The Mountain (A James Shaw Mission Book 2)

by Richard Turner

  Bruce said, “I read in one of Irene’s books that this region was surveyed in the 1860s by Indians disguised as travelers. Some of the teams sent across the border never returned. I guess we know why now.”

  Shaw said, “Well, wherever we’re going, it would help if we knew a little more about MacDonald. Amrit, do you know what his connection to these people is?”

  Amrit pursed her lips and then shook her head. She thought she knew the man well enough, but obviously, she was wrong.

  “If Amrit promises not to attack me, I can tell you anything you wish to know,” said MacDonald. His unexpected appearance surprised Shaw, who had not heard anyone approaching. It was as if MacDonald had stepped out of thin air.

  “If you keep out of arm’s reach, you’ll be safe enough,” said Amrit bitterly.

  “Fair enough,” replied MacDonald, taking a seat well away from Amrit. “Now, what would you all like to know?”

  Shaw started. “How did you come to be mixed up with Choling and his people? And why the hell are you supplying information to them about us?”

  “Both good questions,” said MacDonald. “Years ago after I got out of the army, I was still a naive youth. I drifted north and soon became involved with some bandits. It was a time of my life that I am not especially proud of, and if I could erase all the horrible things that I did, I would in a heartbeat, but you cannot erase the past; you can only atone for it.”

  “What happened?” asked Shaw.

  “One day we bit off more than we could chew when we attacked a caravan traveling from India to Lhasa. Unfortunately, for us, there were soldiers hidden among the merchants. When the dust settled, I found myself lying on the cold, rocky ground with a bullet lodged in my chest. I thought I was going to die. That’s when Choling’s grandfather found me. He patched me up and had me taken to his temple hidden deep inside this mountain range. I spent a year there recovering from my wounds and being taught the ways of his people.”

  Amrit handed around supper. Although she hated MacDonald for what he had done, she still handed him a bowl. To have not done so would have run contrary to her strict upbringing.

  “Thanks, this is very tasty,” said Bruce to Amrit before looking over at MacDonald. “That’s all well and good, but what I don’t understand is why Choling’s grandfather took an interest in you.”

  MacDonald took a taste of the meal, smiled at Amrit and then continued. “Choling’s grandfather is no fool; he could see that the outside world was rapidly changing, and he didn’t want his people to fall so far behind that they could no longer protect themselves and their sacred valley. You’ve seen them in action. Guns aren’t their forte. For some foolish reason, they still believe in using swords. For saving my life, Choling’s grandfather had me in his debt. All he asked me to do was to keep an ear out and let him know if anyone was planning to venture into their small corner of Tibet. For generations, they have jealously guarded their home from the outside world. They thought they were good at it; however, in 1939 when a German expedition managed to penetrate their valley using a seldom-used trail from the north, they became quite alarmed. I suggested that some of Choling’s men be sent to India in order to infiltrate the Army and the Civil Service. It was one of these men that learned about your mission and tried to kill you,” said MacDonald.

  “And naturally after I asked you to look out for a team of Germans coming through Gangtok, you fed that information to Choling,” said Amrit bitterly.

  “Yes,” replied MacDonald.

  “What about the German team that disappeared after crossing the border earlier this year, what do you know about them?” asked Shaw.

  “Nothing, I honestly didn’t know there was one,” replied MacDonald, looking perturbed. “They must have somehow found a way into the valley and then made it to the mountain before they could be stopped. The Lama won’t be happy to learn this.”

  “What mountain what this be?” asked Bruce.

  “It’s called Naraka,” said MacDonald. “It’s a revered mountain that lies at the far end of the sacred valley. Before you say anything, Mister Bruce, trust me, you don’t know about it because you won’t find it on any map.”

  “Naraka,” said Amrit, thinking about the meaning of the word. “They’ve called their spiritual mountain, hell?”

  “I don’t like the sound of that,” said Bruce. “Not at all.”

  Shaw said, “What is so important about that mountain? Do you have any idea why the Germans keep sending people there?”

  MacDonald smiled. “I’m sorry; I’m not at liberty to tell you. However, you’ll all know soon enough. Choling’s grandfather is the Lama of the sacred temple of Kubera, and he has asked to speak to you. You should get some rest tonight. We’ll be leaving at dawn tomorrow. We still have two days of hard riding ahead of us.” With that, he stood, thanked Amrit for his food and walked away to check on the guards patrolling around the camp.

  “Well, what do you make of all that?” said Bruce.

  “I don’t think he was making it up,” said Shaw. “In fact, I think he was happy to get it off his chest. I believe that it was his way of apologizing to Amrit for deceiving her.”

  “It’s going to take a hell of a lot more than that to make up for what he has done,” said Amrit.

  “I wonder who this Lama is and why he wants to speak with us,” said Bruce.

  “I don’t know, but I hope he’s friendlier than his grandson.”

  “Amen to that,” said Bruce, helping Amrit to clean up from supper.

  Shaw stood up, looked up into the crystal clear night sky, and saw a shooting star glide across the top of the world. In mediaeval times, it would have been seen as an omen of bad luck; crossing his fingers, Shaw silently prayed that the opposite was true.

  True to his word, at the end of the second long day’s ride, MacDonald led them down from the rocky hills and into a green valley. After riding through bleak rocky hills for the past couple of days, the lush green forests and farmland spreading throughout the valley was a welcome sign. A narrow river meandered through the land like a long dark snake. Shaw saw a farmer ploughing his field, while his children herded a couple of scraggly yaks into a walled enclosure to keep them from eating a field of barley that was ready to be harvested. He brought up his hand to block the sun and spotted several small communities all nestled along the banks of the river. Within a few minutes, the sacred temple of Kubera came into sight. Built on the top of a small hill, it was perhaps fifty feet in length and stood only one story tall with an arched roof with a spire on top that had once been painted gold; now, however, it all looked in desperate need of repair.

  It took a few minutes ride to arrive at the base of the hill. MacDonald raised his hand to stop the column of riders and called Shaw and Bruce to him.

  They looked at one another, shrugged their shoulders and left a puzzled Amrit under the watchful eye of Sangdrol, the man who had fought Shaw. Slowly, they rode up beside MacDonald.

  “I was told by the Lama to send you two on up to the temple alone,” said MacDonald.

  “I should go with them,” said Choling as he fidgeted in his saddle. “They may need a translator.”

  “No, your grandfather was quite specific,” said MacDonald, his voice unable masking his growing impatience with the young man. “Only Shaw and Bruce are to approach the temple.”

  “What about Amrit?” asked Shaw.

  “She’ll be under my protection the whole time you are gone,” replied MacDonald.

  “Not sure she’ll like that,” said Bruce under his breath.

  Shaw said, “Well, I guess there’s no need to drag this out any more than we have to. Come on, Duncan, let’s see what this is all about.”

  “Aye,” replied Bruce unenthusiastically, looking up at the weather-beaten temple.

  A minute later, they stopped at the front entrance to the temple, climbed down off their horses and walked over to the shrine’s closed doors.

  Shaw was about to knock
on the door when it slowly opened. A young boy no more than nine years old, dressed in orange robes with a shaved head, stepped outside, looked up at the two strange men and then smiled.

  “Well, hello there,” said Shaw to the boy.

  Without saying a word, the young boy took Shaw and Bruce by the hand and led them inside. The smell of incense and burning candles made from butter filled the air. After being outside in the bright sunlight, it took a few seconds for their eyes to adjust to the dark interior of the temple. Still holding onto the men’s hands, the boy led them towards a row of ornate prayer wheels. The young monk let go of their hands and ran a hand along the wheels to make them chime. When they came out into a large open room, the boy stopped, brought his hands together in front of his chest, bowed, and said a few words before turning about and running back the way he came.

  “Gentlemen, please do come in,” said a voice from the dark in English.

  Shaw and Bruce warily stepped into the room and saw a diminutive man, wearing dark-red robes, sitting in an old wooden chair. He was bald and wore thick glasses. From the deep lines on his weathered face, Shaw thought the man looked to be in his late eighties.

  “I’m not that old, Mister Shaw. I’m only eighty-two,” said the man. “That’s what you are wondering, isn’t it, Mister Shaw?”

  Shaw smiled. “Yes, yes I was.”

  “Please take a seat and rest your weary bones,” said the man, pointing to two large green and gold pillows on the floor in front of his chair.

  Bruce and Shaw sat.

  “Welcome to the temple of Kubera. My name is Drolma Choling, and I am the Lama of this temple,” said the man. “Would you like some tea?”

  “I’d love some if it’s not too much trouble,” replied Bruce.

  In the shadows, Shaw and Bruce heard the sound of young feet scampering away to fetch the tea.

  “You speak very good English,” said Shaw. “Did you spend some time in India in your youth?”

  “No, I have never ventured a single day from this valley,” replied Drolma. “While I taught Mister MacDonald Tibetan, he taught me English. A fair exchange, wouldn’t you say?”

  “I would think so,” said Shaw.

  A couple of minutes later, two young boys walked over and handed Shaw and Bruce each a cup of tea. Looking down at the creamy beverage, Bruce began to suspect that it wasn’t going to taste like any tea he was used to. After taking a sip, he instantly placed his cup down and then smiled up at Drolma.

  “Butter tea is an acquired taste, Mister Bruce,” said Drolma. “It is made from tea leaves, yak butter and salt.”

  “Aye, all I could taste was the salt,” replied Bruce, wishing that he had something to wash the taste out of his mouth.

  “It is full of calories and is a good beverage to drink at high altitudes,” said Drolma, smiling at Bruce.

  Shaw placed his cup down and then looked up at the Lama.

  “I suspect that you both have many questions for me; however, as time is not on our side, I will get to the point,” said Drolma. “I saw you both in a dream that I had a more than a month ago. I knew that you were on your way, so I arranged to have you brought here because I need your help.”

  “Sir, you have an odd way of asking for our help,” said Shaw. “Your grandson almost had us all killed.”

  “That is my fault. My grandson did not know that I had sent a young boy asking MacDonald to bring you to me,” replied Drolma. “Unfortunately, my messenger broke his leg and never made it to MacDonald. My grandson was only doing what he believed was his duty. He has been taught since he was a child that it is his destiny to protect this sacred place from intrusion. My grandson is a brave man, but has a fiery temper and lacks the strong leadership skills his father had. When he was young, I sent him to school in India to learn the ways of the modern world. By all accounts, he was a troubled and rebellious youth. The day he turned eighteen, he quit school and returned home. He has acted far rashly over the past few weeks and cost this temple far too many loyal and irreplaceable fighters. I am too old to teach him how to be a good warrior and the men only follow him out of loyalty to his late father.”

  “Sir, how can we possibly be of assistance to you?” asked Shaw.

  “Colonel Adler and his people are too well-armed and would easily destroy any attempt led by my grandson sent against them,” said Drolma. “That is why I want you to take charge of what remains of this temple’s fighters and stop Adler from reaching his goal.”

  Shaw was amazed at how much Drolma knew. He took a deep breath and then said, “Sir, what do you know of Adler and what he is looking for?”

  Drolma clapped his hands and called a young monk to his side. He whispered a few words in the man’s ear. The monk nodded his head, left the room, and returned less than a minute later. He placed a small black leather bound journal in the Lama’s lap before bowing and leaving the room.

  “This was found three years ago at the bottom of a gorge clutched in the hand of a climber who had fallen to his death,” explained Drolma. “I cannot read what is written in the book; however, I know that you can speak, read and write German fluently.”

  Shaw was beginning to get uncomfortable. It was unnerving how much he about him and their mission. “May I see the journal?”

  “Naturally,” replied Drolma, holding out the book for Shaw to take.

  Shaw opened the book and skimmed over the first few passages. “It’s the journal of a German Army officer. His name was Ulle Muller, and he was one of several men who had been secretly recruited to explore this region of Tibet.”

  “Yes, they were undoubtedly looking for the secret resting place of the Starchild,” said Drolma.

  A chill instantly ran up Shaw’s back. “Excuse me, sir, did you say Starchild?”

  “Yes; according to the scriptures of this holy temple, handed down from Lama to Lama, many centuries ago a shooting star from heaven crashed with a blinding bright light into the hills behind this temple,” said Drolma. “When people from the local village went to see what had happened, they came across a destroyed chariot and what they took to be a young child unlike any they had ever seen. He was frail, with a long misshapen skull, large black eyes and light gray skin. He wore odd clothing and was barely alive when they found him. Some men brought him here to this temple. My ancestor, a Lama named Tsarong, tried to heal his injuries, but the child died the next day. Almost right away things began to happen. First, it was livestock, and then people began to disappear in the night. Their bodies were found torn to pieces when the sun returned, chasing off the night.”

  Shaw and Bruce exchanged an uncomfortable look.

  “For four days, my ancestor debated what to do while death swept through the valley until the people, fearing that their lives were cursed, demanded that Tsarong to do something. So he decided that the Starchild and whatever pieces of the chariot they could find would be carried up high into the mountain to rest in a sacred cave for all eternity.”

  “Do your scriptures describe this chariot in any detail?” asked Shaw.

  “No, only that it was destroyed. All of the pieces but one could be picked up and moved. However, one item, a small metal box, was deadly to the touch. Three young men died before one brave soul decided to use a couple of pieces of pipe from the temple to pick up the box. After placing it inside a wooden container filled with ground up pieces of pipe, the boy was able to carry the box away. One by one, the pieces of the chariot were taken up into the mountain until the day came when the best climber in the village carried the Starchild on his back to the sacred cave. None of the boys ever returned. That is why the mountain is called Naraka, hell. ”

  “Did the attacks stop?” asked Shaw.

  “Almost right away,” replied Drolma. “However, anyone who ventures high up the mountain never returns as it is guarded by the spirits of the creatures who once plagued this valley.”

  Bruce looked up at Drolma, “Lead, your pipes are made of lead aren’t they?” />
  “Yes. To the best of my knowledge, they have always been made of lead. It is easy enough to find in the hills around the valley,” replied Drolma.

  “What are you thinking?” Shaw asked Bruce, seeing the excited look in his eyes.

  “Well, it may be a long shot, but lead is used to shield against the harmful effects of radiation,” explained Bruce. “Inadvertently, the boy who used lead pipes to move the box stumbled upon the only way he could have moved something highly radioactive without dying right away from the effects of radiation poisoning.”

  “Are you saying that the Vril power the Nazis want to get their hands on is this radioactive box?” said Shaw.

  “Could be,” replied Bruce.

  “Duncan, I’m not as well-read as you are,” said Shaw, “but could a powerfully radioactive power source be used to make a bomb?”

  “Without a doubt. In the mid-nineteen thirties, German scholars were already postulating the idea of nuclear fission that could result in the production of an atomic bomb,” explained Bruce. “Thankfully, many of the scientists involved were Jews and were forced out of the organization that was looking into nuclear fission. Most immigrated to the States, where they are undoubtedly working on an atomic bomb for our side.”

  “So how did they learn about the secret hiding place of the Starchild and this radioactive box?”

  “I believe I can answer that,” said Drolma. “About ten years ago, a young man with an eye for another man’s wife tried to kill the man and take his young wife. His attempt failed, and he was exiled from the valley. In hindsight, it was not a good decision. I later learned that he had wondered south into India and met up with a group of foreigners traveling across Asia.”

  “Let me guess, the people were German,” said Shaw.