Jake Atlas and the Quest for the Crystal Mountain

by Rob Lloyd Jones

  For several seconds, I heard nothing other than the frantic beating of my own heart. Finally, I let my breath go in a gasp. Then I heard another noise. More scrabbling, more rocks tumbling. Was it coming back?

  God, please, no. Please, just go away.

  “Man… ted…”

  But… That definitely sounded human. Broken bits of words, cries half-drowned by stone. I heard feet scuffing around the surface, the clatter of rocks being pulled away.

  “Manchester United!”

  “Tenzin!” I croaked. “Tenzin, I’m down here!”

  “Manchester United!”

  Spears of moonlight pierced the gaps, stinging my eyes after so long in the dark. Squinting, I glimpsed the boy monk in silhouette, frantically heaving at rocks as he battled to reach me.

  “Manchester United. I am coming.”

  I must have gasped a hundred thank yous as he freed my limbs, and then a hundred as he helped me out. I knew I looked a total mess: my eyes red and streaked with tears, my lip swollen and nose bleeding. Tears in my shirt and trousers revealed cuts all over me, but still Tenzin grinned as he lifted me up.

  I wrapped him in a feeble hug – partly for the support, but also out of pure gratitude. “Thank you, Tenzin,” I groaned.

  He’d torn some of his robe to make a bandage for his head, but blood from the cut had seeped through and oozed down his cheek. He wasn’t smiling any more – his face was lit with sweat, and his toothy grin had been replaced by something more like confusion, or fear. His eyebrows were sunken and the lines of a much older person creased his forehead.

  “You saved me also, Manchester United.”

  I knew what he meant; I’d gone back to rescue him on the ledge. But that had just been instinct; anyone would have done that. Tenzin had come looking for me.

  I hugged him again, and I think I might have cried. I was embarrassing him now, so I sat on the rocks and gazed around the remains of Yerpa Gompa: shattered chamber walls, fragments of banners, and bronze Buddha statues bent and twisted by the rockfall.

  “The monks,” Tenzin explained, “they go.”

  He pointed upwards, and I guessed he meant somewhere over the mountain. “Your family,” he said. “They with the monks.”

  I was relieved, but the more I thought about it, the less it made sense. Why hadn’t they come back to find me? Tenzin had seen them escaping, but did he see them escape? The only reason my family wouldn’t come back would be because they couldn’t come back. They couldn’t have been killed; they’d been too high up the mountain to be buried in the avalanche. But … had my family been caught?

  23

  We scrabbled around the mountainside until the sun began to rise over the valley. We hauled rocks, called out names, and shone my smart-goggles’ torch between gaps, making sure no one else was trapped in the avalanche. Tenzin kept insisting that everyone escaped, but I had to be sure.

  Exhausted, we sat watching morning tease its way over the ridges. A Himalayan vulture swept silent circles over our heads.

  We’d been working so hard that I hadn’t felt the chill. Now it stung my fingers and crept up my arms, which began to shake. Maybe it was shock too, but soon my whole body was shuddering.

  Tenzin didn’t seem to notice the cold at all. He’d gone silent since we stopped searching for survivors, and sat staring across the debris of the avalanche. He kept shifting so I couldn’t see his face, and wiping his eyes and nose with torn ends of his robe. I found a flask of water amid the rubble and offered him some, but he shook his head and turned away.

  “What’s up?” I asked.

  He looked at me, his eyes watering as he struggled to find an answer.

  “What’s up?” he said, finally. “Many monks spend whole lives here at Yerpa Gompa. It is big tragedy.”

  Oh! He was upset about that. But no one had died, and they were just small buildings. “Can’t you join another monastery?” I asked.

  “They are not this one. I feel like my heart is gone.”

  That seemed over the top, but he was obviously upset, so I didn’t reply. His eyes rippled, dawn reflecting in tears as he stared across the valley.

  “Why did you do this?” he said.

  “It wasn’t me, Tenzin. It was one of the hunters.”

  I felt bad for him, but I needed to focus on my family. I had to assume they’d been caught. That meant I had to reach Mount Kailas more than ever. If I could find the Hall of Records, if that’s where the Drak Terma led, I could use it as a bargaining chip to free my parents and sister. Without it, I had nothing. There was no time to rest or worry about the cold. I had to get to the Crystal Mountain, even if it meant hobbling there on battered legs.

  I grabbed a blanket from the ruins, tied it into a sack and stuffed it with whatever seemed useful – a shawl, a broken lantern, a woollen hat.

  “We need equipment,” I muttered. “Tenzin, did you have a satellite radio, GPS positioning or anything like that?”

  He stared at me, baffled, then picked something up from the rubble.

  “Yak butter candle?”

  I smiled, realizing I was being silly. Of course the monks didn’t have that high-tech kit. I was so keen to get moving, I wasn’t thinking properly.

  “Tenzin, I need your help.”

  “Yes. I will guide you back to Lhasa.”

  “No, not Lhasa. I have to reach Mount Kailas.”

  Something like a smile creased the corners of his mouth, but he didn’t look happy. He gazed back to the valley as the wide-winged griffon continued its slow sweep across the dawn.

  “No, Manchester United. It is against my religion to help you enter that mountain. And you cannot without the Drak Terma.”

  Should I tell him that I had found the Drak Terma and photographed it? Those Sanskrit words carved on the cave floor… Reaching Kailas was pointless unless someone could translate them for me so I knew where to look for the Hall of Records. I was fairly sure Tenzin could read it, but then he’d know I had broken my promise to his lama, and he’d never help me. I had to find someone else to read the terma.

  It looked like I was going by myself. I’d never felt so determined to reach any place in my life, or less prepared for the journey. The GPS on my smart-goggles was broken, and I’d need to find food, transport, new clothes. No one knew I was heading to Kailas, and only I had the Drak Terma, but the mountains would be swarming with bounty hunters looking for me. And was something else out there too? I’d tried not to think about it, to focus on the real problems, but I couldn’t forget the sound of bare feet over rock, the grunts and the sniffs, and the ice-cold terror of knowing that whatever it was, it was looking for me…

  Even my mum had looked uncertain when the lama warned us of the guardian of Mount Kailas. Maybe it was just a story, maybe not, but it didn’t really make a difference. My family might be in danger, so I had to reach Kailas no matter how many monsters, hunters or mercenaries were in the way.

  I was about to set off, when Tenzin jumped up and marched off down the mountain.

  “Where are you going?” I called.

  “To Kailas,” he replied.

  I scrambled after him, stumbling in my rush to catch up. Was he going to help me after all?

  “That’s amazing. Thank you, Tenzin.”

  He kept walking, springing from rock to rock like a goat.

  “No,” he called. “I go alone.”

  “But… What?”

  “There is something important there for me also.”

  “You mean on the mountain?”

  “No. No one climbs the Crystal Mountain. The thing I seek is close to it, at the bottom.”

  “Wait! Tenzin, just stop, will you?”

  He did, finally, but when I caught up I was so out of breath I could barely get the words out. “What are you looking for?” I wheezed.

  “A chorten.”

  “Chorten? You mean a memorial marker?”

  “Yes. A special chorten that honours the holy man who b
uilt this monastery. I must pray at this place for permission to rebuild Yerpa Gompa.”

  Hang on, this was interesting! Tenzin was going exactly where I needed to go. I could tag along and find someone to read the Drak Terma along the way.

  “Wait,” I called, catching up again. “You’re right, Tenzin. I can’t climb Kailas without the Drak Terma, and that’s now destroyed under these rocks. So my mission is over. I promised myself that when it ended I would help you rebuild this place, so I’m coming with you.”

  “No, you are lying.”

  “I’m not! This was my fault and I want to make up for it. And I have nowhere else to go. I won’t survive out here without your help, you know that. You can’t leave me to die. I thought monks were all about helping people?”

  He stopped, and sighed. “You promise you only come to help?”

  I swallowed, and crossed fingers in my mind. “I promise. I know that doesn’t sound like much considering what happened, but I’ll come with you and I’ll help you rebuild the monastery.”

  “That is only reason you come?”

  “The only reason.”

  “Then come, if you can.”

  “If I can?”

  He set off again, and finally his smile returned. “It is long walk and you have weak legs.”

  Look, it was just a little lie. I really did want to help Tenzin. I would find his chorten with him and help rebuild his home. But that would have to come after everything else – translating the Drak Terma, using it to find the Hall of Records and saving my family.

  A pang of guilt stabbed my insides as I set off after him over the rocks again, but I ignored it. I had nothing to feel bad about; I was doing what I had to do, and that was that.

  24

  If everything went our way, if the weather was on our side, if we found food and shelter and avoided altitude sickness, dodged police and army checks, and who knew how many professional hunters lurking in the mountains and hoping to claim the reward on my head, it would be a six-day hike to Mount Kailas. So, really, we had no idea how long this journey would take.

  At first we walked in silence, sticking to the edges of the valleys to avoid the tough mountain climbs. But eventually each valley closed in and there was no way onwards without going up. For the first five hours Tenzin spoke only in grunts and gestures, warning me of loose rocks. He’d indicated our route with his hands – up and over, up and over, crossing the valleys like a dinghy struggling against waves. It was the fastest and most direct path across the Tibetan plateau, but also the toughest – a relentless slog from one climb to the next.

  From the top of the first pass we saw the mountains we were headed towards: gleaming pinnacles that looked impossibly high. I asked Tenzin which was Kailas, but he still wasn’t talking to me, and merely began trudging downhill.

  It was tough to keep up. Tenzin lived in these mountains, so his legs were used to climbing, and his lungs used to the altitude. He was skinnier than me, but his stamina and strength were incredible. After that first climb I felt like I had nothing left, that I’d struggle to make it even to the next valley.

  It wasn’t just the steepness of the hills. The altitude meant my body was getting less oxygen, and I ached all over. One of my knees had puffed up, and I wondered if I’d broken a rib, because each time I breathed in, it felt like a gorilla was punching me in the chest.

  That first morning of the hike was the hardest thing I’d ever experienced. I’d thought I was fit, but nothing had prepared me for those hills. Halfway to the second pass, both of my legs went rubbery, like they were made from putty, and I collapsed. Tenzin waited while I massaged my thighs to bring them back to life. I guess he saw the worry in my face, because the third time I dropped he trudged back to help. He crouched beside me and gestured for me to stop rubbing my legs.

  He stared for a moment at my thighs, and suddenly punched both of them incredibly hard. I shot up, crying out from shock more than pain, but, amazingly, it worked.

  “Was that a special Tibetan technique?” I asked as he helped me stand.

  “No.”

  “Oh. So it was something you were taught?”

  “No.”

  We kept going, up green-grey craggy slopes and across valleys where nothing seemed to live. We walked for an hour, rested for ten minutes, and walked again. I’d not forgotten that we were being hunted, but I just focused on surviving. The valleys were so still that I felt sure we’d spot any danger. Really, treasure hunters could be hiding anywhere. The stillness and silence of this place just made us easy to spot.

  But I did think I saw something. Maybe I was just paranoid, or maybe it was exhaustion, but two or three times, as I scanned the steep valley sides, I swear I saw movement among the rocks – something sinking out of sight. I shoved my smart-goggles on and studied the landscape.

  “Do you see something, Manchester United?”

  What could I say? If it was a hunter, why hadn’t they attacked? If it wasn’t, well, that made even less sense. I slid my smart-goggles back into my pocket. “Nothing,” I mumbled. “Let’s keep going.”

  We’d been hiking for half a day when we came across the first proper signs of life – a camp at the edge of a valley. It was just one tent, black and rectangular and supported by guy ropes fixed to wooden stakes. But it looked creepy and military and suspicious.

  “Could be the People of the Snake,” I whispered.

  Tenzin looked at me like I was an idiot. “That is yak wool tent. Tibetan farmer’s home.”

  “Oh. Right.”

  I didn’t want to be seen by anyone, even a farmer, but we needed supplies. I slid on my smart-goggles, set them to zoom and studied the camp. I spotted plastic containers with water, strips of meat drying on frames and washing on lines. My mind went into that zone again, seeking opportunities and making plans…

  “Right,” I said. “We need to steal food, water and clothes. So we’ll need a distraction. Tenzin, if you can reach those rocks across the hill and cause them to tumble down to—”

  “I just go and ask.”

  Before I could protest, Tenzin was strolling down to the yak camp.

  I watched him approach, terrified that he’d been wrong and this was a hunter in disguise. I was about to yell to him, when one of the farmers emerged from the tent. There were a lot of smiles and back slaps, and some kids came out and hugged Tenzin, and they all sang a little song. The farmer gave him coats and clothes, containers with food and flasks of drink, and Tenzin struggled to carry it all back up the hill.

  He plonked it down, and for the first time since his monastery was destroyed, his eyes lit up.

  “Now we have supplies.”

  “Great job!” I replied. “Lucky you knew that farmer.”

  He looked confused. “I didn’t.”

  We rested by a boulder and tucked into some of the food; chewy yak meat jerky and tsampa bread that was so hard I could have swapped it for one of the rocks and not known the difference. We slurped soup from one of the flasks, passing it back and forth and grinning as it dribbled down our chins. I even downed some yak butter tea. We were careful not to scoff everything – those supplies might have to last a while.

  The real score from the farmer, though, was the clothes. I got rid of my torn hiking trousers and top and replaced them with baggy Tibetan pants, a yak-wool shirt and a sheepskin chuba tunic that was heavy but warm. It was a great disguise too. Now I looked like a local.

  We stored the rest of the supplies in rag-bundles over our backs and continued on the trek. I won’t go on about how hard it was – just take my word that it was. But I was determined to keep moving; I didn’t want to waste any time at all. Even so, it didn’t seem like we were making any dent in the distance. Each time we summited a pass, Kailas seemed just as far away.

  I knew it was my fault – without me Tenzin could get up and down the valleys at twice the speed – but it didn’t help that he stopped so often. He stopped to pray each time we passed a chorten, a
nd paused to chant at every prayer flag. It was so frustrating. I wanted to respect his religion, but did he really have to do it so much? The worst was coming across bronze prayer wheels built into a hillside. Those delayed us for ages as he marched back and forth, spinning the drums and chanting Om Mani Padme Hum. It was infuriating! How many sins could a twelve-year-old monk have committed?

  With each exhausting mile I grew more convinced that we needed another way to reach Kailas. We were still a five-day trek away at a good pace – and we were definitely not going at a good pace.

  Our chance came late that day as a vicious chill crept along the valley and my breath began to come in frosty clouds. I think it might have been our seventh pass, and it revealed a wide view of the valley below. A road cut across the bottom of the hill, with a three-wheeled truck parked at its side. Two farmers were tossing animal hides from a wooden storehouse into the truck’s open-back trailer.

  “Yak-hide smugglers,” Tenzin muttered disapprovingly. “These men kill yaks for their leather, which gets good price outside Tibet.”

  “Smuggle?” I sensed an opportunity. “To where?”

  “West, to India.”

  “You mean the direction we need to go?”

  “Yes, that way.”

  “Tenzin, are you ready to run?”

  “Run, Manchester United?”

  “We need to get in the back of that truck.”

  “No, Manchester United. These men criminals. It is against my religion.”

  Everything was against his religion, but we had to get in that vehicle. It was a perfect way to rest, travel and stay hidden.

  “I’m going, Tenzin. Are you coming?”

  “Please, we can—”

  I didn’t hear his suggestion; I was already running. My eyes flicked between the smugglers and the ground, I was careful not to dislodge any stones that would warn them of my approach. I stopped around thirty metres away and hid behind a rise of rocks, waiting to make a break for the truck. A few seconds later, Tenzin scrambled beside me. I wanted to reassure him that I’d done stuff like this before, but there was no time. The smugglers tossed the last of the hides into the trailer, and both men climbed into the driver’s cab.