The Yeti

by Mike Miller

  Besides the three soldiers of Conrad, Baxter and Gregory, and their two associates of Douglas and Molor, the remainder of the expedition consisted of a pack of seven native Sherpas including Sek. These porters appeared as close as kin to one another both in their similar appearances and carefree demeanours. Unlike the Westerners who travelled in pensive silence, which was the partial result of fatigue from the restless journeying, the Asians engaged in lively chatter with frequent laughter from their obviously close camaraderie.

  At one point, the men began to sing a song together. Even though the rhythm to the chant had an odd cadence to the Englishmen, the melody was a spirited and uplifting tune that made even the dour Douglas happy for the entertainment.

  Gregory spurred his mare to the side of Sek and asked, “What are you singing?”

  Sek finished a lyric with his fellows then broke into a hearty chuckle. “It’s an old song about climbing the mountain.” The boisterous refrain was sung again with greater fervour, their loud voices echoing in the distance.

  When the men stopped laughing, Sek noticed Gregory curiously waiting an explanation. “We say:

  Up, up, up we climb

  Into the white sky

  If we live then we are happy

  Down, down, down we fall

  Into the black shadows

  If we die then we are not sad”

  Sek laughed heartily again, and Gregory did too. “That’s not very funny,” he confessed.

  “Maybe my translation is not so good,” Sek explained, though still smiling.

  It was not until the caravan later rounded a wide bend that a new view of the path ahead infected the group with breathless awe. The Asians paused in their giddy chatter, and the weary Westerners awoke with renewed vigour.

  Before the men sprawled a complete view of the mighty Himalayan peaks. Only short glimpses had been afforded the group so far, as the deepest vistas were only of the countryside behind and away from the mountains, back into the valley plains of India. But now the group rode onto a vast plateau, where the steep incline of rock no longer blocked their views of the mountainside.

  “Ha, there, see?” chortled Douglas. He held aloft his map from the head of the pack, flapping it about like a flag. “It’s the Three Brothers, they call them,” in obvious reference to the three vast points in the ridge ahead. He pointed to the bottom left corner as evidence where a rough zigzag marked his crude cartography. “Now, just because our destination is on the little of the three, make no mistake that it’ll be any less cold or arduous. Last chance to surrender and go home.” Douglas issued the remark aloud to the group, but directed his gaze in particular upon Baxter.

  Baxter ignored the comment, instead paying heed to the mesmerising spectacle of the Himalayans. Certainly he was no stranger to alpine weather and conditions, his campaigning in the army leading him atop many vast mountains. While he always preferred a warmer climate, Baxter had sojourned across many other winter summits, from his native Africa through parts of lower Europe. He recalled a nasty fortnight spent in a northern Afghani outpost where the evenings frequently fell to subzero temperatures. But there he could comfortably endure that bleak weather with the luxuries of modern housing. Though he himself had never been, many of his past colleagues enjoyed telling of the Swiss Alps’ dire cold and atmosphere, how the highest parts could strangle a man’s breath with an invisible force which compressed the lungs till they failed.

  But now Baxter could tell he was in the presence of something else, a mighty power that dwarfed anything he understood previously. The colours of life, vegetation and geology quickly vanished into the white oblivion of altitude. The smooth, rounded lines of the terrain broke into sharp, alien jags as they built up the tall mounds of rock. At the highest point of the highest mountain, the ground itself vanished from view behind a thick layer of clouds, the cap extending so high that it trespassed into the unseen heavens above the world.

  “Amazing,” cooed Gregory while unconsciously burying his slender body deeper into the cosiness of his thick coat.

  “Now the journey really begins,” laughed Conrad, humour which did not resonate with any of his lethargic colleagues. “Come, we’ve only another ten hours’ ride before nightfall.”

  “Only?” asked the naive Gregory, to which nobody responded. The men languidly trudged onwards.

  Chapter XV

  The Next Visitors

  In the afternoon sun, a warm patch of sunlight illuminated the tavern’s calm but gory aftermath. Any commotion in the tavern had died off, but the sombre veterans of the previous night’s brawl still lingered about in a tired malaise. The crowd remaining at this hour was divided between two groups: the spectators who had witnessed the fearsome fight from the sidelines, and several participants still nursing their wounds while drowning their stung pride with libations.

  The door swung open with force, the aged wood cracking against the stone wall to announce the arrival of a new challenger to the peace. The old innkeeper sighed heavily against his broom, wishing he had waited to sweep the floor if it was only about to get sullied with broken dishes and bloody teeth again.

  Colonel Snider walked through the door and was followed closely behind by his entourage of soldiers. The troop’s bright red uniforms may have been more of an eyesore to the sleepy men than the harsh rays of direct light from the sun at their backs.

  “Where is she?” barked Snider. Finnegan stood right by his commander’s side and motioned to the rear of the company with a beckoning glove. From their ranks emerged two young soldiers roughly escorting Sister Janice Dover, tugging her along by the upper arms. Her dainty feet flailed above the ground as she was levitated to Snider’s side.

  “Miss Dover, would you kindly inquire if anyone has seen our former companions?” Snider asked, studying each of the dreary and worn faces of the men in the parlour. “Do their descriptions justice, would you?”

  Janice looked contemptuously over to her captor. “Please,” he said stiffly, his tone filled more with menace than politeness.

  Her scraggly hair and drooping features indicated a tired weariness after a long ride. Her worn eyes checked Snider’s in one last silent appeal to disregard his instructions, but the unforgiving stare he returned permitted no misinterpretation or forgiveness.

  Janice cleared her throat then shouted a series of strange foreign words that effortlessly rolled off her tongue. The room remained silent as they listened to her pleas. Despite her being a woman with exotic beauty, many faces purposefully pointed away from her address, though a few pairs of curious pupils could be seen watching carefully from the corners of their eyes.

  When she had finished speaking, a door slammed in the corner which captured everyone’s attention. The noise came from the proprietor sealing himself off in a side room, past experience alerting him to seek the security of seclusion from an impending ruckus.

  After a significance silence, “I suppose they haven’t seen a thing,” Janice said impatiently.

  Snider surveyed the patrons to interrogate each supposedly innocent person for signs of deception. “They know,” Snider said unwaveringly. “Look at this carnage. We could see the smouldering ash from miles away. And I guarantee that a rummy like Murray could never pass by a mug of cheap swill without drinking himself half-blind.”

  Noticing the small band of men with bloody faces huddled in a corner, Snider ambled over towards their posse while his men followed closely behind. Chiksai and his gang eventually acknowledged the approaching strangers.

  “Him,” Snider said, pointing flippantly at the nearest man.

  Taking offense at the rudeness of the gesture, the fellow grumbled something under his breath as he slapped aside Snider’s offending finger.

  As the colonel’s right hand flew sideways from the blow, his left calmly raised the pistol from his holster and fired into the man’s forehead. A deafening bang, a cloud of smoke, and the man toppled backwards into a pool of his own blood.

  Th
e few who could comprehend what had just transpired were aghast at the murder, though many were still trying to put together what had happened.

  Chiksai flew to his feet to clutch Snider by the throat, while his other bandaged hand held a small dagger which rushed towards his target’s Adam’s apple.

  The blade stopped short of drawing blood as the muzzle of Finnegan’s bayonet flew just as quickly to Chiksai’s temple.

  The tired minds of the combatants were still working to comprehend the initial murder, and now struggled to realise that a new threat of blood was imminent with the standoff between the three men.

  Chiksai’s men jumped to their feet, their hands flashing down to the hilts of their weapons, while the British infantry readied their rifles with nervous anxiety.

  “Don’t,” cautioned Finnegan, his gun aimed at Chiksai’s brow.

  But Chiksai would not relent and kept his blade lightly pressed against Snider’s throat.

  “Translation please!” the colonel yelled while staring into the cold eyes of the Asian brute.

  Janice adopted a kindly tone as she pleaded with the man to lower his blade.

  In response, Chiksai growled a short sentence.

  Janice said, “He wants to know why you are looking for those white men.”

  “Tell him that I wish to destroy them,” Snider replied.

  Janice translated the sentence into the local dialect. The burly rogue’s stern mouth finally twitched with life, eventually bending upwards at the corners. He laughed heartily and retreated his weapon to sheath it at his waist.

  Snider’s hand lowered the barrel of Finnegan’s weapon. “Relax, sergeant,” he said, now grinning himself as the band of Asian thugs all began to jovially chuckle at the turn of events. “These are the good guys.”

  Chapter XVI

  The First Night of Camp

  The tired group of soldiers, bandits and Sherpas finally broke for camp to rest their weary horses at the final setting of the sun. After over a full day’s ride for the group of a dozen, even the staunchest man was eager for rest. Only Douglas feigned otherwise. “The cold of night is one thing, but we don’t want to fall off any cliffs in the dark. Otherwise, I could go all night.”

  While the porters went about their paid duties of preparing the sleeping quarters, campfire and provisions, Baxter pondered his next move. With a shrill whistle that was the pair’s personal calling, Baxter wordlessly summoned Conrad and ushered for the two to separate from the others.

  As the men wandered out of earshot from the crowd, Douglas took note of their secretive meeting and marked his displeasure with a wide sneer aimed directly at the two. Private Gregory alone noticed the inhuman expression of rage and was chilled by the sight.

  Conrad strolled up beside his friend whose stare was again fixed on the distant smoke trail. In the near blackness of night, the mark was still easily discernible. The plume now hung vertically in the air like an Indian conjurer’s piece of rope, a dark line that dissipated into a murky cloud in the upper atmosphere. Conrad looked out at the scene as well, the line halving the horizon, an unnatural sight which contrasted the white terrain of starlit snow.

  “Pretty, isn’t it?” Conrad said as if enjoying a painting in a museum.

  “When you asked prior, I was wrong not to speak my mind,” confessed Baxter in a non sequitur.

  Conrad shrugged indifferently. “No, you weren’t.”

  “Do you feel…” Baxter said slowly though his words emerged laboured and stilted even after careful selection, “bad at all about what happened back there?”

  “My knuckles are a bit bruised, and my arse may be a bit sore from the double-time hightail--”

  “That’s not what I meant,” said Baxter sombrely. He turned towards Conrad to better communicate a lack of patience for any silliness. “I mean remorseful. Guilty.”

  Caught unprepared for the inquiry, Conrad carefully considered his response. “I suppose you do.”

  “Indeed,” Baxter replied calmly. “The violence was unnecessary.”

  “Yet we’re so good at it.” Conrad chuckled, trying to dispel the tension with his pithy humour. When it failed, he cleared his throat and said, “You know I gave it my all with the ruse. It well could have succeeded without any bloodshed.”

  Baxter remained unfazed, still thoughtfully gazing out upon the wreckage far behind them.

  “Look,” Conrad adopting his most serious tone, “I do hope you didn’t think that there would be any blood spilled on this campaign. Why, that would be ridiculous.”

  “I honestly did not,” Baxter responded.

  “Baxter, man, you act like you’re an innocent who’s never killed anyone before,” Conrad said in astonishment. “What’s your tally, eh? Triple digits?”

  “I agreed to this, so that I wouldn’t have to kill anymore,” Baxter spit angrily. “To quit the business altogether.”

  “Look, when there’s highway robbery involved and an alliance with cold-blooded murderers--”

  Baxter interjected, “Oh, so is that what Douglas and Molor are? You could’ve said something--”

  “You didn’t have to come, damn it, I thought you--”

  The two men realised they were yelling at each other, which began to attract the attention of the others despite their space.

  “I thought you were ready to do this,” sighed Conrad.

  Baxter remained silent, exhausted from the day and even further from this disagreement.

  So Conrad continued, “I don’t know what you want me to say or do about it now. I’m sorry you feel this way, but I am not sorry about what has happened. I am not. It’s ends versus means here. So you know we’re doing this to make our lot a better one. I’m counting on you to do what needs doing.”

  Baxter sighed heavily, lamenting that he was indeed becoming weaker when the circumstances and conditions should only be making him stronger. “You don’t feel a thing about those unnecessary deaths back there?”

  “Unnecessary,” scoffed Conrad as he now began to grow irritated with Baxter’s unflappable line of questioning. He knew Baxter’s perseverance would not tire on this offense, so he knew it was time to resolve the issue. “No,” he answered bluntly. “I don’t. Like you I’ve sent many a man to the next world, even more than you. I suppose if they didn’t deserve it, they’d still be here then. But unlike you, I learned to silence the nagging conscience, the whispers of guilt, the echoes of remorse. Perhaps my only regret now is that my mate is going weak.”

  Conrad was beginning to pant at the speed and length of his tirade. His breath burst from his mouth in small balls of mist in the frigid air. “Regret will kill you,” Conrad snapped. “If I knew you hadn’t learned that lesson, I would not have invited you.”

  Baxter turned away as if he had not heard a single word Conrad had uttered. So Conrad began to indignantly march away, at least satisfied he had communicated his piece.

  “You don’t fool me,” Baxter said grimly, giving pause to Conrad’s exit. “I know you too, Conrad, and you not a soulless killer. I know the service has exhausted your threshold for death as well. That perhaps all this is just the reliable performance of a steely leader inspiring his man to victory.”

  Conrad did not dispute the charges.

  “But know this,” said Baxter. “Your old mate Douglas has opened up the old ways in you. I can tell. And Douglas is not like us. He is a man without honour, and that makes him not a man as well. I’ve known him for all of a day, and I know we should have nothing to do with him.”

  Conrad did not dispute this claim either. The defence of Douglas’ character from past exploits would start a war. “So what does that mean to me then?”

  “That if you don’t watch him, then I will. For the both of us. You’ve lost a step if you can’t see the threat he poses.” Baxter rose to his feet and marched past Conrad back to camp. The two exchanged bitter glances simmering with distrust as they passed. While the African trotted down the hill to camp, he never
once glanced back at the Englishman.

  Conrad sighed while staring plaintively off at the dark column of smoke still churning into the sky.

  Chapter XVII

  The Midnight Confrontation

  Even the way in which the African laid on the ground began to annoy Douglas. Baxter was turned on his side, blanket pulled to his neck, while his miserable black head protruded from the end like a bug squirming from its cocoon. If the man had any sense at all, he would have tucked his hideous face under the layers to keep it warm too. Douglas would have pitied the man if he didn’t despise him.

  As if Baxter could hear the vitriolic rage in Douglas’ thoughts, his eyes flashed open to find himself being studied by the disfigured man. Though caught spying, Douglas continued his unabashed staring. Baxter soon recognised the move for what it was, a tactic he had encountered dozens of times in his career: intimidation. Legions of men attempted that same look to scare Baxter, whose skin alone often invoked fear and anger within those ignorant souls. So upon that realisation, Baxter was determined not to flinch and stared right back into Douglas’ green eyes.

  The others all soundly slept, some snoring slightly as they dreamed. The smouldering fire crackled and popped. A light snowfall was the only thing moving throughout the landscape, which it did with absolute silence. So through the tiny dancing specks of white dust, the two men duelled in will power and fortitude.

  After a while, Douglas smiled and rose from his seat. The blankets fell away, and he stood nearly naked in the night, a thin shirt and pants his only garments while his bare limbs were exposed to the elements. “You look cold,” he said with a sinister smile. “You’re not used to this kind of weather, am I right?”