Sacred Mountain

by Robert Ferguson

  Philip tried to remove his goggles but found his hands too cold to grip them. Clumsily he pushed them up with his gloves, blinking in the brilliant light. He looked around, squinting and trying to ignore the pounding headache. It was a relief to see the world in focus again, if only for a few moments. They were standing in an area of bare rock, dotted with small patches of frozen snow that lay protected from the prevailing winds behind small rocks and boulders. The glacier they’d been following had vanished, left behind in the valley as they’d climbed up to the pass in the storm. Ahead he could see a new glacier tumbling down the far side of the valley. It was different from the dirty, grey ice they’d been following that morning. This was pristine white, covered in a dazzling layer of fresh snow. He fumbled for his goggles and slid them back over his eyes. This ice flow fell from a small hanging valley down into the one they were now following, tumbling off ahead of them towards Tibet. Its beauty made him momentarily forget his exhaustion.

  Lhamu pulled back her hood and smiled at him. “We are over the pass. It will be easier now.” She stepped closed and took his hands, pulling the outer mittens off and rubbing them hard between her own gloved hands. “We must get these working again.” She looked at him sternly. “As we walk you must work them constantly. Keep them moving and rub them.”

  Despite the pain in his head he smiled at her weakly. “You sound like my mother!” he said, wincing as his dry lips split and he tasted blood in his mouth.

  “Someone has to look after you while you are here,” she replied, not looking at him as she carefully slid his hands back into his mittens. “We will descend quickly now, mostly on the rocks beside the glacier. There is little snow from now on. It all falls on the Nepal side from the Monsoon rains. The mountains prevent it from reaching Tibet, which is why the plateau is so dry. Apart from occasional storm there is little rain on this side.”

  “We must now be alert for the soldiers,” added Prem. “You saw the dead man on the pass?” he asked, indicating with his head back up the slope. “They must have been in a bad way when they got here and I don’t think they would have been able to go much further yesterday. It was their radio in that bag and if they were not able to retrieve that they must have been exhausted.”

  Philip nodded. “You and Mingma scout ahead so we don’t stumble into them. When you locate them, follow until they camp and come back and report.” He winced as he dabbed more cream onto his lips. “We’ll keep moving until we meet up with you. Then we’ll decide on a plan of attack.”

  Prem nodded and had a brief conversation in Nepalese with the Sherpa.

  “If we’re not back by nightfall, camp when you find a suitable place,” Prem said. “We will find you.”

  Philip and Lhamu nodded and watched as the two men pulled on their packs and head off down the slope, walking strongly and springing from rock to rock.

  Philip turned to the men and explained what was happening. “We must keep going as long as we can. It’s going to be tough on the knees for the rest of the day but at least the air will be getting thicker and the temperature warmer the more we drop. It everybody OK?”

  There was a murmur of assent and some nodding heads.

  “Good,” he continued. “Let’s get going and get out of this cold before bits start dropping off.”

  They set off down the valley, Lhamu setting a pace that everybody seemed comfortable with except Tashi, who was struggling at the rear. Philip slowly dropped back, checking on the men as he passed and offering an encouraging word. When he finally reached Tashi, his face was white with exhaustion and cold.

  “Are you OK?” Philip asked, resting a hand gently on his shoulder. He could feel the Indian shaking beneath his hand.

  “I … I’ve never been this God damned cold in my life,” he replied at last, his jaw shivering. “Can’t we just camp and get a big fire going. I need a hot drink or I don’t think I’ll make it.”

  Philip shook his head. “If we stay here we’d be as good as dead come nightfall. We’ve no fuel and there’s not going to be any firewood this high.”

  “How about a proper rest then,” the Indian asked desperately. “Just for an hour or so until we’ve all recovered and had something to eat. I’m sure everybody feels the same.”

  “No,” Philip replied firmly. “The only option is to push on and get down as quickly as possible. Don’t worry, the worst’s over. We should have left the snow behind on the other side.” He reached back into a side pocket of his pack and pulled out a half-eaten bar of chocolate.

  “Here,” he said, handing it to the Indian. “Eat this; it’ll give you some energy. I’m afraid it’s frozen solid,” he added with a smile, “so you’ll need to suck it until it softens.”

  Tashi took the chocolate and ripped off the wrapper, pushing a chunk into his mouth.

  “Didn’t you have weather like this when you were growing up in Tibet?” Philip asked, trying to keep Tashi’s mind distracted.

  He nodded, moving the chocolate into a cheek to reply. “The winters were bitter,” he said. “There was rarely snow but the wind blew across the steppe and stripped it bare. When I was sent out to fetch wood it would cut through my clothes as if they weren’t there.” He smiled weakly. “At least they couldn’t send me to get the water. It was frozen so thick that I was too weak to break through so my older brothers had to go.”

  “What about when you had to flee?” Philip asked, intrigued by the past of the trader. “Were you allowed to bring your possessions with you?”

  Tashi shook his head, his face bitter. “We took only what we could salvage after they burnt our home. They said they wouldn’t kill us as we were fellow Buddhists but they might as well have done. My brothers had died trying to defend us, my grandparents and younger sister died as we fled to India.” He spat a small piece of wrapper from his mouth that had been frozen on to the chocolate. “My mother never recovered. She died soon after reaching Darjeeling, broken by the journey and the betrayal. My elder sisters I’ve never seen again, despite searching on my trading trips. That’s why I’m still here and not sauced up in Kathmandu right now. Someone is going to pay for what happened to my family and however tough, this is my chance.” They continued in silence, trudging along lost in their own thoughts. The path here was easier, a frozen crust of small stones and pebbles that their feet crunched into and gripped. Although breathless from the thin air he didn’t feel the need to stop so often but without the exertion of climbing, he could feel himself getting colder and colder. The wind still blew into his face making his sinuses ache from the frozen air.

  After an hour they left the stony terrain and snaked down onto the side of the huge glacier that tumbled down from a mountain to the north, filling the valley they were descending. After several hundred yards of scrambling along its surface, leaping small crevasses that cut across the trail, they climbed off its ice and picked up a small trail that followed the loose moraine to its side. Giant boulders lay scattered around; some perched precariously on smaller ones, with others occasionally blocking their progress, making them detour around them.

  It slowed progress considerably, every footstep needing careful attention as the scree was loose and liable to slip away. Several of the men fell and slid down the slope to where the glacial ice started, its outer edge melted by the warmth of the rocks to create a menacing black void that seemed to fall away deep into its core. Philip felt his feet slide away at one point, grasping desperately for a stable handhold as he slithered down the slope. When he finally stopped himself some fifteen feet below the trail, he lay on the ground panting, face down on the cold rock with his heart beating wildly.

  They stopped after another hour in the lee of a small cliff. Within minutes the men had a small fire burning and some water boiling for tea. Philip had always marvelled in the jungle how quickly the men could conjure a brew, however wet the weather. He sat watching with his back against the rock. He’d carefully removed his gloves and was now working on his fingers in an
attempt to get some circulation back. He blew on them, flexing each finger, rubbing and wringing them in turn before sitting with hands squeezed tightly together as the agony of returning blood made the bones in the fingers ache.

  Mani came over with a mug of strong, sweet tea which he gratefully took, nodding his thanks and sitting with it clasped in his hands. He could feel the heat burning into his palms, the tips of his fingers throbbing. He raised the mug to his lips and gulped the liquid greedily, ignoring the pain from his lips. He felt it searing his mouth and tongue, relishing the sensation of heat. Gulping down the rest of the drink he returned the mug to the men tending the fire.

  He felt stronger, the sugar from the tea strengthening his body and resolve. Stamping his feet he tried to restore some feeling in them but without success. They’d have to wait, he thought grimly, until there was time to examine and warm them properly. He had, he noticed, been served his drink first and not wanting the men to feel hurried he turned and slowly made his way up a moraine slope that ran up the side of the valley. Since crossing the Nangpa la the snow had stopped and the cloud lifted, giving better visibility, even if the wind still blew bitterly into their faces.

  He’d gone about fifty feet up the valley side when he found a small outcrop of rock he could perch on, glad to have found somewhere stable to prop him up as he tried to catch his breath. Looking around he was amazed at how the terrain had changed. On the Nepal side there’d been forest and scrub high up the valley until it was finally buried by the ice of the glacier and the thick snows that blanketed the entire upper valley. Here there was nothing but ice and rock. Looking down the valley he could see the tumbling glacier of white and blue, framed as far as the eye could see by the black and grey of the valley walls on either side. This was Tibet, its high plateaux kept barren by the freezing temperatures and the bitter winds that swept across its endless, arid plain.

  He squinted, looking down the valley for any sign of movement. He could see nothing, partly because his eyes filled with tears as the breeze blew fine dust into his face. After rubbing his eyes clear he scrambled back down the slope to where the men had finished their brew and were packed to depart. Without a word they moved out, moving at a faster pace that, invigorated by the tea, Philip was comfortable with for a while. But he knew he was getting tired. His concentration kept wandering which resulted in a couple of stumbles he only just managed to recover. He’d always been amazed by the stamina of Gurkhas, they seemed to just keep on going, accepting and adapting to whatever situation they were in. He’d often wished for the same strength during his time in Burma and he did again now.

  Without warning the trail contoured around a small ridge that jutted out into the valley and down below they could see Mingma and Prem. Their packs were lying on a silt beach beside a large pool fed by a stream that tumbled down the mountain side, before overflowing and disappearing under the glacier. They were both searching around, looking he guessed for anything that would burn. There was already a small pile of dead scrub and yak dung neatly stacked in the lea of some rocks. The weary column dropped down to join them and as soon as they arrived the Gurkhas collected the pieces of the tent from everyone’s baggage and started to erect it. Mingma set about creating a stone hearth and dispatched any spare men off to find more fuel.

  Philip, Prem and Lhamu rolled three rounded boulders over to where it was going to be and sat wearily upon them, Tashi collapsing exhausted onto the beach beside them.

  “Did you spot them?” Philip asked, trying to sound interested when all that he could really think about was removing his frozen feet from his sodden boots.

  Mingma nodded, lighting some dry kindling he’d taken from his pack. “They are less than an hour ahead and already camped.” He looked at his watch. “That was a couple of hours ago so they must have been exhausted to camp so early. They must have spent last night high on the pass. It will have been freezing.”

  “They have several men in a bad way,” Prem added. “I saw a couple using their rifles as crutches and one was lying down being bandaged.”

  Philip sat starring into the small crackling fire that Mingmo was coaxing into life, almost too weary to think.

  “So they’re within striking range. We just have to decide on what’s the best way to tackle them.” He grimaced as he rubbed his feet and felt blood slowly forcing its way back into them.

  He looked at Lhamu. “Where do you think they’re headed?”

  She shrugged. “It is hard to say. I think they will continue north. The trail gets easier as you drop out of the mountains. In three days they will hit the main caravan route between Kathmandu and Lhasa. I think they will have some transport waiting there or will steal some ponies.” Philip nodded. “We’ll start before dawn and attack them while they’re still asleep. They’ll be exhausted and disorientated, and in the dark their guns won’t be as effective as our knives.”

  He glanced at Prem. “Can you tell the men?” He nodded towards his feet. “If I stay here all night they might just about be thawed in time for the fun tomorrow.”

  Prem stood up and smiled. “Makes a change from tropical sores and leeches.”

  Chapter 14

  Burma, 1943

  Philip cautiously approached the hut. It seemed deserted, not a sound to be heard above the noises of the jungle that had started again after the shooting. Perhaps the villagers had fled when they heard the gunfire. He hoped not. They still needed food and without them they’d never find out where it was hidden.

  There was a flash and the air by his left cheek fizzed, followed by the shark crack of a gunshot. He threw himself down, landing with a thump on the hard, dusty ground and rolling forward. He gasped in a couple of breaths, spitting out the dust that had clogged his mouth and rubbing it from his eyes. Peering back he realised that he was the nearest to the hut, his dive having taken him close enough to be out of the line of fire.

  “Stay down,” he hissed back into the night before squirming his way forward on his belly, keeping as low as possible.

  More shots rang out. Looking back he could see how exposed Prem and the other Gurkhas were. They’d been caught in the open, with only the darkness of the night preventing them from being easy targets. It fell silent again and he could hear them scrambling back to safety behind the tall stone shrine which was the nearest cover. A short burst of machine gunfire rattled out and tiny plumes of dirt were kicked up as the bullets danced around them, others ricocheting off into the night from the stone shrine walls. The moon slowly emerged from behind some heavy storm clouds that had been building all day. It bathed the village in an eerie light strong enough to throw ghostly shadows all around and Philip realised that the others were pinned down, unable to move without being seen. He was the only one who could act.

  He scrambled to where a thick teak post was driven into the earth, one of the main supports for the hut that loomed over him. The pungent smell of pig muck stung his nose and he could hear panicked squealing from the darkness beneath the building. Leaning against the wood he fumbled for his belt, groping for the smooth metal texture of a grenade. Wrenching one free he clasped it to his chest, removing the pin while keeping the spoon held tightly down. It was a five second fuse. If he threw it immediately there was the chance that it might be picked up and thrown back. He spun up onto his knees and released the spoon.

  He took deep, steady breaths to calm himself. He was standing deep in the outfield of a manicured cricket pitch, the ball racing towards him. In one movement he would stoop, pick it up and throw it back like an arrow. It would smack into the wicketkeepers gloves, hitting their toughened leather exactly as he counted five. He was good at this. He’d done it thousands of times on the pitches at school.

  On two he stood and peered over the veranda. It was about level with his head and set back about ten feet was the front wall of the hut itself. There was a small window, no more than a gap in the matting, through which two rifles protruded. In one fluid flick of the arm he threw the g
renade as he reached three. One of the rifles fired and in the flash he glimpsed the dull sheen of the grenade as spun past the barrel and disappeared into the void of the window. Too late he turned to throw himself down as the blast of the explosion lifted him and drove him hard into the dirt, winding him with the impact. Debris rained down, a bamboo rafter landing painfully across his back, followed by smaller pieces of wood and then stems of dried grass and leaves that smouldered and glowed.

  His ears were ringing, his lungs clogged once more with dust and now smoke. He pulled his knees up under his body, trying to pull air back into his lungs. He could smell burnt flesh, pork meat he guessed, and made a note to get some of it before they left the village. He shook his head to clear his ears and wiped his mouth on his sleeve, blood smearing across the material.

  A hand grasped him under the arm and hauled him to his feet. He turned and saw Prem looking at him, glancing him up and down to check for injuries. Satisfied there were none, the Gurkha nodded and turned back to the others who’d emerged from behind the shrine and surrounding bush. They lifted the ladder back in place and climbed silently into the shell of the hut.

  Philip looked around, still dazed, and stooped to retrieve his revolver which lay on the ground. He climbed the log ladder after his men, almost falling as it shifted sharply to one side but managing to scramble onto the platform. The hut had almost totally gone, its light construction obliterated by the explosion. A few hard teak posts still stood, some connected by beams from which hung fragments of the woven leaf matting that had made up the walls.

  He walked to where the door had been, its broken frame now the only thing remaining, and stepped inside. The interior was still thick with smoke but to his left he saw the bodies of two Japanese soldiers, thrown forward by the blast, which looked to have happened while the grenade was still tumbling through the air. Half buried in the debris, their legs stuck out naked where their trouser legs had been ripped away, twisted into unnatural angles. One boot had been blown off, taking the foot with it and leaving a bloody stump clogged with dust.