The Yeti: A Novel

by Rick Chesler

  “You look like hell,” Jimmy said, not quite returning the favor Zack had just done for him in his mind.

  “Just a headache.”

  Jimmy reached into his pocket and pulled out a small plastic bag. Inside was a long brown stick that Zack recognized in the bleak light as hashish.

  “Want some? I bought it in Kathmandu; it’s good hash. It’ll make that headache go right away.”

  Zack waved him off. “No, thanks. I’ll be fine. I just need a good night’s sleep.” He motioned toward the door with his eyes.

  “Okay, Professor,” Jimmy said, taking his cue. He raised the bag of hashish, dangled it in front of Zack’s nose. “But if you change your mind...”

  Jimmy left. Zack fell back onto what passed for a bed and listened to the Greek’s footfalls disappear down the hall. His eyes eventually closed on their own. He saw smoke. It was coming from his Newport home. A woman screamed but the sirens were too far off. He checked the front door; the knob was scorching hot. He backed away. Looked down. In his right hand he held Nadia’s urn. He turned his gaze up, swallowed hard, lifted his leg and kicked in the door.

  He paused for a moment. Then he stepped willfully into the blaze and started to burn.

  * * *

  No fun, any of them, Jimmy thought as he closed the professor’s door and stalked off down the hall. The poor professor was tired. The Austrian Kurt Egger was a health nut. The Frenchman barely said two words the entire trek. And the Italian chick, she spent all her time with the other American, making it all but impossible to catch her alone.

  Jimmy walked past his room, disgusted at his father. If only he’d have paid for his friend Fotis as well. The two would have been having a hell of time, smoking, drinking, maybe heading back to Kathmandu and chasing women. But no, the cheap bastard made him travel by himself.

  And his father doubted he’d even make it to Camp I on Everest. Well, he’d show him. A picture of him on the summit would be in the papers in Greece before Jimmy even made it back to Base Camp. Finally he’d be famous for something other than being his father’s son. His face would be glowing all over the Internet without him standing in front of an L.A. club next to one of those famous Hollywood sluts.

  And to hell with university. If he could climb to the top of the world, his father would never make him finish and earn that useless degree. Six fucking years was enough. With Everest under his belt, he could go right into the family business and begin building his own fortune. His son of a bitch father would finally shut up.

  What a shithole, Jimmy thought as he stepped through what passed for a lobby, the smell of smoke and yak dung hanging in the stagnant air, making him cough, causing his eyes to tear. He pushed open the door and stepped out into the rain. The shit was coming down in buckets but he didn’t care. He was buzzed after those few beers and he needed to smoke a bowl in the fresh air, pouring rain or not.

  He strode toward the back of the lodge, keeping his head down, the water spilling off his skull and into the eyes. He turned right and ducked under a small overhang, the area lit with a single bare bulb. Perfect, he thought. He dug into his pocket and fished out his bag of hash.

  While he packed his bowl he watched the yaks, some standing still, some ambling aimlessly around the pen. Making their disgusting grunting noises.

  “You want some, you filthy animals,” he called out to them, “you go to Kathmandu and buy your own.”

  He laughed to himself. “The one over there, she looks like whatshername,” he mumbled. “That pop star. Can’t believe I–”

  The yaks’ grunts suddenly grew louder, frantic even, as though they’d seen a snake. Jimmy looked up. The entire herd hurried to the far side of the pen, huddled together like peasants. Jimmy searched the darkness for some sign of what had frightened them. There was nothing. Dumb animals, he thought. Probably one of them saw their own shadow.

  Jimmy pulled out his Zippo, popped the top and flicked his thumb across the flint wheel. The wick didn’t ignite. Son of a bitch, he thought. Don’t tell me I’m out of lighter fluid. He gave the flint wheel one more shot. The wick lit and he smiled. Placed the pipe in his mouth and held the flame to the hash. Listened to it sizzle.

  A harsh smell hit him in the face like a closed fist. He coughed, a great puff of smoke escaping his lips, wafting toward the bulb. What did that motherfucker in Thamel sell him? He sniffed the bowl. It smelled like hash. Whatever the stench was it was in the air.

  The yaks seemed to smell it too.

  A hideous shriek sounded from the forest, resonating in Jimmy’s ears. He glanced toward the trees. Shivered. It felt as though a thick cube of ice had just slid down his spine. He frowned, pocketed his bowl and lighter. Stared again at the yaks. Fucking things, he thought. Who knows what kind of wild animals they might attract?

  * * *

  Zack woke for the seventh time at first light. This time the screaming wasn’t in his head but in real life. It sounded like Nadia. It was what the paramedics must have heard when they first arrived at the scene, what Zack hoped Todd Mercer heard every night in his alcohol-induced sleep. He listened to the piercing cries through the paper-thin walls. They were coming from outside. Zack couldn’t immediately identify the voice, but after a few moments he recognized the language.

  Italiano. The screams were Francesca’s.

  Zack dragged himself from the bed, his limbs twisted and caught in the damp sheets from all his turning. As he pulled on his shirt he scanned the dimly lit room. But Dustin wasn’t there; his bed didn’t appear to have been slept in.

  Outside, the screaming continued.

  He pushed himself out the door and into the dank hallway. The back of his head throbbed. He felt sick to his stomach. It was as if he had a bad hangover, though he knew he hadn’t had a single drink last night.

  Zack stumbled and bounced off a closed wooden door in the dark, took his time but still faltered on the stairs.

  When he finally stepped outside he became immediately lost in the fog. He held out his arms, squinting futilely, trying to feel his way. Beneath his foot, he felt a large round rock. He staggered as he stepped on it and nearly fell.

  Zack followed Francesca’s throaty voice through the fog. She was sobbing, rattling something off in slaughtered English. In the background, he heard Sherpas shouting and wailing, some chanting prayers.

  Then someone grabbed hold of his arm.

  “Hitchens, are you all right?”

  “Fine,” Zack mumbled in the direction of Ian’s voice.

  “You don’t smell fine, mate. You smell like dawn at the Yorkshire Pub.” Ian’s face broke through the mist. “And look at you. You’ve got sick all down your chin. Go see Dr. Kapoor straightaway.”

  Zack touched his face. Ian was right; something must have come up from his stomach during the night.

  “What’s happened here?” he said.

  Ian hesitated. “Nothing to get your knickers in a twist.”

  The fog started to lift. Through a patch of gray daylight, Zack spotted Dustin standing near the pen with his hands on his hips. He pushed through the thinning mist toward him.

  “What in the hell happened?” Zack said.

  “The yaks.”

  “The yaks?” Zack squinted past the thick wooden posts but still couldn’t see.

  “They’re dead,” Dustin said.

  “Dead? Dead as in they fell off the trail?”

  Dustin frowned; his face was pale. “Not these,” he said softly.

  Francesca stood on her toes at the foot of the other side of the pen. Zack walked toward her and Dustin followed. She turned just as the two men approached. Her eyes were red and swollen.

  Behind her was the most brutal sight Zack had ever seen. More than a dozen yaks, some of them just calves, lay on their sides, each in its own pool of blood. Some were whole with skulls caved in, while others were torn to shreds. Some were missing limbs, others their heads. Many were bent in half, their backs broken, their spines snapped. Al
l were drenched in red, their long shaggy hair matted, their wide black eyes open and dead.

  The smell suddenly became too much for Zack. He gripped his knees and violently hurled onto the ground near Francesca’s feet.

  Slowly he straightened up. Breathed deeply and apologized, backing away, careful not to speak too close to her face.

  But she stepped forward as he backpeddled, pressed her cool hand to his cheek. She looked into his eyes. “Zack, are you ill?”

  He wiped some spittle from his chin with his sleeve. “It’s just the stench. What happened to our yaks?”

  “We do not know,” she said, tearing up again. “We do not know.”

  In the corner of the pen, the surviving yaks were packed together, agitated, grunting as though hungry or calling their young.

  A few feet away, four male Sherpas stood in a tight circle. Three remained silent while the fourth was animated, speaking loudly in his native tongue. Behind them, Tashi was still staring wide-eyed at the carcasses sprawled across the pen, muttering something to himself.

  Francesca called to him. Tashi looked over, glanced back at the pen, then slowly came near. Like most Sherpas, Tashi was dark-skinned, short and wiry but as solid as steel. The look of confidence he’d worn throughout yesterday’s nine-hour trek had all but vanished. His hands were now trembling, his mouth hung open. He was missing several teeth, Zack noticed. His lips were thin and discolored, badly cracked and peeled.

  Francesca spoke quietly to him, pointing to the animated Sherpa. “What is he saying, this man?”

  Tashi looked over at the group of his fellow countrymen. His Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat. “Something about Pangboche,” he said. “Few months ago, Dawa say, a Tibetan farmer was found in the forest, dead.”

  Francesca appeared perplexed. “A farmer? What does a single farmer have to do with a herd of yaks?”

  Tashi stepped forward. His voice took on a quiet, conspiratorial tone. “This Tibetan farmer...Dawa say he was mauled.”

  “Mauled?”

  Tashi glanced nervously toward the mountains, slowly shaking his head. When he finally spoke again, it was in a whisper. “Dawa say, only one beast can do like this.”

  Tashi paused. Zack stared at the field, at the bloodied horned piles of black, brown and white.

  Tashi said: “Dawa say, only yeti can kill man and yak alike with a single blow. Only yeti.”

  * * *

  “They’re a very superstitious people,” Dustin said.

  He and Zack stood on the mountain slope just outside the village. They’d hiked there with Francesca, who now sulked off on her own, hinting that she might head home.

  If she did, Zack decided, he’d offer to trek back with her to Lukla. His stomach didn’t feel any better, and after a brief respite, his headache had returned.

  “Whatever it was that killed those yaks,” Dustin continued, “it was no more a yeti than it was el chupacabra.”

  Zack smiled humorlessly. A student had raised the question of the chupacabra last semester in his morning zoology class. Over the past fifteen years, the legend of the “goatsucker” had spread wildly from small villages in Puerto Rico through Central America, Mexico and the United States. The alleged monster slaughtered livestock, draining its victims’ blood, leading some to believe it was a form of vampire. There were countless reported sightings of the creature. And as with accounts concerning Bigfoot and the yeti, most were eerily similar. The chupacabra, they said, had a large round head and a lipless mouth with sharp fangs. Its eyes were large and blood red. Its feet were webbed, and it had muscular hind legs. It was hairy with spikes, and stood four feet tall.

  Amused, Zack had downloaded grainy footage of the mysterious cryptid on YouTube.

  “We know it wasn’t a yeti,” Zack said, “but who or what in the hell do you think did that? I mean, after what happened in Kathmandu...”

  Dustin shrugged. “A wild bear maybe. Rogue Maoists protesting the commercial success of Namche Bazaar? I don’t know.”

  Francesca wandered back toward them. “I am sorry,” she said, her arms folded across her chest. “I apologize for breaking down before.”

  Dustin bowed his head. “Better now?”

  “Much,” she said. “It is just that I hate to see violence done to animals.”

  “Good,” Dustin said, starting down the slope. “Because I’m hungry. Let’s go back to the hotel and grab some lunch.”

  Francesca held back. “You know,” she said to Zack, “today is our only day in Namche. It is your absolute last chance to purchase gear, in case you decide to climb.”

  Zack shook his head. “I’m just spending a night or two up at Base Camp, then I’m trekking straight back to Lukla and catching the first flight out to Kathmandu.”

  “Yes, I know,” she said, staring up at him. “But you might have a change of heart.”

  For a moment Zack forgot about his headache and nausea, forgot that only hours ago he’d almost vomited on her brand new hiking shoes. Instead, an image flashed in his mind. An image of himself lying down in her yellow nylon tent on South Col, melting snow on the stove for tea.

  “Do not decide now,” she said, patting him on the chest. “Think about it over lunch.”

  Francesca started down the slope toward the village. Zack followed not far behind.

  Chapter 9

  Tengboche Monastery

  The trek to Tengboche took less than five hours. When the expedition arrived at the village, Zack was rewarded with a magnificent panoramic view of the Himalayas, and his first ever unobstructed view of Everest’s summit.

  “It’s...”

  There were no words. For a moment Zack thought he recognized what Nadia saw in the mountains, what he’d failed to see in New Hampshire and Washington State, even in Alaska. Something that defied description. Something beyond imagination.

  Dustin came up beside him. “Yes, it is,” he said, placing a hand on Zack’s shoulder. “Yes, it is.”

  “What’s the matter, Hitchens?” Ian turned to face the two men. “Yak got your tongue?”

  Zack couldn’t steel himself to take his eyes from the southeast ridge, from the trademark plume like icy smoke streaming east. He’d read enough to know what that meant: it was a sure sign of strong, steady winds at the summit. Winds so heavy they could sweep a man off the peak.

  * * *

  “Let’s one of us go for a divination,” Francesca said later, standing outside her nylon tent. Because there were so few lodges at Tengboche, the Himalayan Skies expedition was camping on the grounds of the gompa, the Tibetan Buddhist temple, for a fee.

  “A divination?” Dustin said. “You want one of us to have his fortune told?”

  Francesca rolled her eyes. “Well, I am not so sure the three dozen monks who have devoted their lives to this monastery would agree with your characterization. But, yes. Why not get a forecast of the climbing season from the Abbot? I think it would be fun.”

  Dustin grinned. “My characterization? You’re the one suggesting we treat the spiritual nucleus of the Khumbu like a gypsy’s tent at the county fair.”

  “Fine. Forget I mentioned it,” Francesca said.

  Zack turned toward the Tengboche Monastery and shielded his eyes from the sinking sun. The monastery, he’d read, had been twice destroyed, one time by earthquake, another by fire. Twice it had been rebuilt. Today it remained the largest and most active monastery in the Solu-Khumbu region, home to the head lama of all Nepal, the Abbot known as Tengboche Rimpoche.

  “I’ll do it,” Zack said.

  Francesca halted her retreat back into her tent. “You mean it?” she said.

  “Sure.”

  Zack was by no means a spiritual man; he’d long ago shed the superstitions he’d been indoctrinated with as a child, long ago dismissed the myths that had been drummed into his head at the parochial schools he’d attended in Providence. But after some cursory reading, he did possess some curiosity about Tibetan Buddhist philosophy.
And curiosity aside, it wasn’t lost on him that he hadn’t spoken to a soul about life in the months since Nadia’s death.

  “That is a fine idea,” Francesca said, as a monk approached Ian’s tent with a receipt book. Her eyes brightened. “After all, we are all going to face the same conditions on the mountain, aren’t we?”

  Zack didn’t respond. Actually, he hadn’t decided to climb. In fact, his head still ached, his stomach remained nauseous. And strangely, he still didn’t have a lick of an appetite. But he had done as Francesca suggested and purchased some gear in Namche Bazaar. A climbing suit, mittens, mountaineering boots and crampons, glacier glasses, an ice ax, and a down-filled sleeping bag. Ian’s company would be supplying the oxygen tanks and mask if he needed them.

  “Bloody hell.” Ian’s voice erupted inside his tent. “You want how much, mate? But we’re only camping here two bloody nights.”

  From off in the distance Zack heard a loud rumbling. The sound echoed through the valley.

  “What’s that?” he said.

  Each of the three turned their heads toward the mountains.

  “That’s an avalanche,” Dustin said.

  * * *

  Darkness smothered Tengboche in the early evening, arriving suddenly like a blanket over a birdcage. One by one each of the expedition members called it a night, disappearing into their tents on the temple’s grounds.

  Zack was one of the last. When he finally left Patty and Ian to their drinking and ducked under the bright red nylon flap, it was nearing midnight.

  Dustin was in his sleeping bag but awake. When Zack entered the tent, Dustin propped himself up on one elbow and adjusted the light on his lantern. “So what did Tengboche Rimpoche really say?”

  Zack positioned his sleeping bag on the opposite side of the tent. He added another sweatshirt before ducking inside and looking over at his tentmate. Dustin didn’t look well. In the faint light of his lantern, his face appeared green. His icy blue eyes were watering, and looked as though they’d been covered with thick sheets of glass.