead us over the mountains, if we wish. But it is a dangerous journey, especially in the colder months. It is impassable in winter.”
The implication was obvious. If they were not to spend next winter in some out flung valley, or perish in an impassable mountain crossing, they would have to go soon. Holmes did not bother to spell this out to Elizabeth. He fully appreciated her mental prowess. Instead he sat smoking and waiting for her answer, tacitly giving her some say in the matter of their destiny.
“I started packing this afternoon,” she said eventually. “We can be ready to leave in two days.”
Holmes did not react radically to this illustration of Elizabeth’s uncanny empathy, but his heartfelt gratitude was revealed in the warm pressure of his hand on hers and his quiet, earnest, “Thank you.”
Elizabeth gazed at the distant white peaks. “Sullah will be furious.”
After a short silence, Holmes nodded. “Yes, he will be.”
•ï¡÷¡ï• •ï¡÷¡ï• •ï¡÷¡ï•
Sullah’s disappointment was bitter enough to inspire two days’ worth of invective, pleading, argument and clever campaigning. All were useless against Holmes’ resolve.
Eventually Elizabeth convinced Sullah his efforts were wasted and he calmed long enough to consider Holmes’ plans with a judicious and experienced eye. He immediately pointed out the difficulty of traversing the Hindu Kush from the west, and advised Holmes to follow the ancient and well-traveled silk route, which passed within a few miles of Sullah’s land. This route skirted the Tibetan plateau, hugging the northern border mountain chains. They could travel as far east as Ch’ang T’i considered necessary, then cross through one of the passes into the northern most reaches of Tibet. It was a longer, but easier, journey.
The old man did not know the route and Sullah offered one of his household guards as a companion and guide. The guard was a native Chinese, who had once been employed by a trader who used the silk route and was the major source of Sullah’s knowledge on the route. He would be able to show them the way.
In a fit of generosity and with tears of emotion in his eyes, Sullah included the two priceless horses Holmes and Elizabeth had ridden from Constantinople.
The gift was inestimable for another strategic reason. Holmes was determined to begin immediately, even though winter was still lingering, which had been a reason for Sullah’s objection to crossing the Hindu Kush from the west. Although Holmes would manage to avoid the high mountain passes by using the silk route, it was much farther in distance. On horseback they would be able to reach the pass in time to cross into Tibet during high summer. On foot, they stood the chance of being caught by another winter.
So Holmes accepted the offer of the horses with much relief. It was arranged that their guide would go as far as the Tibetan pass before returning back to Sullah with the horses, for the animals would not be able to manage the mountain passes. The old man knew the way into Tibet from that point and could guide from there.
Within the two days promised, they were ready to leave and in the freezing air of pre-dawn they slid into their saddles, the bits clanking coldly as the horses pranced. Ch’ang T’i refused to ride his own beast, but consented to riding pillion with the guide, Ts’e.
Sullah stood watching, well wrapped against the cold with a bright hand-woven cloak of many hued lengths of goats’ wool. Only a few other members of his household were present. The cold discouraged all but the most ardent well-wishers.
“On your return you must stop here awhile.” Sullah shielded his eyes against the rays of the low dawn sunlight. “That is, if you are mad enough to try another winter passage, my friends. Then you can travel with me back to Constantinople.”
Holmes looked down at the trader from his high perch. “We’ll try,” he said simply.
Sullah moved to Elizabeth’s side and held Merlin’s bridle as the animal fretted. “Goodbye, Elizabeth, my dear.”
She leaned down to drop a kiss on his cheek. “Goodbye, Sullah.”
He turned to offer his hand to Holmes, who took it gravely. Sullah sighed deeply. “Be careful, won’t you? And take care of her.”
With no more ceremony the three horses were turned toward the sun and urged forward.
• Chapter Eight •
_________________________
•ï¡÷¡ï•
TIBET REMAINS ONE of the last eastern countries to be fully penetrated by Europeans. It rests at the highest altitude in the world, surrounded by three chains of imposing mountains and the breadth of China to its east. Its geography guarantees a degree of isolation which the Tibetans have sought to increase for generations.
Consequently, the rhythms of life on Tibet’s semi-desert plateaus follow customs which date from antiquity and have changed very little since.
The harshness of the life is another factor which encourages the ancient practices, which have been honed by ruthless elimination. Survival is a primitive equation.
Most of the population are nomadic shepherds, who follow the centuries old caravan routes that lead to Lhasa. Some are farmers who subsist on crops of wheat, millet and beans. All are simple people who live with nature’s patterns and follow a religion that nourishes inner peace. It was this equilibrium in the old man that caused Holmes to search out the country and seek answers of his own.
But his quest was nearly forgotten almost before it had begun.
•ï¡÷¡ï• •ï¡÷¡ï• •ï¡÷¡ï•
They had come across the woman at one of the water holes that dotted the trade routes. It was high summer and shepherds were heading for the high grounds at the base of the mountains on the Tarim Pendi—the northern Plateau—where the sweet grasses grew. There, their herds of goats and yaks could breed and fatten for the lean winter months.
The woman, Ts’iang, was too far south to make the feeding grounds in time for the breeding season and Ch’ang T’i had warned them to approach the camp cautiously. He feared it was a trap for the unwary traveler. Women did not travel alone.
The mystery was solved almost immediately for as soon as Ts’iang realized Elizabeth was a woman, she drew her aside and pantomimed a message.
Elizabeth bit her lip and glanced at Holmes. “She is pregnant and her time is close.”
Ch’ang T’i had cocked his head at Ts’iang’ performance and now began a long complicated trilingual conversation between himself, the woman and Holmes, which Holmes translated into English for Elizabeth. As the woman blushed coyly and stammered, the story slowly emerged.
Her mate had died nearly a month previously. By appraisal of Ts’iang’s re-enactment of the symptoms, Holmes thought the man had died of appendicitis. Their camp had been much further north. Once Ts’iang had taken care of her mate’s body, she had turned the flock south-east, hoping to reach her village before her baby was born. But her pains had started that morning and she had set up camp, knowing she would need the shelter.
Elizabeth studied the woman. “She is not in labor,” she judged.
After careful questioning and translation, Holmes shook his head. “No, she isn’t. She said it stopped some time ago.”
Elizabeth looked perplexed. “I do not know anything about childbirth, but that doesn’t sound very good.” She looked at Holmes. “What do we do?”
Ultimately, they did nothing. It was Ch’ang T’i, the goatherd and animal midwife, who delivered the baby some eighteen hours later, with Elizabeth’s help. The day had long since drawn into night and sunrise was close when Ch’ang T’i emerged from the round tent, grunted a few words at Holmes, and rolled himself up in his skins, to sleep amongst the herd of goats resting on the stony shore of the tiny lake.
“A boy,” Eli
zabeth added tiredly, when she emerged herself.
Holmes threw more of the precious wood supply onto the fire. “How long until she is fit to move?”
Elizabeth frowned. “I do not know. We’ll have to ask Ch’ang T’i.” She glanced over at the motionless pile of skins. “Tomorrow.”
The consensus was they would have to provide for Ts’iang for at least ten days. Holmes accepted the estimate with philosophical restraint. “I can wait ten days,” he said.
•ï¡÷¡ï• •ï¡÷¡ï• •ï¡÷¡ï•
“We stayed there two years,” Elizabeth told me, with a smile. “It just worked out that way. We couldn’t leave Ts’iang on her own and when we reached her village, her family had departed for the summer. That wasn’t so unusual, but it meant we were committed for the next three months, at least.
“Then Ch’ang T’i traveled across to the northern trade route to his home village, to learn definite information about his family. They were dead or missing, as he had suspected, so he came back and took up with Ts’iang. I think he preferred it that way. He was much too cosmopolitan to settle down to family life once more—or so he said.
“Actually that became the village joke, for Ch’ang T’i was somewhat of a celebrity after his international journeys and considered something of a catch. He found himself a second wife within months of his return.”
Elizabeth smiled to herself at the memory. “Of course when winter arrived we couldn’t go travelling about because no-one else would, so we stayed, too.” Her smile broadened. “Besides, Ch’ang T’i was too old and Ts’iang had her hands full with her baby and they needed our help.”
I stared at her. “You joined the nomads?”
“Yes, we became shepherds. Well, goat-herds, actually. Holmes became quite good at it. But I am afraid I will never be able to judge a good quality goat.”
They fell into the rituals of nomadic life with an ease that astonished them. After a time they became tuned to the hidden cadences and rhythms that dictated their actions and found how deceptively simple it all seemed.
The question of when they would depart was neglected and postponed, until gradually it was forgotten altogether.
•ï¡÷¡ï• •ï¡÷¡ï• •ï¡÷¡ï•
In the autumn of their second year, they arrived back in Ts’iang’s village in preparation for winter and found her family had returned early, too. Holmes had been waiting for such an opportunity and had made his plans immediately. It had remained his ambition to travel to Lhasa and speak with the Dalai Lama, the spiritual leader of the Tibetan Buddhist religion. Holmes also thought he might be able to sell his account on Tibetan life to one of the international journals and thus swell their dwindling supply of funds.
With Ts’iang and the household settled in for winter and the trade routes still open during the mild autumn, Holmes felt he could impose on Ch’ang T’i to leave Ts’iang and travel to Lhasa with him. Ch’ang T’i was agreeable and only three days after arriving, they shouldered their packs to leave again.
Elizabeth stayed behind. Ts’iang was deeply attached to her and Elizabeth believed it would help Ts’iang feel more secure if she remained to watch over her. Ts’iang knew of Elizabeth’s defensive skills and was happy to settle for Elizabeth’s company as a consolation for Ch’ang T’i’s absence.
The journey to Lhasa was a fairly lengthy one and Ch’ang T’i was not overly familiar with the route. It was hoped that they would be able to travel fast enough to complete the return journey before winter settled in. But in that country pessimism is more practical, so with considerable patience, Elizabeth prepared to wait out most of the winter, if necessary.
“On your own?” I asked.
“The whole village was there,” Elizabeth pointed out.
“Yes, but…”
“But, yes, I was the only European,” she agreed. “I had nearly forgotten I was English, by then. I knew the language well enough and Ts’iang’s people were pure kindness. It was much warmer and friendlier by the fire than traipsing about the Tsangpo Valley in the snow. I had a place there.”
•ï¡÷¡ï• •ï¡÷¡ï• •ï¡÷¡ï•
Elizabeth awoke with a start and froze, as she listened with straining ears for the repeat of the subliminal noise that had alerted her. Cautiously she inched her hand toward the knife under her pillow.
Suddenly a strong hand clamped down on her inching wrist, holding it still.
“It is me, Elizabeth. You have no need for the knife.”
She opened her eye, and sat up, dropping the hilt. Holmes was on one knee beside the pallet, leaning heavily on his shepherd’s crook, his face tired and haggard, and half-obscured by the bulky coat and skins necessary to protect him as they traveled over the passes. It was evident he’d only just arrived and come straight to her.
Elizabeth said softly: “We weren’t expecting you….” She stopped as Holmes swayed a little. “You’re hurt!” she said, and her eyebrows rose as he pulled his coat aside and a large blood-stained tear in his clothing appeared.
“We ran into trouble around sunset last night and decided to continue walking until we got home,” Holmes said, pulling layers aside.
“Oh, my god….” Elizabeth murmured, appalled at the sight of the wound itself.
“It is not as bad as it looks,” Holmes assured her. “A little blood goes a long way. But it might need a stitch or two and I’d rather not let Ts’iang administer me. Her embroidery is worse than yours.”
Elizabeth reached for her clothes. “I will see to it,” she told him.
•ï¡÷¡ï• •ï¡÷¡ï• •ï¡÷¡ï•
It was later than she had supposed for as she strode toward the river, she could see the first glimmer of dawn in the east. Holmes’ enforced march had taken twelve hours.
The pre-dawn was still and quiet and the air was warm, trapped by the cloud layer that had lingered overnight. The cloud was clearing now and the sun would continue the warming process, bringing the temperature close to zero degrees. Winter had been delayed for a while.
As she was drawing the bucket to the bank, Holmes appeared by her side, the unfastened coat flapping as he scrambled down the bank. “I will save you having to carry the water back.”
“I am used to it,” she said simply. She studied his dark silhouette, waiting.
“I wanted to talk,” he said at last. “It is actually a relief to use English after that bastardized Persian Ch’ang T’i insists on using. I am feeling garrulous, which is a change.” He brushed the snow from a large flat rock, propped the lantern on a corner, and lit it with one of the last of their judiciously-preserved supply of matches. The light flared out and he reduced it to a feeble glow, enough for Elizabeth to see what she was doing. It left his features in deep shadow. He sat on the rock and held out their medical kit—one of their most precious possessions.
“You’re also feeling extravagant,” Elizabeth replied. She took the kit. “Lie back.”
Holmes obeyed and watched the sky lighten above Elizabeth’s head as she worked. “Our standards of value have changed since Switzerland, haven’t they? We think nothing of the best cuts of meat, yet begrudge a sulfur match.”
“The law of supply and demand,” Elizabeth said, her voice a little detached as she concentrated on what her fingers were doing. “How did this happen?”
“A trio of outlaws ambushed us in the ravine leading to the last pass. We fought them off, but decided it was wiser to keep on the move rather than wait for them to catch up with us again. And you? Any trouble?”
“Only with wolves, in the last week or two. They’re heading south. I think winter is on its way, at last. We’ve been lucky.” She snipped the sterilized thread and Holmes jumped. “Sorry.”
“I deserve it. I was a little too complacent and this is the result. I have lost my edge.”
Elizabeth lifted her head. “Why do you say that?”
“The lack of competition. The lack of danger. My mind has grown lax.”
Elizabeth raised his hand to his side and put his fingers on the edge of the bandage. “Hold that and sit up,” she instructed him, then began to wind the bandage about his ribs. “I do not believe you’ve grown soft, Holmes. It is just this country. You’ve no echoing footpaths or hidden doors out here…and considerably less than five million people. All your normally sensitive instincts have merely relaxed.” She tore the end of the bandage and tied it firmly. “You do not have to keep wide awake and listening to know if someone is approaching you across a valley of shale.”
“I have grown used to danger from beast and birds rather than man.”
“Some people would consider that an improvement,” Elizabeth pointed out. She sat back on her heels, studying him in the growing light.
There was nothing of the European about either of them anymore. Elizabeth’s only distinctions were her long burnished hair and the strong arched brows and smooth cheeks. Otherwise they were dressed alike in long trousers, sheep skin boots, shirts, overshirts and jackets. As a further measure against the cold they wore layers of woolen material in the form of overcoats and cloaks, all topped off with hugely oversized coats of goat’s wool. They wore the Kurdish adaptation of the turban on their heads and they wore their knives and pistols openly, tucked into the bright cummerbunds. Holmes habitually carried the shepherd’s crook and Elizabeth a long staff—invaluable aids when scrambling about the knees of mountains searching for recalcitrant goats. Both were tanned and extremely healthy, although thinner. They had developed far-seeing eyes and had learned a philosophical patience for all nature’s quirks and delays, though Holmes was still quick to flare over human stupidity.
The greatest change was in their attitudes. Meet either of them on one of the lonely mountain passes they routinely traveled and you came face to face with an overt, inactive menace. They radiated danger and power and an overriding sense of fine control which made them seem formidable indeed.
(Elizabeth’s description seemed a little exaggerated to me, when I first heard it. Indeed, it ill compared with her appearance as she related it—a tall beautifully turned out lady in a lovely lilac dress and a fragile piece of lace at her collar, with all the subtle and hidden feminine skills designed to excite a man’s interest. It seemed far from the savage appearances she was accrediting them both. Elizabeth smiled at my reaction. “It is true we’ve recaptured a thin veneer of civility. But we would both be unmasked if trouble struck. For that was what had reformed our attitudes—danger. We reverted to uncivilized barbarians because that was how you survived out there.”)
Chronicles of the Lost Years (The Sherlock Holmes Series) Page 12
