Sacred Mountain

by Robert Ferguson

  The Gurkha nodded and using hand gestures commanded the men to get themselves hidden behind some of the moraine that littered the ground.

  Philip turned back to Lhamu. “Let’s get a look at the main building first. There’s light coming from inside and it’s the obvious place for the soldiers to be.”

  They crept forward, ears straining for any sound that might indicate danger. The noise from a rushing river filled the valley, a distant rumble disturbed only by the occasional bleating of a goat or bark from the tethered dogs. Philip felt happier, sure that it was enough to cover the sound of our footfalls.

  They ran at a crouch, crossing a barren area of ground covered in a thin, weedy grass that had been grazed down to its roots. It seemed to take forever and there was little cover for them to use. Philip could feel his heart thumping, both from the exertion in the thin air, and from memories that preyed at him. He was back in Burma, the noises of the valley momentarily changing to a night time chorus of the jungle. He shook it from his mind.

  At last they reached the bottom of the hill, tight up against a small rock face and he fell to his knees, resting his head on the cold stone as he caught his breath and swallowed down his fear. Leaning back, he looked up. The sides were higher than he’d anticipated, rocky crags jutting out from steep slopes of small, loose stones. It certainly wasn’t impossible to climb but it would be impossible to climb quietly.

  Having recovered his breath, Philip stood and moved slowly round to the left, circling the base of the hill while studying its slope. It was, he estimated, about fifty feet up to the shrine walls and he could just see the window from where he’d spotted the light escaping earlier. Continuing on, he moved around to the back of the shrine and noticed, to his satisfaction, that there were no windows in this wall. The hill here was less steep and in the faint starlight he could just make out the start of a small path meandering its way upwards, little more than a rough trail made by grazing animals as they climbed up looking for food.

  He beckoned the others to join him and they slowly started to climb, treading carefully so as not to dislodge any loose rocks. The path turned back on itself halfway up, dropping slightly to skirt around a rock outcrop, before continuing its rambling climb to the top and a narrow paved ledge that ran around the foot of the shrine.

  Philip quickly walked to the corner and cautiously peered around, Mingma and Lhamu crouching behind him. Everything looked still and he could hear no sound coming from inside the building.

  Mingma tapped him on the shoulder, indicating that he was going to move along to the nearest window to look inside. Philip shook his head and pointed to himself, edging forwards around the corner. It was no more than a timber-framed square in the rough masonry. Leaning forward he could see a wooden shutter pushed shut against the opening and behind it what seemed to be a heavy drape of filthy black cloth. He raised himself onto tiptoe and saw a small pool of light falling onto the sill, and when he glanced along saw a small rip in the cloth.

  He slowly moved his eye towards the tear and looked inside. Several butter lamps cast a flickering light inside of the shrine. He recoiled as a face turned towards him, eyes staring at him, teeth flashing white in a leering smile. He breathed out slowly when it swung away and he recognised it as a festival mask similar to the ones he’d seen in Thangboche, hanging on a cord from the rafters.

  He peered back inside. He could see several figures lying on the floor, some propped against the walls or the bases of large gilded statues of the Buddha. Others were lying on the floor in an exhausted sleep. He heard a raised voice, and shifting his position looked around to where three men, all dressed in filthy uniforms, were berating an old monk. The tallest of them was shouting and Philip winced as he struck the monk a stinging blow to his face. The old monk staggered back, regained his balance and bowed to the man. The soldier called something over his shoulder and two of the sitting figures got wearily to their feet and walked over, shouldering rifles as they did so. Orders were barked at them to which they nodded and walked over to the door, pushing the monk along in front of them.

  Philip ducked down. “Quick,” he hissed. “Back.”

  They scrambled around the rear of the building, diving into its shadows. They heard a creaking as a large door swinging open, followed a few moments later by talking. Philip cautiously looked back round the corner. The two soldiers and monk had appearing around the front corner of the building. One of them lifted his boot and kicked the backside of the old man, who fell forward into the dust. He pulled himself to his feet and scurried away, down what Philip assumed must be the steps at the front of the building, reappearing a few moments later skirting around the base of the hill and disappearing into a long, low stone building.

  The two soldiers lit cigarettes, their heads huddled together around a match. Sliding back, he turned to the others. “They’ve set guards. That seems strange. I’d have thought they’d feel secure now they’re back over the border.” He thought for a moment. “Perhaps they want to keep an eye on the monks.” He looked across at Lhamu. “Make your way down and go to the building where the monk went. See if you can find and talk to him.”

  Lhamu nodded. “It is the cook house,” she replied in a voice he could hardly hear. “I remember it from when I was young.” She started to move away and Philip grabbed her arm.

  “Be careful,” he whispered. “Keep to the shadows and watch for the soldiers.” She smiled and was gone.

  He turned to Mingma. “Return to Prem. Tell him to bring the men and to wait behind the cook house. I’ll stay here and keep an eye on things. They seem to be settling in so this is our best chance to catch them unawares.”

  Mingma nodded and disappeared silently down the slope.

  Philip leant back against the wall, his knees drawn up against his stomach. Despite the exertions of the last few days his body felt surprisingly good, aches vanishing now that adrenalin was pumping around his body. He’d forgotten the feel of danger, the knowledge that any moment could be your last was something he’d once lived with daily.

  He opened the pistol and checked again that all the chambers were full. Quietly he slid it back into place, leaving the holster unclipped. Holding his breath so that it wouldn’t be visible in the freezing night air he cautiously looked around the corner again. The soldiers were standing where they’d been before, collars raised up over hunched shoulders. In the glow of their cigarettes he could see their faces lined by fatigue, a low babble of chat coming between deep drags.

  They finished and ground out the butts underfoot. With a final word, he saw one of them turn and slowly start walk down the side of the shrine towards him. Trying to keep still he waited until the soldier glanced out across the valley and before pulling his head back round the corner. He glanced around, desperately looking for somewhere to hide, but only the smooth whitewashed wall of the monastery ran away from him.

  Philip cursed as the moon chose that moment to rise over the surrounding ridge. With his eyes now adjusted to the dark, it seemed as bright as day. He had no choice but to run for it. As quietly as he could he scrambled back to the path, taking small, precise steps in an effort to be silent. Loose stones kicked out of the slope and bounced after him, their noise echoing off the surrounding walls. Some hit him on the back of his legs as he dived behind the jagged outcrop halfway down and pressed himself against its rough surface, pulling his revolver free.

  He sat there, trying to keep his ragged breathing quiet, staring back up at the small section of the path he could see, willing the last few pebbles to stop rolling. Everything fell silent, only a gently rustling from prayer flags on a nearby chortern and distant running water disturbed the night. He strained his ears, trying to catch any noise that would give away the position of the soldier. He heard the rustling of cloth and then the sharp metallic click as a bullet was pulled through into the breach of a rifle.

  He sat holding his breath, praying for the moon to disappear. He could hear soft footsteps walkin
g along the top of the slope. Slowly lifting his left hand he placed it on the pistol which was pointing back up at the slope, ready to flick back the hammer and fire. He heard loose stones rolling down the slope, flinching as the first ones bounced into view on the path. The soldier had to appear at any moment and he started breathing slowly to steady his aim. The tip of a rifle emerged around the rock, followed by a hand, grasping its stock. Philip slowly pulled the hammer back, his hands trembling, when the gun suddenly swung away and disappeared from view. He froze, his pistol on the point of firing, not daring to move. He heard voices calling and the sound of the soldier’s footsteps climbing away. He gently eased the pressure on the trigger and shifted his position so he could peer around the edge of the outcrop.

  Down below the monk had reappeared from the kitchen, the light from the open door silhouetting him. The other soldier, who’d presumably been patrolling the bottom of the hill, walked over to him and helped himself to some of the food he’d been carrying to the main shrine. Having filled his pockets he said something and roughly pushed the monk away, happy that he’d enough to fill himself.

  Philips head spun around as he heard someone behind him and he sighed in relief as he recognised Lhamu creeping towards him.

  “Are you good?” she asked him, laying a hand gently on his sleeve. “I saw the soldier coming towards you from the kitchen. I sent the monk out to distract him.”

  Philip grasped her hand, squeezing its warm fingers in his. “Thank you. Another couple of steps and he’d have seen me.” He glanced back towards the kitchen and saw the other guard arrive. The two soldiers stood, rifles hanging from their shoulders, sharing the food that the first one had taken. “If I’d had to shoot him we’d have had the whole lot of them after us, which would rather have spoilt our element of surprise.”

  Lhamu shook her head, her face serious. “I am afraid we do not have that anyway.”

  Philip stared at her. “What do you mean?”

  “The monks told me,” she whispered. “The soldiers arrived this afternoon totally exhausted. They left their camp last night because someone woke them and told them they were being followed.”

  Philip shook his head, confused. “But how? Everybody was in camp last night.” He tried to think. “Perhaps they saw us higher up on the pass.”

  Lhamu shook her head. “No, they definitely said that they were warned by somebody. The monk with the food is the only one who speaks Chinese, that is why they have him as a go-between. It was he who overheard them talking. Whoever it was came down from our camp.”

  Philip blew out his cheeks and sighed, stealing a quick glance back towards the soldiers. Now they’d finished the food they were lighting more cigarettes.

  “Damn it,” he whispered, turning back. “It was going to be tricky enough anyway.” He looked at Lhamu. “Did you find out how many there are?”

  Lhamu nodded. “There are eighteen. Two are injured by bullets and others have frostbitten feet. The good news is that there is a prisoner with them and he does not appear to be injured.”

  Philip felt his heart beat faster. “Have the monks recognised him?”

  Lhamu shook her head. “No, he has a cloth sack over his head. And I did not tell them. When they find out they will rush straight in and attack the Chinese with their bare hands, Buddhists or not.”

  They sat in silence, Philip trying to take everything in. “Right, let’s fall back to behind the cook house,” he said at last. “That way we can keep out of sight until Prem gets here with the men.”

  He started to get up and realised he was still holding Lhamu’s hand. They glanced at each other and Philip gently squeezed it before releasing his grip. As quietly as they could they scrambled down the loose path and behind the chortern, soon hidden in the deep shadows of the moonlit night.

  In less than a minute they reached the cookhouse and were squatting in the dark alley behind it. A smell of decomposition and dung mingled with the smoke that was escaping through cracks around the door.

  “Christ,” he muttered, trying to breathe as shallowly as possible. “What a stink.”

  “It is where they feed the dogs,” Lhamu replied, a scarf pulled up over her nose. “They throw the scraps out here in the morning and the dogs come to get them after being out all night guarding the sheep. It’s how they catch them to shut them up again.”

  Philip looked around nervously. “Where are they now?”

  Lhamu chuckled at his voice. “They are still shut up,” she replied. “You can hear them barking occasionally. They will be released when the soldiers are fed and the monks all inside for the night. They are vicious in the dark.”

  Philip nodded, feeling reassured. “It’s a good thing we came early.” He grimaced as he felt his boots sticking in something greasy. “I don’t suppose we could wait inside,” he asked, nodding towards the door. “It would be a damn sight warmer and a lot less smelly.”

  Lhamu moved over to the door and after listening intently for a few moments gently opened it and looked inside. Beckoning Philip she slipped through.

  He followed and found himself in a long room centred around a large central fire, raised on a low stone hearth. Over this stood several metal tripods, off which hung large three cauldrons. The walls were lined with shelves, on which large copper and clay pots stood in rows. Beneath them on the floor were open sacks of rice, potatoes and other foodstuffs, with thin wooden benches running in front of them. The smoke was acrid, his eyes stinging and he coughed into his sleeve. Glancing up he could see that the stone roof was black with soot, smoke billowing beneath it as it slowly filtered through into the clean night air.

  He could hear Lhamu quietly talking to someone and rubbing his eyes saw three young monks, their faced grubby with soot, staring solemnly at him.

  He tried to smile. “Namaste,” he said, hands held together.

  The boys hesitated, but after glancing at each other nervously and then at Lhamu, returned the greeting.

  There was an awkward silence, the monks staring at Philip and his clothes.

  “Ask them how many monks are here?” Philip said, looking at Lhamu. “Especially how many young, fit ones.”

  He watched the monks, noting their reactions as Lhamu spoke to them in a flow of Tibetan. They answered her thoughtfully, each adding something to what had been said before until they seemed to arrive at a number they all agreed upon.

  “About 120,” Lhamu replied. “That is not including the hermits in the caves and the young boys. There used to be more but many have fled, frightened of what will happen if the Chinese army comes here.”

  Philip whistled. That was more than he’d hoped. He was convinced he could get them on their side, he just had to mention the Rinpoche. It was just how to do it without causing a riot.

  “Do they have any weapons?” he asked again. “Guns, knives, staffs, things like that.”

  Again he waited until Lhamu had an answer. She shook her head. “They have sticks to defend themselves from wild animals, as well as some machetes that are used for cutting crops in the summer. Other than that, nothing. This is a sacred valley and nothing is allowed to be killed in it.”

  “And where are all these monks?”

  The monks were more confident now and enthusiastic in their replies.

  “They are in their dormitories, which are on the other side of the main Shrine, across the courtyard,” she replied at last. “There are three buildings but each has a guard outside its door to stop them escaping.”

  Philip nodded and sat down on one of the benches, stretching out his legs towards the fire and watching as some ice crystals melted off his glistening boots.

  Lhamu was busy giving orders to the monks, who now seemed completely under her spell. One went to the main door to keep watch for the soldiers, while a second was stationed at the back door to intercept Prem when he arrived with the men. The third busied himself at the fire and soon Philip was holding a scalding cup of greasy Tibetan tea.

&nb
sp; He felt himself relaxing. With the hot drink and heat from the fire it was the first time in days he’d been truly warm. In an effort to stay alert he took a slug of the tea, scalding the roof of his mouth as he did so and grimacing as his cracked lips stung. He sat forward and placed the cup on the floor. He had to keep alert in order to work out what to do now. If the soldiers knew they were being followed they’d be more alert, which made it even more vital to strike as soon as possible.

  Also, one of their group was a traitor who’d tipped off the Chinese. His mind ran through other possibilities, that perhaps one of the Chinese had dropped back, either through exhaustion or to collect firewood, and had seen them following. But if that was the case why would they have camped at all, surely they’d have pushed straight on to the monastery?

  He’d trust any one of the Gurkhas with his life. He’d done so frequently. They’d been through things together that he’d never been able to even talk about to others, not even his family. They were tied by blood and memories. Lhamu and Mingma were both devout Buddhists, he’d watched them at the monastery at Thangboche and they would never hurt the Rinpoche. That only left one man. Tashi. But he seemed, of all of them, to have the strongest reasons to want to stop the Chinese, to punish them. Philip sighed, thoughtfully picking at flaking skin on his upper lip, and a realisation dawning. They only had Tashi’s word for what had happened all those years ago. Unlike everybody else, there was no one to corroborate his story.

  He looked up, hearing muffled whispers and saw Prem enter the room, his khukri drawn and flashing in the firelight. The Gurkha glanced around the room, taking everything in, and after acknowledging Philip kept his eyes fixed on the young monk at the main door, who shifted uncomfortably under his gaze.

  “The men are ready.”

  Philip nodded. “There are eighteen of them. We’ve seen two guards outside. They’re smoking so we should be able to take them out easily enough. There’re three more guarding the three dormitories on the far side of the courtyard. That leaves thirteen inside the main shrine. Two seem badly injured and several others are exhausted and asleep.” He ran his hand through his hair which had started itching in the warmth of the kitchen. “I guess that when they’re fed they’ll release the dogs and barricade themselves in for the night. We need to get to them before then.”