All at once, in this house at the far reaches of the world, the deep fatigue and stress accumulated over this long, long day pull her down into the earthen floor. Only this morning on the streets of Kathmandu, she never doubted she was on her way to meet Jeanne. Alive.
An accident? What accident?
Rana found Rachel in the small hotel on the outskirts of Kathmandu where Jeanne had asked her to wait for her. And waiting, that’s what Rachel had been doing. For days. Hiking the Himalayas around Kathmandu. Perhaps as far as the Helambu region, from where many a mountain guide hails. That had been the plan. Simple. But with Jeanne, the simplest thing always became convoluted. True. Afterward, the game was worth the candle. So, Rachel waited. This morning before dawn, the innkeeper rapped on her door. A man was asking for Miss Rachel. He was waiting in the dining room.
The man introduced himself as Rana. Jeanne had hired him to guide them on a few treks, perhaps in the Helambu, perhaps…
Yes, yes, Rachel knew the plan. Why…
Perhaps even as far as Base Camp at Sagarmāthā and…
Sagarmāthā?
Chomolungma. The many names of Mount Everest.
Yes, yes, Rachel knew that too, but. Chomo was not in the plan. Half-asleep, she feared she was missing important facts. Did Jeanne change their plan and now wanted to trek all the way to Base Camp? Rachel wasn’t in top shape for that kind of trekking.
Miss Rachel’s shape did not matter.
Maybe not to him, but it sure did to her. Why was her daffy cousin waiting outside and sending the guide to do the talking for her?
Jeanne was in his native village of Borlang Bhanjyang…
Where was Bor-jyang?
In the mountains. A few hours’ walk from here.
What was she doing in the mountains? They were supposed to go in the mountains together. Why the change of plan? This was maddening.
So, too, was it for Rana, apparently, who tried to stay focused.
So, what was Rachel supposed to do?
Miss Rachel had to come right away.
Right this minute? It was still night.
Please, Miss Rachel.
Okay okay, would the guide give her a minute? She must get her pack, gather her things, gather her thoughts, forget nothing. She hurried back upstairs. Damn damn damn Jeanne! Rachel hated rushed departure.
When she came back down, fully loaded and in a foul mood, Rana held the door for her. She felt bad. Why take it out on him? She relaxed her face and that’s when he told her.
There was an accident.
An accident? What accident?
Woodsmoke in her eyes. Woodsmoke in her lungs. Words spoken low in a tongue Rachel does not understand. Darkness compressing against bones. Behind her back, Jeanne. Dead. Jeanne’s mother and Rachel’s father, sister and brother in love with the world and who died in the world, somewhere not far from here. The cousins’ growing years, punctuated by the unimaginable parental vanishing act. The act connecting the two girls beyond blood alone. The endless speculations. The fairy tale returns. The heroic rescue missions they would mount. And then, the call of the mountains. The same lure that took Jeanne’s mother, that captured Rachel’s father. The girls learned mountaineering, so that one day, they would find, what? A long time ago, Rachel stopped believing the unbelievable. Not so Jeanne. Oh, yes. She knew her mother was beyond rescue. But whereas the endless game of questions and answers no longer mattered to Rachel, Jeanne had never given up the need to know what how why. And where. So, here they came, under the pretence of a trekking trip, to discover at last some kind of an answer. And tonight, so close and forever too far, nothing will get resolved. Rachel, alone somewhere in the world, alone with her memories and her burns. Alone with the burden of a very old fatigue. And no one with whom to share any of it. No one. There was only Jeanne. Rachel closes her teary eyes and holds her fitful breath against that woodsmoke.
In Kathmandu this morning, after thunderstorms and torrential rain, the sky was clear and the cleansed air smelling of wet earth. The sun was still low between the quiet houses, but the light presaged a fresh beginning.
Rana guides Rachel to Sundarijal, a village on the other side of the valley where they will reach the trailhead and climb into the Kathmandu foothills. For now, a road crosses rice fields through which a soft wind runs, bending the young green shoots of the second planting.
In the countryside, daily activities have begun. The regular sound of a water pump. Hand threshing. From wide bamboo sieves, women throw grains into the air, the straw falling back on them in a gold rain. On the ground, red chilies drying in the sun fill the air with their sweet scent and their sharp capsicum sting.
Compared to Rana, used to tramp up and down his vertical land, Rachel walks slowly, only beginning to reacquaint herself with her mountaineer’s legs, the practice abandoned for all the wrong reasons. Work, daily life, but mainly because Jeanne had been away too long and Rachel was not very good at prompting herself, she explains to the guide who shows no sign of impatience. He slows down his pace, waits for her, is vague when, a little out of breath, she asks him about the accident. How serious could it be? With Jeanne, one never knows what to expect. As if there were no urgency, and perhaps there is none, they stop for chai at the local stall. They unload themselves of their burden, Rachel her backpack, Rana a huge basket that he carries on his back held by a strap slung across his forehead.
Rana sips the spiced tea and talks softly: Family, it is the link with the earth. It is the natal land, something above one’s own life. We can rely on family, lean on family. In our houses in the evenings when the family gathers around the fire, it is the sweetest moment of the day. But families are beginning to fall apart. Even here in Nepal where the tie has always been strong. Young people like myself leave to see the world, to live their own lives. Friends become more important. Even when the friendships don’t last. Family though. Even when it is far away, family remains the tie that stretches beyond mountains. Beyond cities, beyond ambitions. On the other hand, we don’t choose our family. If we come from a bad family, we can’t disavow it, we can’t cut the tie completely. Friends, we can choose. For good or for bad, friendship gives you more control. Let’s go. It’s getting late.
After the spill of words, Rana keeps quiet, except for the business of the trek. And the climb begins.
In sections of the trail, Rachel slips in thick mud, in others, she twists her ankles on the rocky ground, the soil washed away during weeks of monsoon. The elevation gain is gradual, and relentless. A vice squeezes her lungs and she must stop often, bending over in an attempt to loosen up her diaphragm. Rana waits for her to catch her breath.
The trail climbs up, Rachel’s thigh muscles tense up, her mind runs away from her, eager to assess the distance still to cover, her eyes fix the tip of her boots, her mouth counts steps. Eventually, like all highs, this slope will level off.
After three hours, the trekker and her guide reach a small plateau supporting two houses. Terraced paddy fields surround the modest dwellings.
Borlang Bhanjyang?
Rana shakes his head, pointing at infinity, not interrupting his walk uphill.
Rachel’s blood is boiling, swelling the veins on her hands, making sausages of her fingers. She is dripping with sweat. As soon as a hill rises to hide the sun, she shivers in the humid air. To catch up to Rana, she takes off her boots and cuts across the paddy fields. The lukewarm water cools her down. She is dreaming of a slow swim in one of the lakes in the Laurentians of home. She and Jeanne. Kids on holiday, splashing each other under the gentle but watchful eye of Rachel’s widowed mother. Then she sees her guide crouching on a rock, his knees in his armpits, gesticulating and laughing.
She takes heart from his bonhomie, only to notice, back on dry ground, that her feet are covered with leeches. Rana removes the annelids and she wipes her bloody feet. As she laces her boots, the sun sets below the jagged horizon. Although the sky is still full of light, dusk darkens the fo
rest. They must hurry.
To Rachel’s relief, the trail goes down toward a valley. Soon, in a forest of rhododendrons, the ground becomes steep again. How did Jeanne react to this land? Knowing her cousin, the bigger the challenge the louder she’d trumpet her enjoyment. Make yourself tough, Rach. That, Jeanne’s mantra to Rachel from their childhood on. Did tough Jeanne break a leg, too much in a hurry? Here, what was her rush? Ahead, Rana is still walking simply, steadily, as if on flat ground, not even bothered by the basket heavy with supplies that he has been carrying since departure this morning.
As soon as the trail levels off again, Rachel removes her pack and sits on a rock, trying to control her breathing and the shaking in her calf muscles. Evening is fast falling and Borlang lies at the edge of the world. She resumes the trek, emptying her mind of all thoughts, fixing her eyes on nothing.
In the sky, the greying of daylight deepens. With many gestures, Rana encourages his client to keep moving. They are almost there.
How long?
Only one hour.
One hour!
Low clouds have entered the forest. Despite the altitude, the jungle damp is oppressive. Between patches of fog, rotting fallen trees are covered with thick moss hanging off the logs.
At this hour between dog and wolf, between tiger and yeti, in this land between sky and equator, with utter exhaustion in her muscles and dangerous impatience in her heart, the phantasmagoria unfolding could easily throw Rachel over the edge. She touches the old scar across her forehead, the thin white line, testimony to childhood games, invariably of Jeanne’s invention.
Tripping over her boots, she walks to ward off small fears. The closer she gets to be reunited with her cousin, the more she convinces herself it was a mistake to have accepted her invitation. The slope is so steep, she smells the earth, the acrid wet soil teeming with countless bacteria decomposing. Everything.
The more she walks, the longer the trail. Her clothes are soaked through and she can’t stop shivering. In the darkness now engulfing the forest, she loses the trail just as the ground becomes horizontal. She emerges on another treeless plateau, Rana out of sight. From this clearing, she watches the horizon reddened by the setting sun, the bank of clouds hiding the big peaks, though she senses their imposing presence. She can almost taste the faraway snow. Rana calls her from the other side of the trees. She runs to join him.
In the dark, the trail manifests itself again. Rachel re-enters the forest. Soon, she reaches a rise. Borlang. Five low-slung houses made of mud bricks and stone line both sides of the trail, the trail that goes on to the next hamlet. Borlang Bhanjyang, civilization, the refuge against night terrors. The place where Rachel will be reunited with Jeanne.
Water is boiling over the tiny fire. A lit cigarette between her lips, eyes half-closed against the smoke, the woman throws loose tea leaves into a dented pot. Pours boiling water over the leaves. Gives Rachel a glass of sweetened tea. The scalding brew brings on a sigh of pleasure to the trekker depleted of energy.
The tea erases fatigue, not her loss. The sugar relaxes her smashed muscles, not the stiff stillness of her cousin. She forgets the muddy trail washed away by monsoon rains, the bloodsuckers latched on to her feet, not Jeanne’s broken body already decomposing under the fresh wildflowers. She sips her tea and suppresses a sob.
The woman prepares chapatis. Mixes flour and water. Kneads the dough. Shapes a thin disk between her palms. Stokes up the fire by blowing in the hollow of a length of bamboo. Cooks the bread on an iron griddle. Chats in a low voice with Rana and her younger son. Drops the flat bread in the embers until the dough blisters.
Rachel slowly chews on the warm chapati. By the fire, familiar gestures protect her from night and darkness surrounding the house, from shapes undefined but alive. What were you looking for out there, Jeanne?
Jeanne had called Rachel. Three notes played on a reed flute. As always, Rachel answered the call. And here they are, both cousins reunited in this place where hot embers are preciously kept alive for everyone to share. A cluster of mud houses perched at the edge of breathable air. Jeanne and Rachel no longer playing the game of rescue, the game of being benighted in the mountains where their parents disappeared. They are here at last. In the middle of the Himalayas. A flute played, the scent of flowers wafting from a cadaver, Jeanne no longer directing the game. Jeanne’s heavy presence latching on to Rachel’s spine.
For the hundredth time, the Nepalese woman ensures the window is securely latched. To keep the yeti from abducting woman or child or the deceased and carrying them away. Followed by the boy, the woman climbs the wooden stairs that squeak in the dark. Rana rests his hand on Rachel’s shoulder, bidding her goodnight before disappearing behind his little brother.
Woodsmoke. The mud house is full of smoke, smoke that sticks to the skin, to the hair, smoke that stings the eyes, chokes the lungs, smoke that embeds itself in clothing. And at dawn, Rachel will carry the smoke with her.
The yeti has not come back. The flute plays its funeral chant from mountain to mountain. Rachel lies down on the straw mat. Beside her, Jeanne sleeps.
I was always a little jealous of your daredevil ways, Jeanne. For a long time, I tried to emulate you, to catch the excitement you generated and make it my own. It never worked. I was not you. You remember at fourteen when you disappeared from our house? At last, I could breathe. Without you around to challenge me, I could go back to my habitual nonchalance. Over time, you came back, of course, but never to stay long. You caught me in your wake, and that was fun, because I knew it wouldn’t last. And tonight, here we are. You called me back after more years of silence. And this time, you came out of your absence with your biggest daredevil scheme yet. And here I am to claim your body at the far end of the world, and in your death, Jeanne, you are more powerful than when you were alive.
I caught our parents’ disease, Rachel. So consumed with exploration that I forgot to look in my own backyard. I so wanted to hold the world in one grasp, in its entirety, that anything nearby, anything inside me simply faded away. In the end, I saw nothing. I left my native soil and I’m far from the promised land. I left to chase an imaginary goose and I died alone, at the foot of a strange mountain, torn by my inner yeti. That is what you would like to believe, isn’t it, Rach? True. I fenced you off inside a childhood in which I didn’t let you speak. Jeanne the Great, queen of the game. In the end though, you’re the one who must have been right since you are alive and I am not.
You, dead. I can’t believe it. Maybe, you never existed, Jeanne. Always so full of extraordinary stories that only happened to you. While I never had anything much to tell other than my life, too dull to shine beside jeannesque adventures. When you disappeared from our house, I went to your bedroom daily. Such an empty room without you. It was glacial. I started doubting everything about you. After a few days, I became accustomed to your absence and I began to believe you had been nothing more than a figment of my imagination. My imaginary cousin, the enchanting one. Even your bed still bearing the imprint of your body on the sheet, of your head on the pillow was an illusion. And now, you reappear for the grand finale, resting on another kind of bed, calling me from deepest Asia. What story are you about to tell me?
In the dark, Rachel locates the metal trunk. In her backpack, she searches for a candle and lights it. The pale trembling halo causes the shape under the layers of fabric to appear gigantic. Rachel opens the trunk. Cans of films and audio recordings, snapshots, helter-skelter. Also, a portable tape recorder. She presses play. The batteries still have power.
The sound of a stream. Children playing, shouting. Jeanne’s voice rises in the foreground, announcing that she is interviewing an old Tibetan man whose name escapes Rachel, from a village, the name of which Rachel doesn’t quite catch.
Did you know Colette and Albert Boutin? They were sister and brother. Explorers.
I knew them well. They came here in 1962. I was a young man then. They hired me as their guide and interpreter
. They came to film village life before the old ways disappeared. They are gone, but the old customs live on despite the occupation of our land by the Mandarins. The man chuckles. We are too remote even for the Chinese lords to reach us. I will give you the documents Colette and Albert made about us. It is only fair. You should have them. They may also bear witness to our past, should the Chinese decide to take an interest in us.
Where are the Boutins now? Where is Colette?
Oh, they died. A long, long time ago. You said she was your mother, Colette? She was a kind soul. I feel for you, Miss Jeanne.
How did she die?
She fell into a crevasse. When we found her, she was still alive. She died two days later. We did what we could. Too much cold had entered her heart. So very sorry.
And Albert? My mother’s brother? Albert was my cousin’s dad. She’ll want to know.
Ah, yes, Albert. He was pretty high on chang, our local beer. We will have some later. It makes you gay and carefree. But Albert, he was so very sad. He told us, he drank to drown sadness. The more he drank, the sadder he became. He was broken by his sister’s death. Your mother, you say? So very sorry. The next day, Albert said he needed to walk to sort himself out. He got lost in a snowstorm.
Where did you bury Colette?
Here, Miss Jeanne, we only bury two kinds of people. Those who died of a contagious disease and criminals.
So, you cremate the dead?
We do. But here in Tibet, cremation is reserved for learned monks and for persons of high rank. And water burial is for the very poor and beggars and widows and widowers.
Then, how did you… dispose of my mother’s body?
We gave Colette the same funeral as for the majority of people. Her soul was properly released in a celestial burial.
What is that? A celestial burial?
We gave her body to the vultures.
Cut interview. Jeanne is doing a voice-over.
After my interview with the old guide, I shot and witnessed funerals similar to the one they gave my mother. A celestial burial. The rite of the vultures. I can’t remain impartial in this research. My mother given to the vultures. After the wake by family members, which lasts five days, the undertaker carries on his back the corpse wrapped in a phula, a wool blanket, to a place where he will dispose of the body. Looking up, we see vultures waiting some ways off, with respect, it seems. A family member must stay to the end of the ritual. I believe Albert was the witness to the carving of my mother’s body and to it being fed to the vultures that are sacred creatures here in Tibet.
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