by Talbot Mundy
“Turn your head a moment. Look straight at me.”
“Well?”
“I’m glad it will be difficult. I’m not the least bit afraid.”
“Sure, I know you’re game. You don’t have to persuade me of that”
“You are talking about someone I once was, Andrew. You don’t know me. I’m not the same person. But I’m thanking the same Andrew for the—”
He laughed. “You haven’t changed much. Let’s get going!”
So the journey began, in silence, in single file, toward the Roof of the World, where Tom Grayne, in a cavern — seven hundred miles away as wild swans fly it — expected news and supplies — but not his young wife. The mountains grew dark in the sunset. The ponies neighed at the scent of snow on the wind from their sky-high home.
PART TWO
CHAPTER 27
Clouds rolled up from the Tibetan valley. They smothered mountains that have no names, that are only numbers on the bewildering map.
“Typical Tibetan spring,” said Andrew. He sat down opposite Elsa, on a rock in the lee of a ledge that broke the wind. He had a can of salmon in his hand; he was almost too tired to open it. Four of the afternoon. Ten below zero. Five days out from the Sikkim frontier. Ponies all in. But the summit was far aloft and behind. There remained only about three thousand slippery feet to descend into the valley. Even then, they would be twelve thousand feet above sea level; but there would be only two days of hard marching to reach food for the ponies, that were now munching their last ration but one.
“We’re in Tibet!” said Elsa. “We’ve made it! Better than Hannibal! He lost elephants crossing the Alps. We haven’t lost a pony, nor even a load!”
Andrew opened the salmon and passed it to her.
“There’ll be bad going tomorrow.”
Then he hove himself to his feet like a prize fighter coming out of his corner for the last round. He went for another look at the ponies, to make sure the Tibetans weren’t stealing the grain: even Bompo Tsering couldn’t be trusted not to do that, not though the men had double rations of barley bread, sugar and fat bacon.
Elsa made the bivouac comfortable — blankets in the lee of the rock, on a waterproof sheet, in a sort of cave made by the piled loads. One candle in a windproof lantern. One can of Sterno, in a folding stove that Andrew had invented and got made in Darjeeling. Two narrow air mattresses. Pillows. A couple of books.
Andrew returned along the ledge with some Tibetans to help stretch a tent over the loads, weighting it down with rocks. All the comforts of home. Nothing to do but crawl in and wait for tomorrow. But he went back along the ledge once more to make sure that the Tibetans had enough Sterno to stew their eternal tea. Elsa, in a streaming cloud, near the edge of an invisible cliff between earth and sky, with singing ears and thumping heart, set down the salmon and waited, thinking. Thoughts weren’t the same as at sea level, nor even as at Darjeeling. Since Gombaria’s monastery they weren’t anything like the same. She tried to find a name for the difference. She couldn’t. No word was good enough.
The first night out there had been plenty of fuel and a real meal, in a gully beside a roaring waterfall, with two pup tents, privacy and the excitement of a possible pursuit. After that, when the awful ascent began, physical peril had banished all but the essentials, as it always does. Convention went downwind, along with the echoes of falling rocks. Past personal history became a distant dream. The only poignant memory was of a dog, at home in England. Was he being cared for? To save time and the labor of repacking at daybreak, she and Andrew had shared even the same blankets, for the sake of the doubled warmth. They had said nothing about it, they had simply done it, too exhausted when night came to crave anything but sleep. Too breathless, at those sky-high altitudes, to talk. Too tired to dream.
All the same, sleeping with him was an experience. Perhaps it was something to be proud of, meaning that Andrew took her self-respect and common sense for granted. He had done the natural, sensible thing, as he always did. Nevertheless, she had not snuggled in beside him without wondering what he was thinking about, and how would he behave toward a woman he loved. No woman could suspect him of being a passionless man. What sort would she be, whom Andrew would some day love? Elsa had no feeling of friendship toward that supposititious female — so little that she actually laughed at herself. Jealous?
She wouldn’t have dared to mention the subject of sex, even now, at a lower altitude, where conversation was possible and nerves were less jumpy. Andrew was under a terrific strain, so concentrated on the almost superhuman task that an ill-chosen phrase might bring down on her, like an avalanche, one of his storms of temper. Those were rare, but terrible. She had witnessed one, months ago, loosed on a grafting Tibetan official, who ran for his life. And she had experienced one, loosed on herself. It had come, like the Himalayan wind, from beneath the cloud that always screened Andrew’s inner thought so that she couldn’t read it. She couldn’t even remember what she had said that angered him; it was a chance remark, without special motive, something about Tom Grayne, not meant unkindly; but it had touched off Andrew’s rage against mental cruelty and mean insinuation. He appeared to think physical cruelty — even its worst forms — much less damnable than mental injustice. It had been hours later before he seasoned a manly apology with the remark that it was only from his friends that he expected fairness.
“I don’t give a whoop in hell what the rest of ’em think. That’s their business. But friends should think well of each other. Say what you like to a friend. But don’t speak ill of him behind his back. That’s treachery.”
So she had known, all these months, that she rated as friend. Very often she hadn’t believed; but she had known. Secretly, in her heart of hearts, she had never really even believed, as she had so often said, that Andrew detested her. No human being could do that, and be as kind as he was. If he had been her lover he couldn’t have been more considerate. He had never once, by so much as a hint, suggested she was the nuisance that she knew she must be. He had never neglected the fundamental decencies, courtesies, dignities due from one to another. He had made her feel like a comrade-in-arms, who shared life’s battle. Who could ask more of a man?
He had probably, she thought, missed his vocation. He should have been a soldier. Soldiers need nobility as much as courage. Only noblemen should lead. Birth has nothing to do with nobility. Was Andrew a reincarnated spiritual aristocrat? That was a strange thought. Some ancient Stoic campaign veteran, reborn to test his spirit on the anvil of events. How else, or where had Andrew learned the self-reliance that had forced that march across a sky-high pass too steep and dangerous for even Tibetans to use unless as fugitives from law? Not one mistake, in a five-day fight against snow, ice, altitude and wind — up a blind trail. It stunned memory. One could only recall fragments of it, disconnected, as from a nightmare.
They had fought their way through snowdrifts, roped their way along storm- swept ledges, off-loaded and lifted the ponies from crag to crag where the ice-ground granite was as smoothly slippery as glass. But no man nor beast had missed a full meal. None had done less than his share of the work. No one was injured. There was not even a lame pony. And as the generous rations were consumed, the loads had been redistributed, pound for pound, so that the nearer they came to the Tibetan end of the pass, and the more exhausted the ponies became, the less the burden each had to struggle with. And not one sore back.
It was all Andrew’s doing. Tibetans, who treat wild life as sacred, are incredibly cruel to beasts of burden. They had resented that their riding ponies should be put to pack work along with the others. Even Bompo Tsering had had to be fisted, more than once, from the back of a pony already burdened with all it could carry. Elsa herself had had to climb, where she might have ridden the one unloaded pony, lest the Tibetans should take example, and ride too, when Andrew’s back was turned. Bompo Tsering, usually bringing up the rear, had tried to steal rides on her pony. But that would have ruined discipline
. Several times she knew she had dared death, forbidding him. It would have been easy to push her off a ledge and claim the wind had done it. She had detected the thought. But when she threatened him with Andrew, he stuck his tongue out humbly, and then grinned and they were friends again. There was something in Andrew that commanded allegiance, but she couldn’t name it. It answered to none of the names by which men label those whom they follow.
It wasn’t impersonal. It wasn’t the ugly, indifferent, cynical spell such as the exploiters cast on their followers, or impose by force. It wasn’t egotistical. He did no spellbinding at all. His speech was curt, unsentimental, slow, and usually quiet. It was nothing spectacular, that gift of leadership. But it created good will. Perhaps it wasn’t a gift. Perhaps it was a studied, deliberate, iron-willed concentration of purpose, that included the utmost use of every faculty he had. That might be it. He flinched at nothing, spared himself nothing, and yet gave the impression of inexhaustible reserves of physical and mental strength. In blizzards, blinding clouds and raging winds, at exhausting heights, on deadly precipices, Elsa herself had felt the same — not impersonal — first person singular — Andrew — force, that appealed to the Tibetans’ courage and rallied them over the summit.
What was Andrew? What kind of man? What was his secret? She had known him now, more than a year, more intimately than some women know their lovers. Yet she didn’t know him. She didn’t understand him. She didn’t even know what had possessed him to abandon a career for such unprofitable, Herculean labor.
He wasn’t a fanatic. He seemed less bigoted than most people. He wasn’t morose. In his own quiet way he was full of humor. He almost never sneered. He laughed with, not at people. But there was something deep beneath his surface that defied search. It was always there, silent, veiled. Elsa was always conscious of it. She felt she had a right to be curious. Curiosity was even stronger than hunger, cold, exhaustion — almost stronger than intuition that warned her not to trespass.
There came a flattering thought that even Andrew might be helpless to conceal his inner consciousness, if subtly tempted. There must be a breaking- down point, where he would need help to retain his self-control. Help from the temptress. The secretly humiliating female thought, that Andrew hadn’t found her worth an effort to seduce, suggested means of making him less reserved. That kind of struggle with Andrew was one that she knew she had more than a forlorn hope of winning. But the fact that the thought excited her, set her wondering about herself. How did she feel toward Andrew? Did she love him? How can one love without understanding? Admire, respect, like — yes, but those are cold emotions. Love?
She was thinking about that, and about Tom Grayne hundreds of miles away, getting a glimpse of a clairvoyant vision of Tom in his cavern at Shig-po-ling, when Andrew came and crawled into the shelter. There was just room to sit upright.
“Tea,” he said, “before the storm comes. There’s a pippin coming. This world’s a madhouse.”
“Can I help? Has something gone wrong?”
“No. I dumped some stuff we’ll never need and repacked a load. That’s a few pounds off all the ponies. Every little counts. Our Tibetans have got the wind up. They let me work all alone in the dark. If they dared, they’d run. Listen.”
Downwind came the scream of a big bird, then another.
“Lammergeiers,” said Andrew. “Nesting. Their aerie’s on the crag right above us. The fool birds are cussing us out.”
“They can’t hurt, can they? Will they attack the ponies?”
“God, no. But our Tibetans think they’re summoning devils to give us the works.”
“They think we’re trespassing on sacred ground?”
“Yes. Some saint died up here. If I should shoot the lammergeiers, they’d call that murder. But they’d murder you and me and call it blessed-happy- release-of-spirit-into-higher-consciousness.”
Elsa laughed.
“Why didn’t you eat?” he asked.
“I waited for you — felt sociable.”
He opened salmon for himself. They ate out of the cans, with spoons, munching dry barley bread to help it down. Then prunes, stewed tea, canned milk, chocolate. Not another word until Andrew tossed the empty cans over the precipice and crawled out once more into the wind for a look at the men. The lammergeiers screamed like furies. Elsa used the last of the warm tea to wash her fingers that were chapped by the cold and cut, through thick gloves, by the rocks she had climbed.
Andrew came crawling in again: “Hell’s devils! There’s no sense in a scared Tibetan. I’ll stay awake, or they may try to murder us both, to pacify the spirits. Move the candle over here. I’ll read a while.”
“Do you particularly want to read?”
“I’m in a mood for Milton. I want to read about hell.”
“Can’t it wait?”
Andrew quoted:
“What in me is dark
Illumine, what is low raise and support,
That to the height of this great argument
I may assert eternal Providence,
And justify the ways of God to man!
“God’s ways need justifying on a night like this,” he added. “I dare bet you it’s raining at sea; bone-dry and dusty in Oklahoma; lousy, where the climate’s bearable; and not a scrap of fuel where it’s coldest. It’s a mad world.”
“It’s a wonderful world,” she answered.
“I’m in no mood to be Pollyannaed.”
“You’re overtired, Andrew. You’ve done three times as much as anyone else. Go to sleep. I’ll stay awake. If anything happens I’ll—”
“No, no. You sleep. Long, hard day tomorrow. Downhill’s worse than uphill — more likely to fall, unless your nerve’s in shape. Curl up and sleep.”
“I couldn’t.”
“Why not? What’s the matter?”
“I’m not sleepy. I want to talk.”
“What about?”
“Anything.”
“Okay. Tell what happened that night at Gombaria’s, when you and Nancy—”
“No, Andrew. I can’t tell.”
“Why not?”
“Because it can’t be told.”
“You’re pretty good at telling most things, when you want to. All right, it’s your secret. Sorry I asked.”
Elsa thought a moment, with her chin on her knees. “Andrew.”
“Yes?”
“Could you tell anyone, for instance, what it feels like to be up here in these mountains?”
“Why should I tell it?”
“Can you even tell yourself what it feels like, as compared to cities and sea level? It’s an experience, but you can’t describe it, can you?”
“Short of oxygen,” he answered. “Slows you. Makes your head hum. Felt like being seasick at the summit. That’s another of God’s funny paradoxes — where you most need oxygen, the less there is.”
“Oh, if you’re in that mood—”
“Mood? I could play the harmonica, just to annoy myself.”
“Don’t, please. Andrew, I am not trying to keep a secret — not from you, of all people. I did tell you about seeing Lobsang Pun. It was after that, that’s so difficult. I was alone in that room with Nancy.”
“Yeah, you said that, the first night out.”
“I’m simply bursting to tell. I want to share it with you. But one can’t explain what happened.”
“Why not?”
“There aren’t any words to tell it with. It was something beyond music — even beyond thought. One can’t even recall it. One only knows it did happen — and was so wonderful that — oh, if I could share it with you! But how can I?”
“Old Gombaria has a reputation,” said Andrew. “He’s a first-class psychic showman.”
“Gombaria didn’t do this. It wasn’t showmanship. He wasn’t even there.”
“He fixed me so that I got your Mauser message, and he wasn’t there when I got that, either.”
“Andrew, that message was just ordinary cla
irvoyance. But what happened after Nancy and I saw Lobsang Pun was utterly beyond clairvoyance. It was more different from it than these mountains are from London slums.”
“It seems to have changed you over. You don’t seem scared of your clairvoyance any longer.”
“I never will be again. Never.”
“Well, that’s something. That’s a load off.”
“Andrew, did you ever know something — I mean really know — and feel you’ll almost die if you don’t tell, because it’s so utterly wonderful that your heart almost bursts with it — and yet you couldn’t tell — couldn’t?”
“Can’t you give me a hint?”
Elsa thought a moment. Then, suddenly: “Andrew, I want you to believe what I’m saying. I’m serious.”
“Go ahead.”
“If by jumping off this precipice I could give you the experience that I had at Gombaria’s, I would jump without hesitating. I want to give, and go on giving forever!”
“Steady!” he said. “Steady! The altitude’s got you. It’s like ether or being drunk. Lie down. Shut your eyes. Swallow hard. Turn in. Sleep it off.”
“There you are. You misunderstood. Words — oh, what use are they?”
Andrew remembered Lewis’s advice. He dismissed his own raw nervousness. He grinned. “It’s about a thousand-foot jump — maybe more. I’ll have to climb down to bury you under a cairn. Maybe I need the exercise. When do you take off?”
“Andrew, please don’t blaspheme!”
“I sure will, if you try any circus stunts. I’ve heard of levitation and flying lamas. But I’m agin’ ’em.”
“I didn’t say I will jump off. I wouldn’t dream of it. I was trying to hint at the hugeness of the urge to tell you, if I could, how wonderful life is.”
“Hello! Hello! Is this the same young woman who was calling herself a calamity, back there in Darjeeling?”
“Yes. No! Yes and no! What I meant was — there couldn’t be too high a price to pay — if it were possible — for the joy of giving someone else the experience that was mine, at Gombaria’s, after Nancy and I saw Lobsang Pun.”