Summit: A Novel

by Harry Farthing

  Quinn looked again at the Leica III, imagining it lying with a dead body high on the mountain.

  He turned it over in his hands, studying it in detail.

  It was compact and strong. Such a dense metal body could easily survive seventy years frozen in ice.

  Lifting the camera to his right eye, he pictured within the small viewfinder a climber on a summit raising an ice axe and a flag.

  He pushed the small shutter release button to capture the imaginary moment. It wouldn’t move.

  When he looked at the film indicator, Quinn remembered something else.

  76

  Kampa Dzong, Tsang Province, Tibet

  April 25, 1939

  5:00 p.m.

  At the imposing gates of the Kampa Dzong fortress, Macfarlane gladly let Zazar, Colonel Atkinson’s official travel documents held upside down in his big hand, do the talking. Entry was quickly permitted through the immense stone walls into a courtyard full of people. Tibetan noblemen, monks, paupers, soldiers, even small children were all standing in a circle, looking in on a cleared space writhing with colorful motion, a halo of dust hovering above.

  The young lieutenant presumed they must be watching a fight, but as he pushed nearer, he saw that it was actually a dance. Curtained in brightly embroidered yet tattered ceremonial robes that draped from their arms and legs, every participant wore a tarnished copper mask beneath a headdress of horn, feathers, and long plaits of matted, woven yak hair. The bear, the yak, the fish, the wolf, the horse, and the pig strutted and spun violently around a smaller yet wilder dancer thrashing desperately in their middle. Holding out silk-swathed arms, flapping them like wings, it pecked back with its sharply hooked metal beak and clawed at them with long, hooked, wooden claws.

  “Tibetan devil dance, sir. The spirits are being summoned to kill a hawk demon,” the Gurkha sergeant whispered into Macfarlane’s ear as he watched. Even through his fatigue, it was an amazing sight to witness, as if the long trek to get to that forsaken place had distorted the barriers of time and deposited them into the Middle Ages.

  The British officer looked around at the spellbound crowd, only slightly less strange than the dancers at its center. He noticed a small urchin, wedged between the legs of the spectators on the opposite side of the square, staring at the scene. Transfixed with a look of total horror, the boy was holding a small animal in the front of his filthy jacket. Macfarlane thought the grey, fluffy bundle was a baby rabbit or a cat, but then he saw that it too had a sharp, hooked beak and black shiny dots for eyes. It was a hawk, a kestrel or peregrine, still very young, downy and round, only recently taken from the nest. Sensing he was being watched, the boy broke his gaze from the gyrating hawk dancer to look straight at Macfarlane. Slipping back between the legs around him, he vanished.

  Goaded by vibrating blasts from long horns arranged on the battlements, the dance gathered in intensity, the hawk dancer beginning to fail, dwindling before the other triumphant dancers until it spiraled into the dusty ground. One final earsplitting cacophony announced its symbolic death, and the other dancers, victorious over the hawk god, mimed hacking it into invisible pieces with which each creature fled back into the castle.

  The symbolic sky burial over, the crowd dispersed quickly, and guards became attentive in leading the patrol inside to meet the dzong pen, the governor of the region. Four fur-capped soldiers, looking to Macfarlane as if they were part of Genghis Khan’s Mongol army, accompanied them through wide but dark corridors until they came to a big hall.

  At the far end, a large chair stood alone like some rudimentary throne and a small man, dressed in a high-collared, woven, crimson silk jacket that caught the glow of the butter lamps, was seated upon it. He was listening without reply to the competing comments of a group of advisers sitting cross-legged before him on an immense yet threadbare carpet. His eyes were tight shut, his face screwed up in intense concentration.

  One of the soldiers approached the nearest adviser who, in turn, rose to approach the dzong pen and whisper in his ear. The overlord immediately opened his eyes; ratlike, they fixed on the British officer.

  The small man immediately stood up from his high-backed chair and summoned a waiting servant who stepped forward to bring him a wide-brimmed fedora. The dzong pen slowly lowered the hat onto his head with both hands on the brim. It was far too big for him. Relinquishing his throne, he stepped through the still-seated councillors to meet Macfarlane.

  He stopped silently before him as if struck by some deep thought. “Ingleish prezent,” he said as he took the fedora off and offered it to Macfarlane. Uncertain, the lieutenant took it, flipping it over to see the white hatter’s label within. There was an address for Savile Row; beneath, in black ink, the previous owner had written, “Gen. C. G. Bruce.” Macfarlane was familiar with the name. General Bruce was a legend in the Gurkha Rifles. He must have gifted it to the dzong pen on the way to one of his attempts on Mount Everest some years earlier, for which he was equally famed.

  Handing the fedora back, Macfarlane said, “A worthy hat,” but the dzong pen, his knowledge of English already exhausted, instead turned his attention to Zazar. He greeted him warmly. Zazar, in return, handed him their travel papers, the dzong pen studying them with feigned comprehension as he questioned his countryman. Zazar’s answers were long and convoluted. Macfarlane had no trust in the rapid stream of conversation until, unable to stand it it any longer, he told the Gurkha sergeant to stop Zazar from speaking and translate what had been said. With an insubordinate look at the officer for interrupting him, Zazar responded angrily to the sergeant, who relayed the content to Macfarlane.

  “Zazar says the Sherpa Ang Noru was here. He caused a great fight in the town in which three men died. The Sherpa was sentenced to lose his cutting hand as penalty for starting the fighting and then death for the death he caused. The night before he was to be punished, he summoned a hawk god to the castle. The hawk spirit stank of a thousand hells and regurgitated its young onto the prison guards before switching them into the Sherpa’s cell by magic. The Sherpa then escaped by changing into a bird demon and flying with the hawk god off the high cliff. Every day since, the dzong pen has ordered a devil dance before sunset to slay the hawk spirit.”

  “A highly unbelievable story, Sergeant. Is there any mention of the German in this fairy tale?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Sergeant, can Zazar ask the dzong pen if we can stay here before we continue our journey?”

  “He has done so already, sir, although you will have to give him some gifts in return. Zazar also says that the dzong pen believes that the magic of the devil dancers is now growing so strong that the Sherpa will soon be found.”

  “Let’s hope so, for all our sakes, Sergeant.”

  77

  Macfarlane spent the next day in the castle as the quickly abandoned guest of the dzong pen. Welcoming the rest and the solitude, he explored the castle. It was fascinating to Macfarlane, a piece of living history. From one window, he thought he could even see Mount Everest itself. The sight made him shiver. He thought again about General Bruce leading those first British expeditions to the mountain, and then of that famous British climber, George Leigh Mallory, who first went with him and then ended up vanishing so high on its flanks.

  Is it really possible that he could have stood on the summit that day, as some of the newspapers still speculated?

  Looking at the immense mountain, the lieutenant imagined the honor and courage that Mallory must have had to attempt such a feat, knowing full well that with every step he risked death. It was a humbling thought.

  Returning to his room to rest, the Gurkha sergeant approached him with Zazar standing alongside. “Zazar wishes to make a transaction with you, Lieutenant Macfarlane, sir,” the sergeant announced.

  Macfarlane ignored the Tibetan’s stare to reply to the Gurkha. “Does he indeed, Sergeant. And why should he f
eel the need to make a transaction with me now?”

  “He says that it is you that has the need and, if you don’t, you will never find the German you seek, returning to your countrymen empty-handed and in disgrace.”

  The accuracy of the Tibetan’s understanding of Macfarlane’s position caused the officer to involuntarily glance at Zazar. Their eyes momentarily locked.

  “Go on. I’m listening.”

  The Tibetan and the sergeant talked some more until Zazar gestured that the man relay the conversation to Macfarlane. “Zazar wants you to pay him what was agreed with Colonel Atkinson when he leads you to the German and the Sherpa. He says that you can then take the German but the Sherpa must be allowed to stay in Tibet with Zazar.” The sergeant paused before adding, “I am thinking, sir, that Zazar has sold the Sherpa’s head to the dzong pen. The dzong pen will pay much money for it to show everyone that he is stronger than a hawk god and that no man can escape his castle.”

  Macfarlane was outraged at the Tibetan’s gall.

  “Absolutely not!” he shouted in reply. “Tell that accursed man that the Sherpa Ang Noru is wanted by the British authorities for aiding and abetting a foreign agent in activities detrimental to the interest of His Majesty. The Sherpa is not a bargaining chip for this man hunter to demand at will.”

  The Gurkha relayed the response to the Tibetan. With a slight smile, Zazar stared back at the officer as he replied in his low, guttural voice, the Gurkha translating as he spoke. “He says then you should return to the very top of the castle and from a window look down the great cliff it stands upon. He says that if you can imagine yourself climbing up that cliff alone and in the night, then you will catch the German yourself and have no need of his help. If however, when you look down it, your stomach turns over, your palms sweat, and you know that you could never do such a thing, then he says that you are in no position to bargain, for you will never catch a man who can climb such a wall without Zazar’s good help.”

  The Tibetan turned and walked away, indifferent to Macfarlane’s shouts to stay exactly where he was.

  Macfarlane held out for most of the next day but then reluctantly followed Zazar’s suggestion. Returning to the window from where he had seen Everest, he pushed his head out, this time looking straight down.

  The plummeting drop below him made him instinctively pull back. It felt as if the castle could topple off the edge of the cliff at any moment. Looking out a second time, the mere thought of the view down the sheer rock face made him involuntarily brace his knees against the wall and lock his hands onto the window frame. Only then could he study the cliff below.

  It was precipitous, sheer, and, although seemingly impossible to climb, the officer understood Becker must have somehow gotten up it to enter the castle and free the Sherpa. If so, it was a feat of incredible skill and bravery. The realization forced Macfarlane to tell himself that if he didn’t want to return to his regiment and his family a disgrace, he was going to have to use every tool in his power to find such a man. He must swallow the bitter pill and accept Zazar’s offer for the greater good.

  Even though he immediately sought out the Gurkha sergeant and told him that he would accept the Tibetan’s terms, it wasn’t until the evening that Zazar reappeared. When he did, he was pulling a small child after him. The boy was struggling to free himself from the tight grip on his hair, twisting and screaming like a snared cat, kicking out without effect at the man’s long legs. In the flickering lamplight, Macfarlane saw that it was the boy with the hawk chick he had seen watching the devil dance.

  Stopping before Macfarlane and the Gurkha sergeant, Zazar kicked the boy’s feet from under him so that he fell to his knees. The Tibetan instantly squatted alongside him, tugging his head back, forcing him to look up at the officer.

  The boy glared fiercely into Macfarlane’s eyes before spitting up into the air.

  Zazar immediately slapped the boy hard on the side of the head. The small child reeled from the blow and screamed back at the Tibetan so piercingly that Macfarlane’s ears whistled.

  The boy then spat up at him again. This time the frothy saliva was streaked with blood.

  As Zazar raised his hand to strike the child again, Macfarlane shouted at the Gurkha sergeant to intervene. “Sergeant, stop him. What is this, for God’s sake? Who is this?”

  The sergeant did as he was ordered, the Tibetan slamming the boy forward hard onto the flagstones, his face giving a crack as it struck the floor. Then, wedging his knee across the back of the boy’s neck, he pulled the hawk chick from his own jacket and spoke back to the Gurkha.

  “Zazar says this boy helped the German climb into the castle to free the Sherpa. He stole this young falcon from its nest on the great cliff.”

  “So where are they now?” Macfarlane demanded.

  The Gurkha and the Tibetan spoke again before the sergeant responded, “Zazar says the boy knows, although he won’t say.”

  “Sergeant, tell this boy that no one wants to hurt him, that I can make this stop. Let him go with his hawk. He only has to tell us where the German and the Sherpa are now.”

  When the Gurkha completed the translation, the boy struggled violently against the heavy pressure of Zazar’s knee before shouting desperately back at Macfarlane. As the last word escaped his lips, the manhunter smacked the boy across the back of the head with his free hand.

  “I cannot translate his reply, Lieutenant Macfarlane, sir. It is too disgusting to repeat to an officer,” the Gurkha sergeant said.

  “Repeat my message to him, Sergeant.”

  The sergeant did as he was told, but the boy just spat again.

  Enraged by his continued insolence, Zazar pulled the child back onto his feet by the hair and flung him against the wall.

  To Macfarlane’s shout of, “For Christ’s sake, man!” the boy’s body crashed against the plaster and fell back hard onto the floor. For a moment he lay quite still. Then, like a crushed crab pulling itself back under a rock, he dragged himself tight into the foot of the wall, sobbing and staring at his torturer with fear in his broken, bleeding face.

  Zazar raised himself up to stand over him, one arm holding the hawk chick by the neck so that the boy could see it dangling. Slowly and deliberately the Tibetan flexed his big hand around its neck.

  The eyas’ beak gaped open in a desperate reflex against the suffocation. It flapped its stubby down-covered wings pathetically, clawing weakly at the man’s wrist.

  The little boy looked at the hawk chick and then at Macfarlane. Staring at the British officer, he began to beg, screaming, “Nein, nein, nein.”

  Macfarlane instantly understood that the boy was appealing to him to stop Zazar in the only foreign words he knew—German words.

  Zazar spoke again to the boy. Wiping the blood and tears from his face with the back of his hand, the boy shook his head and said, “Nein,” once again.

  The Tibetan began to swing the chick as if preparing to spin its body from its neck.

  The boy looked beseechingly again at Macfarlane before prostrating himself on the floor, facedown, sobbing uncontrollably.

  Lying there, his body shuddering, his small hands beating the stone, one word started to emerge, “Chomolungma.”

  “What is he saying, Sergeant?”

  “Chomolungma, sir. It is the Tibetan name for Mount Everest. The German and the Sherpa have gone to Mount Everest.”

  Zazar shouted triumphantly and, thrusting his arm high into the air, closed his hand on the chick’s neck. The hawk chick’s feet kicked downward three times and its eyeballs burst from their sockets. The tiny wings fell limp.

  The Tibetan threw the dead bird at the boy’s defeated body and then walked back to look Macfarlane straight in the eyes. As he did so, he said something to the British officer before turning and striding from the room.

  “Hawk spirit dead now,” translated
the Gurkha.

  78

  Everest North Base Camp, Rongbuk Valley, Tibet—16,980 feet

  May 7, 2010

  3:45 p.m.

  The team’s final rotation up to the North Col camp at over twenty-three thousand feet had passed without problems. As he strode back into the Base Camp to await the “go” for a summit attempt during the course of the next week, Quinn felt stronger than he had ever imagined possible during his Welsh winter of recuperation. Even if the circumstances of his return were completely bizarre, it felt good to be back on the mountain that he had wondered if he would ever climb again.

  Beyond maintaining the appearance that he was Stevens’ “guide,” Quinn actually had little to do with the ex-paratrooper during the long acclimatization phase of Bill Owen’s “Everest North Climb, 2010.” A sullen, mechanical man, Stevens said virtually nothing, making so little attempt to be friendly that Quinn assumed keeping his distance was part of his orders. Despite the silent tension between the pair, things were relaxed for Quinn with everyone else in the Base Camp. Bill Owen ran a tight yet good-natured ship. He had five clients, all with good high-mountain experience. Two well-qualified guides were assigned to them. The Sherpa team was one of the most experienced on the hill. They all went diligently about their business of preparing to summit the mountain, and Quinn enjoyed their company when they were together in the camp. On any rest days, he also tried to catch up with the other teams to hear the Base Camp gossip, always with one ear open as to the possible whereabouts of Sarron, but no one had seen him or heard of him.

  Quinn had tried to discuss Sarron with Stevens but the ex-soldier showed little interest. When he attempted to impress on him the Frenchman’s disturbed history of murder and violence, Stevens just shrugged his shoulders and said that he had been up against worse. When they talked about their upcoming journey to the Second Step, Stevens was equally noncommittal. “You’re the guide, Quinn, so just lead me to the gorak cave,” he would say, his face devoid of emotion. “We go up. We retrieve anything of real interest. We destroy the rest. We go home. QED.”