‘What is it?’ calls Garrard.
‘Come and see!’
‘Seems the Sherpas overdid the excavations down at Camp Two,’ says Cotterell when we’ve joined them.
‘Just look what they dug up!’ Reverently, Kits lifts a crumpled mess of weather-stained canvas.
For once, Cedric doesn’t push in to investigate. He flattens his ears and backs away. I don’t blame him. The thing in Kits’ hands exhales a repellent smell of mould.
Garrard is puzzled. ‘It’s a rucksack. So what?’
Cotterell grins. ‘Ah, but the question is, whose?’
Kits thrusts the thing at me. ‘Take a look inside the flap, Stephen. Go on, you’ll never believe it!’
But I already do. I knew the moment I saw it.
When I make no move to touch the thing, Kits flips over its front flap and shows us the underside. Sewn near the edge is a name tape: machine-embroidered, like the ones Aunt Ruth use to order by the dozen, for marking our school kit.
‘Dear God,’ breathes Garrard. ‘It can’t be!’
But it is. I’ve broken out in a cold sweat. Black spots are floating before my eyes.
Even after all these years on the mountain, the name on the tape is horribly easy to read: ARTHUR WARD.
14
It’s just an ordinary rucksack. Sturdily made of canvas, and weathered a leprous greenish-grey, with two outer pockets, their flaps fastened by tarnished buckles on strips of mouldy leather. It has shoulder straps of stained wool webbing, and that larger top flap, the one with the name tab, buckling over an inner drawstring, like a puckered mouth.
After three decades on the mountain, it’s badly crumpled, but I’d guess that if someone smoothed it out, it would be roughly triangular, about eighteen inches along the base. I won’t be volunteering. I thought once I’d put the Crag behind me, I was safe. Now this. It feels as if it’s followed me up.
‘I still can’t believe it,’ Cotterell keeps saying.
By tacit consent, we’ve deferred all discussion of Kits’ ‘find’ until after dinner. The Sherpas are in their tent, and we’ve made them take Cedric. The four of us are crammed into Garrard and Kits’. I’m at one end, Kits at the other, with that thing nestled in his lap. He’s staring down at it with a rapt expression, like a priest with a relic.
‘Was there anything inside?’ Garrard asks suddenly.
‘Only this.’ Reverently, on his palm, Kits shows us a cheap nickel-plated match-tin with a screwtop lid. On the lid are three crudely scratched, roughly parallel lines, and two engraved initials: AW.
‘Where did the Sherpas say they found it?’ asks Cotterell.
‘With the stores,’ Kits replies. ‘They thought it was ours, so they didn’t pay much attention and can’t remember where.’
Garrard is frowning and pulling his beaky nose. ‘But how did it get there? I thought Ward’s body fell down the crevasse.’
‘That was only ever surmise,’ says Cotterell. ‘No one saw it happen; the body was simply gone when Lyell and the others returned to Camp Two. It must’ve been blown away from the edge, rather than over it, then buried by the blizzard.’
Garrard stops pulling his nose and gasps. ‘So that means—’
‘Exactly,’ says Kits with startling intensity. ‘In Bloody But Unbowed, Lyell says Ward ‘contrived to seize it in one hand’ just before he fell. He had it with him. So there’s every chance that the body’s down there too! Now d’you see? We’ve got to go back and find it!’
I’m so horrified I can’t speak.
‘I say, steady on,’ warns Cotterell. ‘Think of the delay, not to mention the drain on supplies. We have to consider the implications—’
‘Throw it away,’ I blurt out.
All three of them stare.
‘What?’ breathes Kits.
‘Get rid of it. Chuck it down the crevasse. Dead men’s things, they bring bad luck.’
Garrard is aghast. Cotterell can’t conceal his dismay. ‘But my dear fellow – you don’t seriously believe—’
‘Of course I don’t,’ I lie, ‘but the Sherpas do, that’s the point.’
‘Rubbish!’ explodes Kits. ‘If they believed that, they wouldn’t have touched it in the first place—’
‘You said yourself, they thought it was ours.’ I turn to Cotterell. ‘You know I’m right, Major, you understand the native mind, even if Kits doesn’t. We can’t let this throw the porters off kilter, not now, when we’re so close to making a bid for the summit. And no, Kits, we can’t simply lie to them about who it belonged to; they already know, they were there when you found it!’
‘We don’t know that they understood,’ he retorts.
‘Yes we do, I saw Nima’s face. But don’t take my word for it, ask! I think you’ll find that they don’t like that rucksack one little bit!’
Cotterell is stroking his beard. ‘You make a good point, Dr Pearce.’
Garrard is nodding. ‘Could be wretchedly tricky if they cut up rough.’
Kits is seething. He’s got his bulldog look. His eyes are bulging and glassy. ‘Major Cotterell,’ he says between his teeth, ‘if you’ll excuse us for a moment, I need a word with my brother in the other tent.’
* * *
There’s something farcical about ‘needing a word in the other tent’. Simply reaching the bloody thing means battling through darkness and wind-blown snow. Then once we’ve crawled inside, brushed ourselves off and adjusted our headlamps so that we can actually see each other, we have to conduct our row in strangled whispers, so that Cotterell and Garrard can’t hear – or for that matter, the Sherpas.
But none of that’s stopping Kits. ‘What’s going on?’ he hisses. ‘What’s this about?’
‘As I told Cotterell, this is going to play merry hell with the Sherpas—’
‘The Sherpas be damned! Are you seriously suggesting that we abandon all idea of finding Ward’s body? That we chuck two priceless historical artefacts—’
‘Oh for Christ’s sake, a match-tin and a mouldy rucksack?’
‘They’re part of mountaineering history!’
‘Yes, and that’s the crux of it, isn’t it, Kits?’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘This isn’t about Ward, it’s about Christopher fucking Pearce! It’s about you taking your place among the great and the good of “mountaineering history”! Conway, Lyell, Bruce, Younghusband, Mallory – and now Pearce, who won’t only strike a blow for England by being the first man to conquer an eight-thousand-metre peak – thereby delivering a knockout punch to Fritz – he’ll be the hero who found the missing body from the Lyell Expedition, and two “priceless relics” – sorry, “artefacts”!’
‘And what the hell is wrong with that?’
I can’t tell him the truth; he’ll say I’m mad. ‘Kits, can’t you see,’ I say with exaggerated patience, ‘we need the Sherpas if we’re to have a hope of reaching the summit! Searching for a body and hanging on to that … thing – only lessens your chances of achieving what you want!’
His face goes stiff and his lower lip thrusts out. ‘You’re scared. That’s what this is about. You’re frightened of a scrap of canvas!’
‘Of course I’m not! I simply—’
‘I saw the way you looked at it! You didn’t even want to touch it!’
‘Nor did the others, it’s hardly inviting—’
‘You never did have much guts, did you, Bodge? The fellows at school used to rag me about you; they couldn’t believe we were related. And yet somehow you managed to turn it to your advantage. Stephen’s the clever one, such a fine analytical mind, so bloody superior, always looking down his nose at bluff, well-meaning but just-a-bit-dim Kits.’
I grin. ‘It’s not my fault you’re stupid.’
‘At least I’m not a coward! At least I’m not frightened of a rucksack! I don’t think Cotterell’s going to be too impressed, do you? In fact, he’ll probably decide that it’s high time Dr Pearce took a
trip down the porters’ highway, and had a rest cure with good old McLellan at Base!’
I blink. Then I force a laugh. ‘You really are a slimy little shit, aren’t you?’
His turn to grin. ‘I don’t know what you mean. I’m only doing what’s best for the expedition.’
‘Which also happens to be what’s best for you. Oh Kits, you’re so bloody predictable! The least threat to your precious self-esteem and you lash out with both podgy fists! I used to wonder if you did it on purpose, but I don’t think you’re bright enough. It’s simply that even the lowest forms of life have some dull instinct of self-defence.’
He snorts. ‘Why would I need to defend myself from you?’
‘Because you want me out of the way. Because I’m turning out to be not quite such a bad climber as you’d thought. In fact, there’s rather a good chance that I’ll beat you to the summit – now that’s what really terrifies you!’
Bull’s-eye. His face goes puce. ‘Terrified? Terrified of you?’
Garrard thrusts in his head, letting in an icy blast of spindrift. ‘If you two have quite finished wallowing in brotherly love, the Major wants you back in the other tent.’
* * *
Cotterell hasn’t found it easy to make a decision. His hairline is speckled with blood, and he doesn’t meet our eyes as he waits for us to secure the tent flaps and brush ourselves off.
Kits grabs the rucksack and cradles it in his arms, as if there’s a danger I might snatch it and make a mad dash for the crevasse.
‘Kits, Garrard, I’m sorry,’ Cotterell says crisply, ‘but we won’t be making a search for Ward’s body. No argument, Kits, that’s final. We simply haven’t time. It’s already the middle of May; if the Monsoon comes early, we’ll have lost our chance at the summit. I can’t allow us to run that risk.’
I breathe out, and resist the temptation to shoot a triumphant glance at Kits.
‘As for Ward’s belongings,’ Cotterell goes on, ‘while I take your point about the Sherpas, Dr Pearce, I can’t sanction discarding part of mountaineering history. We’ll simply have to reassure the coolies as best we can, but these items must be preserved.’ Quelling my protest with a glance, he leans forwards and lowers his voice: ‘We’ll send them down to Base in the morning, suitably concealed, so that the Sherpas don’t smell a rat. Everyone agreed? Garrard? Good. Kits, what about you?’
Kits’ face is thunderous. He heaves a sigh. ‘Agreed, sir.’
‘And you, Dr Pearce?’
The rucksack slumps in Kits’ lap, its buckle catching the light. Winking at me.
‘—Agreed,’ I mutter.
15
Cotterell had returned to our tent and I was about to follow, when Kits grabbed my arm and told me to swear not to throw the rucksack down the crevasse. ‘Or anywhere else – in fact, swear not to touch it.’
‘Swear?’ I said in disbelief. ‘Don’t you think that’s rather overdoing it?’
‘I mean it, Stephen.’
I glanced at Garrard, who was stowing the cooking gear and pretending not to hear. ‘Well if we’re reverting to childhood,’ I said under my breath, ‘you swear too. No hinting to the others that there’s anything wrong with my nerves!’
‘Fine. You go first.’
‘D’you want me to prick my thumb and do it in blood, or can we agree that we’re grown men?’
‘Just swear.’
Now I wish I hadn’t. I wish I was free to chuck it down the crevasse. But Kits would have given me no peace. He never does till he gets what he wants.
He’s right about one thing, though. It is only a rucksack. So why am I frightened? Why can’t I bring myself to touch it? Because I meant it when I told Cotterell that dead men’s things bring bad luck – but it goes further than that. In the past, you burnt the possessions of the dead, to prevent them coming after you. That’s what I’m afraid of. That whatever haunts this mountain will come after its own.
I’ve just remembered something else, too. We can’t send it off to Base tomorrow, because the Sherpas down there are having a much-needed rest, and won’t be coming up to collect it. Nor can we spare a man from here to take it, as they’ve got to finish the ice caves. So I’m stuck with it.
Well, that settles it. Tonight I shall knock myself out with a bromide. With luck, we’ll finish the caves tomorrow, so I’ll be sleeping between solid walls. And after that, we’ll be off for the Great Shelf, and I’ll be shot of the bloody thing.
* * *
The bromide worked a treat, and after toiling all day, we finished the ice caves around teatime. Cotterell and I are in one, Garrard and Kits another, and the Sherpas are crammed into the third.
The mouth of ours is small and black and distinctly uninviting. One crawls inside and seals it with a ‘door’ made from a canvas stuff-sack weighted with tins. The cave itself is a shadowy, downwards-sloping tunnel, with a Gothic ceiling for channelling drips. We’ve cut two narrow benches along the sides for sleeping. The roof above these is so low that you can’t sit upright; to do that, you’ve got to crouch on the floor in between. At the far end, I tried to dig a storage niche, but I accidentally broke through into what appears to be another crevasse; so now it’s a window, only utterly dark.
Our electric lanterns are refusing to work, so we’ve fallen back on the Tilley lamps. I like their glow and the smell of paraffin; and with one of them and the Primus, our cave is surprisingly warm, only a few degrees below freezing. Although it’s fearfully cramped.
‘Like a Pullman lower berth,’ mutters Cotterell, buttoning his sleeping bag. ‘Where’s Cedric?’
‘With the Sherpas.’ I force a laugh. ‘He seems to be avoiding both me and Kits. Or perhaps he doesn’t care for that rucksack.’
Cotterell makes no reply. He’s overdone the digging, and has given himself a touch of heart strain. I’m treating him with Kardiazol, and I’ve ordered him to remain here tomorrow for a rest. Which presents me with a problem. I’ve been counting on climbing to the Great Shelf with Garrard and Kits, but how can I leave Cotterell?
‘I think I’ll stay down here and keep an eye on you,’ I say.
‘No need for that,’ he gruffly replies. ‘I’d rather you went with the others.’
‘It’s not only you, sir. Cherma has a touch of snow-blindness—’
‘Now listen. I shall be as right as rain in a day or so, as no doubt will Cherma. If not, your excellent man Nima can help us both down to Camp Two.’
I suspect Cotterell’s real reason for making me go is so that Kits and I can ‘build bridges’ during the climb; but as he remains adamant, I give in. The truth is, it suits me. The last thing I want is to stay down here. I need to put as much distance as I can between me and that rucksack.
Once the lamp is out, darkness presses on my eyeballs. I’m lying with my feet towards the door. We both are. I don’t much care for this downwards slant. By twisting into contortions, I can make out a misshapen ring of dim grey moonlight around the edge of the stuff-sack. It seems a long way away.
The air is stale and chill. The deeper I breathe, the more breathless I feel. It takes a conscious effort to calm myself down. I’ve blocked that ‘window’ behind me with a bundled-up shirt, but I’m sharply aware of the emptiness beyond. Putting up my hand, I touch unyielding ice, six inches above my face. It’s like being trapped inside a snow globe. I wish I hadn’t thought of that.
Now and then, the ice creaks and groans like a live thing. In this cramped space, every sound seems to come at me from the dark. I find myself listening for the rustle and stir of Cotterell’s sleeping bag. His breathing is unpleasantly loud, and far less reassuring than it ought to be.
I tell myself that in a few hours, it’ll be morning, the rucksack will be on its way down to Base, and I’ll be setting off for the Great Shelf. It’s a relief to discover that I do still want to climb this mountain. I’ll do anything for a chance at the summit – even if it does mean ‘building bridges’ with Kits.
Wh
y don’t I believe that any of this is going to happen? I keep assuring myself that it will, but none of it feels real. At the back of my mind, there’s an unshakeable conviction that something will contrive to keep me here at Camp Three.
This is hopeless. I’m sick of lying awake. Veramon, that’s the ticket. Consciousness in an ice cave is overrated.
* * *
I wake to charcoal gloom and a voice whispering outside. ‘Doctor Sahib! Cherma’s eyes very bad. Please, you come?’
Amazingly, Cotterell goes on snoring as I pull on my boots and windproofs and crawl outside. It’s past four, and camp is deep in the frozen twilight before dawn. Bitterly cold. The wind is like icicles in my lungs.
The Sherpas’ cave is warm with a fug of unwashed male and a spicy scent of pan. Poor Cherma is in agony. ‘My eyes melting, Doctor Sahib! They are pouring out!’
I know how that feels. When it happened to me in the Alps, I felt as if there was ground glass under my eyelids. ‘I promise the pills will help very soon,’ I tell him. ‘So will the drops.’
Nima hands me a steaming mug of tea. ‘You climb today, Doctor Sahib?’
I nod. ‘Garrard Sahib has spotted a way up to the Great Shelf. Tenrit, Dorjit and Angdawa will come with us – but you, Pasang and poor Cherma are to stay here with Major Sahib. And Nima—’
‘Yes, Doctor Sahib?’
‘If Major Sahib shows the slightest change for the worse – the slightest – you must take him down to Camp Two at once, whether or not he agrees. Understand?’
A shadow crosses his wrinkled goblin face. He doesn’t relish the prospect of overruling Cotterell. ‘And the dead bag, Doctor Sahib? What is happen to it?’
The dead bag.
I clear my throat. ‘As soon as Lobsang and the others get here this morning, the, er, rucksack will go down to Base.’
Too late, I realise that I’ve blown our chances of disguising the rucksack from the Sherpas. But there wasn’t much hope of that anyway: they’re not stupid and they always have a pretty good idea of what’s in their loads.
Thin Air Page 12
