The lightning had scored a direct hit on the top of my right arm, searing a sickle-shaped burn right around the top of my shoulder and up to the base of my neck.
It hurt like mad. But I was lucky to be alive.
In the split second after the lightning strike I had fallen forward, out of control. Unroped at that moment, I would have been killed by a fall down the entire face if Tashi hadn’t grabbed my harness.
The shape of the wound, which they likened to a crescent moon, fascinated the superstitious Tibetans at the camp. Slipping off my shirt for crowd inspections became a daily ritual as the refugees discussed in laborious detail the various possible messages that fate had been trying to send me.
‘They cannot decide if it was a good omen or a bad one,’ Tashi said.
‘Seriously?’ I laughed. ‘Getting struck by lightning and almost falling off a cliff is “lucky” by Tibetan standards?’
‘It could be,’ Tashi said. ‘It might influence your life in an important way.’
More of the refugees arrived, chatting excitedly about the chance to inspect the English patient. A man with a smartphone began taking pictures of my injury.
‘I should sell tickets,’ I told Tashi. ‘I’d make a fortune.’
My rucksack had also been hit. Half of it was now an incinerated blob. Tashi did her best to salvage a climbing sling and a jacket from it, but they were welded to the melted nylon of the pack and completely beyond help.
‘What’s this?’
She plucked a charred sheet of paper from the pack.
It was the university form. I had taken it with me, thinking I’d fill it in and return it after the trip.
Tashi handed me the burned crisp of paper.
‘Wow.’ I was speechless for a few moments. The form was utterly destroyed.
‘You wanted a sign,’ she said. ‘You certainly got one.’
‘What date is it today?’ I asked.
We calculated that there were still a few hours to get the form re-sent from the UK, to fill it in and commit myself to university.
But the lightning strike had helped me make up my mind. And once I had made the decision, it felt like the right one.
It wasn’t just about uni or no uni.
It was about Everest. And the unfinished business that still haunted me.
Reaching the ultimate summit was still my dream. Somehow I had to find a way to do it.
Normal life could wait.
Gradually my injury stabilised. Pain relief helped me to sleep. My wound was cleaned and sterilised and redressed every day. The camp’s directors offered to get me into one of the big hospitals in Kathmandu, but I didn’t want to be so far away from Tashi so I elected to stay in my tent.
A hospital room might have been more hygienic but I had become used to the slight squalor of the camp and reckoned I would survive.
A week went by. My body was adjusting to the damage. Then Tashi came to my tent in a state of great excitement.
‘You’ll never guess what I just heard,’ Tashi said. Her pretty face, usually wreathed with smiles, was even more radiant than usual.
‘What?’
‘The Dalai Lama is coming to visit the camp!’
‘No way!’
‘Yes! He’s on an official visit to Nepal. When he found out how many Tibetan refugees are here, he put us on the itinerary.’
‘Kharma will be gutted when he finds out what he’s missing,’ I exclaimed. Tashi nodded, smiling at the thought of her mischievous brother. Unable to find any work in Nepal, he had left a couple of months earlier for the Middle East, enticed by tales of high wages on the building sites.
He would be kicking himself when he found out who was visiting the camp. He had kept a portrait of the spiritual leader of the Tibetan people with him ever since he was a child, even though it had led to persecution and punishment by the Chinese.
The camp had to be spotless for the Dalai Lama’s visit. A frenzy of painting and cleaning kicked off.
I was confined to my sickbed, cursing my bad luck.
The great day arrived. I had hoped I would be well enough to join in the celebrations, but I was still bed-bound in my tent, my shoulder and arm bandaged tight.
The buzz was intense. This was no normal sleepy morning in Camp Delta. From dawn onwards the excited clamour of conversation filled the air, children’s footsteps pounding up and down the path that ran by my tent. I tried not to feel sorry for myself but had to admit I was gutted to be missing out. I was sure I would never get another opportunity to meet the great man.
Suddenly a cry went up.
‘The helicopter is coming!’
Tashi burst into the tent, smiling broadly, her cheeks flushed with excitement. She had bought a new dress from the markets in Kathmandu and was wearing it for the first time.
‘What do you think?’ She flashed me a cheeky grin, performing a pirouette in the middle of the tent, rays of sunlight punching through the holes in the canvas roof, picking out the rainbow colours of her dress.
‘Gorgeous,’ I managed to croak. It was the first time I had seen Tashi wearing anything but trekking clothes and I found myself slightly lost for words.
‘They got a radio call,’ she said. ‘He’s going to be here in five minutes!’
Tashi poured me some tea from a flask and produced a couple of sugared dosas – local pancakes – from a wrap of paper.
‘I’ll take some photos for you,’ she said. She kissed me and rushed out of the tent as the helicopter swooped overhead.
I finished my lonely breakfast and listened to the cheers and chanting and singing that greeted the Dalai Lama. The outpouring of affection was hardly surprising given the great man’s status as a living god to the people of Tibet.
Most of the refugees in the camp had spent their lives under Chinese rule, forbidden to talk about the Dalai Lama or even own a photograph of him. Now, exiled in the free country of Nepal, away from the oppressive all-seeing eye of Chinese spies, they were free to express their true feelings.
It was a celebration, Tibetan style, the air alive with the crackle of fireworks, the clash of cymbals and the bass drone of huge brass trumpets.
I tried to concentrate on my book but just couldn’t focus.
Gradually I heard the procession getting closer to my tent. The honoured visitor was getting a tour of the camp.
Seconds later the tent flap was pulled to one side and Tashi dashed in.
‘What’s happening?’ I blurted.
She snatched armfuls of clothes from the floor, stuffing them behind my bed.
‘He’s coming in!’ she hissed.
‘What?’ I looked around the tent in horror. The place was a total tip and I hadn’t had a shave or a shower for days so I looked – and no doubt smelled – pretty much like a tramp.
Too late. Three heartbeats later the tent flaps opened again. A saffron-robed figure stepped inside.
– CHAPTER 2 –
‘Is this the English boy you told me about?’ the Dalai Lama asked Tashi.
‘Yes, Your Holiness.’
I raised myself up, leaning on my good arm.
‘Please,’ my visitor smiled as he pulled up a chair. ‘Don’t move too much on my account. From what I’ve heard of your adventures, it might be better you rest.’
‘S … s … s … sorry about the mess,’ I stammered. A visit from one of the holiest men on the planet was the last thing I was expecting.
He shrugged, as if it was of no concern. His whole manner was very matter of fact and open; he was a natural communicator without a shred of ego or grand pretensions.
‘The people of the camp are speaking about you,’ His Holiness said with a smile. ‘They seem to think your survival was some sort of miracle!’
‘It was my friend here that saved me,’ I replied. Tashi smiled modestly as the Dalai Lama turned, nodding kindly to her.
‘You are a man of the mountains, I hear,’ my visitor chuckled. ‘So lightning strike
is an occupational hazard, one might say.’
‘Maybe,’ I laughed. ‘But I’m not going to make a habit of it.’
‘How long will you take to heal?’
‘It’s too early to say, sir,’ I replied. ‘But I hope I’ll be back in the mountains soon.’
‘Rest is the thing,’ he said. ‘Stay here until you regain your strength. I’m sure they are looking after you well.’
‘Your Holiness …?’ An official coughed politely.
The Dalai Lama’s entourage was clearly keen to resume the tour of the camp.
The great man patted my undamaged hand.
‘I wish you a rapid recovery,’ he said.
He rose to his feet then suddenly froze, his attention caught by something on the trunk next to my camp bed.
‘A shrine bell,’ he exclaimed. ‘May I take a look?’
He picked up the bell, cradling it in his hands, examining it closely. His eyebrows rose. An expression of surprise creased his noble face. He looked inside, scratching gently at the interior surface of the metal with his fingernail.
The other monks could not contain their curiosity. They leaned in also, watching the actions of their spiritual leader intently.
‘Sometimes the monasteries put a mark inside,’ the Dalai Lama said. ‘There’s a lot of dirt and dust collected but let me see …’
He scraped for a few moments then asked me, ‘Have you got a torch?’
Tashi found a head torch next to the bed.
‘There’s a seal stamped into the metal,’ he said.
He let out a gentle ‘hmmm’ of surprise.
‘What is it?’ Tashi and the others gathered in even closer.
‘How old do you think this bell is?’ the Dalai Lama asked.
‘I don’t know,’ I replied. ‘Maybe fifty or sixty years?’
He shook his head. ‘Look at this mark in the metal.’
He handed me the shrine bell and the torch. Tashi came over to me and we looked inside, seeing a faint seal stamped into the brass.
‘I’ve only seen one shrine bell like this before,’ the Dalai Lama said slowly. ‘And that was at the Barkhor temple.’
‘Really?’ Tashi looked impressed.
‘I think this may be hundreds of years old and I believe it might have belonged to someone rather special.’
‘Like who, sir?’ I asked.
‘That mark is the seal of the seventh Dalai Lama.’
The other monks stared at each other when they heard these words. Tashi drew in her breath.
‘There’s powerful magic in this object,’ the Dalai Lama said. ‘I felt it the first moment I saw it.’
‘My friends Kami and Shreeya certainly thought so,’ I said. ‘They believe it will go to the summit of Everest one day.’
For a moment I thought that the great man was going to speak further. Then he smiled.
‘We will see,’ he said simply.
A photographer entered the tent.
‘Just a quick shot please,’ he said.
He took a photograph of me and the Dalai Lama, the shrine bell still cradled in his hands.
Then the great man and his entourage left.
A hot month went by. My shoulder slowly healed.
Tashi’s family gave me local remedies, herbs and extracts of plants, which were applied in a paste directly on to my skin.
The refugee camp doctor was amazed at the effectiveness of these traditional medicines.
‘I thought you would need a skin graft,’ she said. ‘But the wound has healed better than I thought.’
Tashi smiled. She had always had complete faith in the power of natural cures.
While I recovered, the security situation in Nepal gradually worsened.
We had seen the country deteriorating as the drought had gripped. The failure of the second rice harvest had been a depressing blow for the people of Nepal, and led to a sharp spike in crime.
Village stores had been robbed.
The police had been selling sacks of grain, which were supposed to be distributed free.
The government had not allocated a single dollar of the billions of aid dollars donated by ordinary people all over the world.
Then came a special day.
‘Happy birthday, Ryan.’ Tashi brought my favourite milky coffee to the tent then gave me a long hug.
My parents called from England. Distant voices from a world that no longer felt like my own. A couple of the refugee families gave me gifts. Then the camp’s commander broke the spell by handing me a shovel and getting me to dig a ditch down in the lower part of the camp.
It was a backbreaker of a job and a good test for my injured shoulder. The tendons complained but I managed to do the task with the help of a couple of painkillers. It was infuriating work though; for every shovelful of mud I managed to get out of that trench, twice the amount would slide back into the hole.
I worked for a few hours then returned to the canteen to get a late breakfast. Tashi came up behind me. Her hands reaching round to gently cover my eyes.
‘I’ve got a surprise for you,’ she said.
‘Yeah?’
Tashi always loved pulling tricks on me. It was part of her mischievous character.
I looked around. Everyone was looking at me. I smiled and shrugged, unable to see what had changed.
Then the flap of the tent was pulled aside and two people walked in: a middle-aged Western man, tanned and fit, with a mane of golden hair. And a pretty local girl wearing a traditional silk dress.
I blinked. For a heartbeat I wondered if I was seeing things.
Alex Brennan and Shreeya?
Two friends from the past, from the very first journey I made in Nepal.
Two friends I had never expected to see again.
Two friends who had changed my life by introducing me to Everest.
The shock was total. I just stood there like an idiot, figuring that this could NOT be real.
‘There’s someone who wants to see you,’ Alex said.
The tent flap pulled back once more.
‘No way,’ I whispered.
Tashi gripped my hand.
A third person walked in.
It was Kami.
Kami! Walking! For a moment I thought I must be dreaming.
This was the Nepali friend I had last seen lying on his back in a remote clinic far out in the wild mountain ranges. The friend who had been paralysed in an avalanche. The friend who had once climbed to within a stone’s throw of the summit of Everest, only to have his dream snatched away from him at the final moment.
Kami who could hardly move, let alone walk.
‘Hello Ryan!’ he said.
The room went silent.
‘You’re walking!’ I whispered.
He took a few more steps.
‘You’re walking!’
Kami’s smile was wide enough to light up even this cloudiest of days. He radiated happiness with so much intensity it touched every single person in that tent.
‘Kami!’ I ran forward and embraced him.
He was real enough. And so were his tears.
‘How did you find me?’ I asked.
‘Because you’re famous,’ Shreeya said.
She brought out a crumpled page from a newspaper. The photograph of the Dalai Lama and me was there alongside an article about the holy man’s visit to the camp.
‘I saw it by chance,’ Shreeya said. ‘Otherwise we never would have tracked you down.’
A regular old hug-in followed. I introduced Tashi to everyone and Alex explained to her that he had been the expedition leader on Kami’s fateful Everest climb, later giving up his ambitions to be a politician in the USA and building a remote clinic to care for his paralysed Nepali friend.
We sat at the table, joining the others for a cup of tea. I kept staring at my friends, just so happy to see them.
‘How did this happen?’ I asked. ‘What magic spell did you use to get Kami walking again?’
‘Stem cell magic,’ Alex added.
We ate rice and lentils, catching up on two years of news.
‘Even though I was something of a recluse out there at the clinic, I was still in contact with a few old buddies from my Harvard days,’ Alex said. ‘One of them is a leading expert in stem-cell technology and it turned out he was working on a new treatment.’
‘He’s a miracle worker,’ Shreeya said.
‘I was a guinea pig,’ Kami added proudly, savouring his use of the words.
‘I told this buddy about Kami’s injury,’ Alex continued. ‘And he came out to Nepal to check things out. We helicoptered Kami out to Kathmandu so my friend could do some scans. He was honest about the risks but reckoned it was worth a try.’
‘Alex got us passports and visas for the USA,’ Shreeya said. ‘We flew to Washington on a special flight so that Kami’s stretcher could be loaded on.’
‘It was always my dream to go to America,’ Kami said. ‘But I have to say it was strange to arrive flat on my back. I couldn’t even see any of the views out of the ambulance window as they drove me to the hospital.’
‘They took OECs from Kami’s nasal cavity,’ Alex continued. ‘That’s olfactory ensheathing cells – the type of stem cells that have the power to reconnect tissue. They cultured them in the lab until they had several million.’
‘That was the easy bit,’ Kami smiled.
‘Then they removed four strips of nerve tissue from his ankle,’ Alex went on. ‘And inserted it into the spinal cord where the damage was.’
‘They did about 200 injections into my neck,’ Kami said, shuddering with the memory. ‘They called them micro-injections but they didn’t feel so micro to me.’
Alex took over. ‘The stem cells encourage the nerve tissue to connect. Build a new bridge between the two severed ends of Kami’s spinal cord.’
‘After three months I could feel my legs,’ Kami said. ‘After six I was taking the first steps. I was walking within a year.’
‘Check out the video,’ Alex said.
He brought out a laptop and fired it up. Seconds later we were looking at images of Kami’s fight to walk.
The pictures showed Kami, strapped into a hoist in a rehab centre. Shreeya and several medical staff were in the room. The hoist came down, allowing him to place his legs on the floor. Kami was standing upright, a huge smile on his face.
Killer Storm Page 2
