Abominable

by William Meikle

  We took turns in venturing outside and calling out loudly, in the hope that Mallory and Irvine might hear us in the wind and follow our voices home, but there was no answer. We spent a truly miserable couple of hours huddled together in that tent until the wind started to abate in late afternoon. I scanned the mountain for any sign of Mallory and Irvine but saw no one.

  We took advantage of the lull in the weather to descend rapidly to Camp IV, none of us willing to spend a night at that height, but I am resolved that in the morning I will make a search for my friends.

  I will not leave them to die on this hill.

  And that is where Mallory and Irvine became lost to history. You may know that Mallory’s body has since been found. In 1999 the Simonsen Expedition recovered the body above twenty seven thousand feet. But before we get to the details of how that body may have got there, I’d like to once again remind you of what I am offering you here. Back in ’24 this was big news. Every newspaper in the world was covering the story, and Mallory and Irvine became national heroes. Magdalene College in Cambridge, Mallory’s Alma Mater, renamed one of its courts for Mallory and laid a memorial stone that you can go and see even today. The University of Oxford, where Irvine studied also erected a memorial stone in his memory. A funeral for Mallory was held in St Paul’s Cathedral. It was attended by the Prime Minister of the time J. Ramsay Macdonald, as well as the entire British cabinet and the British Royal family, including King George V. All of that in a time when the media was a mere fraction of what it is today.

  Can you imagine the film, franchise and reprint opportunities that exist for the material I am offering?

  And that is before I get to the big reveal.

  This is of historic, global proportions. I think you will agree with me after you have read the last notes found in the papers in the iron box.

  First, we have Mallory again, on the 9th of June.

  9th June 1924

  I send greetings from the top of the world.

  I write this sitting in perfect sunshine on the very top of Everest. Irvine is busy taking as many pictures as will fit on the film and I have planted a small Union Jack at the summit. We will take turns being photographed beside it, as I’m sure that is the kind of thing that might finally endear me to the newspapers back home. I have carried a picture of my wife Ruth all the way from England, and I have left it beside the flag, so that part of her will always be here, with part of me, at the very summit of my achievements.

  There were times, many of them in the past thirty hours, when I thought we would not prevail, that the hill would once again have the better of me. But Irvine, stout chap that he is, proved a master of motivation and got us over many humps along the way.

  The first came very early yesterday morning. We had not long left Camp VI when we came upon more of the strange tracks in the fresh snow, leading away from the camp and high up into the peaks. Even as we raised our eyes to follow their path I heard the tell-tale rumble of moving snow above us. I believe I caught a glimpse of a large pale figure standing on the ridge, but I had no time for investigation as a wall of snow began its inexorable rush down the slope.

  Irvine’s quick reactions saved my life He planted his ice-axe firmly in a ridge of hard-packed snow and we huddled together under a slight lip, just wide enough to save us from being swept away completely. Fortunately the avalanche was only a minor one and was over in seconds, but I was shaken by the sudden nature of it, and I took several minutes to recover my composure.

  It also cost us several hours of tough climb as we had to traverse back and forth across the hill, gingerly testing each footfall for fear of causing a further snow slide, and we were quite weary when we reached the top of that, only our first of many climbs.

  We traversed to the deep gully leading to the eastern foot of the summit pyramid. Norton told me that they reached this point and beyond on their climb, and we have decided to name the path he took the Norton Couloir in his honor.

  We deviated from Norton at this point and made a diagonal traverse of the northern face. We climbed swiftly over steep, icy terrain with some spots of fresh snow. I saw what I took to be Somervell’s tracks far off to our left for a while, but soon we had passed the point where he had turned back.

  I made Irvine stop for a minute and we had ourselves a minor celebration – we were now higher than any man had ever been. And the foot of the summit pyramid -- and some easier climbing, was only two hundred feet above us.

  We pressed on but it was already past noon when we approached the base of the cliff we had seen from far below and called the Second Step. We had long known that this would be one of the most taxing parts of any ascent.

  It proved to be worse than we could have imagined. The rock face was near a hundred feet tall and loomed over us in one massive slab. Irvine was daunted by the sheer enormity of the task ahead of us, and for my part, it seemed at least as tough as any face I had ever attempted. But this was my hill, my destiny.

  I set to it with a will.

  I had thought that Pillar Rock in the Western Fells would prove the toughest challenge of my climbing career, but the Second Step proved tougher still. All that long afternoon I fought it, with Irvine creeping up cautiously behind me following my every move. Back and forth I went, and from side to side. Several times I had to retrace my path for long periods.

  But I would not be defeated. Just as day turned to dusk I hauled myself up over the last lip that had been proving a bugger for an hour and lay, gasping at the foot of the pyramid slope.

  I helped Irvine up beside me. We just had enough light remaining to see that our route led to the summit by a forty-five degree snow slope, which would take us directly to the summit ridge.

  We were forced to bivouac for the night there on that ledge with the whole of creation laid out beneath us under the stars. We took turns sleeping, and attempted to conserve as much of the O2 as we were able, for we both knew that fresh trials awaited us in the morning.

  I was as cold as I have ever been, numbed down to my very bones. We may have been there yet, frozen solid at the cliff edge, if we had not been brought wide-awake by the same high wailing song we had heard the night before. Up here on the very top of the world it sounded like angels singing, but I was painfully aware that the sound was coming from above us.

  Whatever was up there, it was above me, on my hill.

  That gave me the impetus to get moving. I spent the pre-dawn hours pacing a small strip of ground, trying to work some heat into my muscles, and as soon as the sky started to get light I roused Irvine and we made our last big push.

  That final snow slope seemed relatively easy in comparison to what had gone before. Irvine allowed me the honor of reaching the summit first, and I studied it with some apprehension, expecting to see more of the human-like tracks there ahead of us. But the snow cover was gloriously white and pristine and, at ten-thirty this morning, I claimed this mountain for King and Country.

  I am on top of the world.

  Do you see what this means? George Mallory was the first man to climb Everest, and we have the proof, in the man’s own hand no less. Several of his contemporaries always believed Mallory would have made it. Tom Longstaff, who was with Mallory on the ’22 expedition, later wrote, “It is obvious to any climber that they got up.”

  Up until now Mallory’s success has never been confirmed. Odell was true to his word and climbed back up the mountain together with two porters. Around 3:30 p.m. on the 9th, they arrived at Camp V and stayed for the night. The following day Odell again went alone to Camp VI which he found unchanged. He then climbed up the slope where Mallory and Irvine had faced the small avalanche but could not see any trace of the two missing climbers. In Camp VI he laid two sleeping bags out in a T form on the snow which was the signal for “No trace can be found. Given up hope. Awaiting orders.” to the advanced base camp. Odell, filled with sorrow at the loss of his friends, descended to Camp IV.

  The very next morning the expeditio
n gave up and started to leave the mountain. No one has ever known the fate of Sandy Irvine.

  You see, you have thought that I have played my trump card too early in our negotiations. But I have more yet to show you. Indeed, what happens next is the tale that will shake the world, all the way to the top of Everest itself.

  Mallory did not write the last entries to be found in the journal. They are in a shaky, uncertain hand -- as if written by a very sick man, and they are signed and dated, by Sandy Irvine. The date on the first of them may surprise you somewhat.

  23rd July 1924

  I am not entirely certain of the date, but it is as near as I can figure it. There is no one here who can tell me otherwise – wherever here might be. All I know is that it is a mountain village, and no one speaks a word of English.

  I have little memory of how I came to be here, but the fever has lifted. In some ways I wish it had not, for I have seen the state of my legs, and it is obvious that without medical attention, I am not long for this world. I had my keeper -- a tiny wizened women who could be anywhere from eighty to a hundred years old, bring me what they had found with me, and was surprised to find this journal had survived. I am of the hope that writing will keep my mind from the pain… and the terror.

  Where to begin?

  I should start where Mallory left off, but first, I need to say something about that climb up the second step, for it was a feat of mountaineering that I cannot believe will ever be surpassed. I remember Winthrop-Young talking about Mallory, and the quote has stayed with me.

  "His movement in climbing was entirely his own. It contradicted all theory. He would set his foot high against any angle of smooth surface, fold his shoulder to his knee, and flow upward and upright again on an impetuous curve. Whatever may have happened unseen the while between him and the cliff ... the look, and indeed the result, were always the same – a continuous undulating movement so rapid and so powerful that one felt the rock must yield, or disintegrate.”

  And on that step, it did indeed seem as if Mallory prevailed by imposing his body and his will on the rock until the hill conceded. I had been sure that we would be forced to turn back, but that contingency never even seemed to cross Mallory’s mind.

  It was that conviction I was remembering when I took his picture for the last time. He was sat beside the small flag on the summit.

  He had just finished writing in his notebook. The whole world seemed laid out behind him. He took off his mask for the picture and he wore a broad, contented grin. I raised the camera to take correct the focus.

  That’s when I saw it.

  It came up the slope at a bounding lope, so quick I was unsure what I was looking at. It loomed up high over Mallory before I had time to call out.

  It was half as tall again as myself and near four feet wide across the shoulder with muscles bunched and taut like rocks under the skin. It was off-white all over apart from on the palms, where the skin was tough and leathery, almost black. Shaggy hair hung around its thighs like a thick kilt that almost reached its knees. It smelled, musky and almost rancid, like a boggy pool after a run of hot days. Milk-white eyes stared down at Mallory.

  “Look out!” I managed to cry.

  The beast seemed confused and clapped hands as huge as hams across its ears. Its head was oval shaped, the skull slightly tapered at the rear. The hair was thicker there, almost mane-like where it ran down the broad back. It opened a mouth full of long yellow teeth and screamed, rising up to its full height and slapping at its chest with flat palms, sending a fast drumbeat echoing over the mountain.

  I believe my finger clicked on the camera just as the creature fell on Mallory. He had half-turned as the beast’s right hand hit him on the side of the head. He fell aside, knocking the flag away. The wind took it, and the picture of Mallory’s wife, sending them dancing off over the hill.

  Mallory tried to rise. The beast bent and took him by the right leg and lifted him. It swung him twice around its head. Even from yards away I heard the snap of his leg breaking. It swung him one more time then tossed him aside. Mallory flew, arms flailing, and landed in a heap twenty yards distant, then went skidding and skittering down the slope before finally coming to rest in a flurry of dry snow that quickly turned pink.

  The beast stood atop the summit and raised itself to its full height. It turned its face to the sky and howled as it once more thumped a rhythm on its chest.

  Then, as quickly as it had come, it turned and bounded away.

  I had no time to follow its path. I scrambled down the hill, praying against all hope that Mallory yet lived.

  24th July 1924

  I had to stop yesterday. The writing tires me, but more than that, when I thought of the state in which I had found Mallory, it brought the memory flooding back and I could not continue.

  My own injuries, severe as they are, are as nothing compared to the damage that had been wrought on poor Mallory. He was awake when I reached him, but in such agony that he would have been better served in merciful oblivion. His right leg was broken in at least three places, bone piercing skin at unnatural angles. The leg itself seemed to be hanging loosely, as if completely dislocated from the hip. His face was pale as the snow, save for a blackening depression at his brow where the beast’s first blow had caved in part of his skull.

  “Leave me,” he whispered through the pain.

  But if I have been taught me one thing, it is that you do not leave a man behind, especially a friend in need. I made him as comfortable as I could manage with what I had at hand and climbed back to the summit.

  The weather had started to close in, mist and fog thickening around me, so I had to move quickly to make sure I could find my way back to Mallory. The packs were thankfully still where we had left them, and I managed to retrieve two O2 tanks. I knew that these were severely depleted, but I could not allow myself any thoughts of despair. My one goal was to get Mallory off this hill as fast as possible.

  Just as I turned to leave the summit I caught a glimpse of Mallory’s journal on the ground. I added it to my pack, thinking that it might provide him some comfort – if he was ever given a chance to read it again.

  There was no sign or sound of the beast.

  To my amazement Mallory was sitting up when I got back to him. The agony showed clearly in his face, but he had placed his left leg over the right, protecting his injuries.

  “Leave me,” he whispered again.

  “No can do old man,” I replied.

  Between us we managed to bind his legs together. His screams ran across the face of the slope, but he stayed conscious throughout. He even came up with a planned route of descent that would see us back at Camp IV by nightfall.

  I did not think he would make it that long, but his indomitable will seemed to overcome injuries that would long ago have killed a lesser man. He was not able to take a pack, nor even an O2 tank, and he gasped for air at every breath.

  But once he saw I would not leave him, he was determined to play his own part in our descent. Tied together, we made a slow way down the upper pyramid slopes, neither speaking of what we knew to be ahead of us – the steep cliff that denoted the Second Step.

  By the time we reached the lip of the cliff the mist was thick around us and we could not see either the summit, or the foot of the step. I wanted to go first, but Mallory would have none of it, and indeed, his logic was impeccable.

  “I cannot hold you should you fall,” he said.

  He slid over the edge.

  There followed the most jaw-dropping display of climbing skill I have ever seen. Despite the agony that must have been coursing through his body, Mallory clambered down the cliff using only his hands and arm-strength, finding holds in tiny cracks in the rocks I could not even see. I kept a tight hold on the rope but never had to take the strain as he descended.

  I started to think we might yet have a chance of getting off the mountain with our lives.

  He must have been within twenty feet of the bottom w
hen I heard the noise of heavy feet breaking the crust of snow, mere yards to my left.

  The beast loomed up out of the mist.

  I did not have any time at all to react. It lifted me bodily and hoisted me above its head as if I weighed no more than a baby. I thought for a second that it would throw me directly over the cliff, and I will admit that I said more than a few prayers, but it tossed me aside roughly and I fell head-first to the ground, choking on a mouthful of freezing snow.

  It was as I turned that I saw the reason I had been dismissed. The beast stood looking down the cliff. I was still attached to the rope but there was no strain on it. Only the slight vibration that ran up its length told me that Mallory was still down there, still climbing.

  But for how much longer.

  The beast bent and grabbed at the rope, starting to draw it in. In the distance I heard Mallory cry out.

  I did the only thing I could think of. I drew my ice axe and leapt at the beast’s back.

  25th July 1924

  I am sorry to have left the story at such a moment, but my own pain is becoming unbearable. Both my legs are black and putrid. The smell is truly sickening but my tiny keeper bears it stoically and looks at me all the while with eyes full of great sadness.

  I do not think I have much time left.

  Fortunately there is not a great deal remaining of the tale I have to tell.

  I hacked at the beast with the axe, catching it just below the neck. The point of the weapon went in deep and the beast howled in pain. It took the rope in either of its huge hands and, with one tug, separated a line that would have held the weight of five men.

  I do not know if Mallory gave one last cry before his end, for by then the beast had turned its attention on me. I knew that if I relinquished my position on its back I was a goner for sure. I clung tightly to the mane at its neck, all the while hacking away at it with the axe until both my arm and the fur of its shoulders were matted and caked with steaming blood.