Sacred Mountain

by Robert Ferguson

  Glancing up the valley he could see the Gurkhas emerging from their hiding places, smiles on their faces and waving their khukri overhead in triumph. His ears were slowly clearing and he became aware of a voice. He turned to see the Rinpoche standing behind him, head bowed and chanting in prayer. He sat watching him, the gentle flow of his voice filling the still valley like a gentle breeze.

  “He is praying for the dead,” Lhamu said from behind him. “Making sure that their souls can be found and go forward to their rebirth.”

  He crawled beside her and took her in his arms, holding her as tightly as his painful arm would allow.

  Chapter 21

  It was soon apparent that the Chinese force had been swept away and buried by the avalanche. It had been huge and stretched several hundred yards down the valley. Those Chinese who’d already advanced over the glacier lay stunned and half buried, bewildered by the change in fortune and the Gurkhas quickly dispatched them with their knifes. When they regrouped by the cliff a few minutes later the fight was over.

  As well as losing Balbir, Ram had also been killed by a bullet in the initial fire fight and a couple of others were cut and bruised from debris of the avalanche. Everyone was dazed; the silence that surrounded them contrasting completely with the deafening chaos of a few minutes before.

  “We’ll camp here,” Philip ordered, sitting exhausted in the snow. “Dig out the equipment and let’s get the tent up and some food cooked.” He glanced up the valley at the gun positions. “We must get Ram buried as well.”

  He tried to push himself to his feet but in doing so felt a sharp pain sear through his left shoulder. Lhamu noticed and pushed him back down. Opening his jacket and shirt she discovered a bullet wound in his upper shoulder.

  Philip winced as she gently probed around it. “Ouch!” he said through gritted teeth, looking down at it in surprise. “I thought I’d been hit by some debris from the avalanche.”

  Lhamu pulled down his clothes at the back and nodded approvingly. “It has gone right through,” she said, looking at the exit wound.” She smiled. “And it does not seem to have hit any bones.” Her fingers traced the scar tissue of an older wound. “It is an unlucky shoulder, it has been shot before.”

  The men, who’d been watching with concerned faces turned and moved off, satisfied that he wasn’t going to die. They wearily followed Prem up to where Ram’s body lay. Mingma had dug out and relit the fire and had started melting some snow. At the altitude they were at the water boiled quickly and Lhamu used it to wash the wound, dressing it with bandages from the First Aid kit before fashioning a sling with a length of material ripped from the uniform of one of the dead soldiers.

  “You are lucky,” she said, “the muscles will heal. Your arm will be fine.”

  “Thank you,” he said as he gingerly got to his feet. He caught her hand as she wiped it on some spare cloth and bringing it to his lips he kissed it.

  They looked at each other in silence and then both smiled. Philip took a couple of steps backwards, his eyes lingering on Lhamu’s until her hand dropped from his and he turned and carefully climbed to join the men.

  There was no place to dig a grave. The side of the valley was a jumble of boulders and rock that fell into the ice of the glacier. When he reached them the men had taken Ram over to a deep crevasse in the ice and were preparing the body, washing it with water from their bottles.

  Philip stood beside Prem. “It seems a cold and lonely place to be left,” he said, sadness washing through him.

  Prem glanced over at him. “Our people believe that his body will go back to the earth and his spirit will join those of his ancestors. It is a good place to lie.” He turned and pointed to a large boulder that stood at the side of the glacier. “His name will be remembered there for the man he was.”

  Ram was carefully redressed in his clothes and then swathed and tied in his large woollen blanket. When he was prepared the Gurkhas stood back and started reciting a prayer, a mournful chant that left tears on Philip’s cheeks. He looked at the wrapped corpse, remembering the cheerful young man of years before. How cruel it seemed to escape that hell only to die here. At least he’d have Balbir for company in the cold heart of the glacier.

  He realised the prayer was over and Prem gently took his good arm and led him forward to Ram. Together they all lifted the small body and gently slid it over the lip of a dark, bottomless crevasse. There was no noise; no catching on the sides or distant thump as it hit the bottom. It was as if he’d slipped peacefully into the next world.

  Returning to camp they started to dig their bags from the snow. Most were undamaged but the radio had been shattered by the force of the avalanche. The tent was erected in silence and after a hot meal Philip crawled exhausted into his sleeping bag. He was worried that his wound may keep him awake but he fell into a deep sleep.

  *

  The sun was warm on his face, bringing the smell of hot earth into his nostrils as he tried to cool himself with a small rattan fan. In his other hand was a rough clay bowl from which he took a swig of toddy juice, grimacing as the rough palm alcohol burnt the back of his throat. There was laughter and glancing up he saw Balbir and Ram sitting cross-legged opposite, swigging at their drinks. Village women were serving them sticky rice, fat lumps of meat poking from it, meat juice running from the side of the wooden platter on which it was served.

  He smiled up at the girl who’d just brought his food. Her long black hair was in a thick plait hanging behind her, the flower from a deep purple orchid woven into it. Her face was perfect, unblemished, with large brown eyes and a small, full mouth. She reminded Philip of one of his sister’s china dolls she’d played with when young; delicate, as if it could shatter at any moment. Her eyes fixed on his. She placed a tiny hand on his shoulder and leant forward, gently kissing him on his cheek. He lay back into a soft bed of silken cushions and fell, at last, into a dreamless sleep.

  *

  The next morning dawned bright and still, a strip of unbroken blue sky over the valley. It was a leisurely morning, a breakfast of millet tsampa at dawn, before breaking camp and moving out up the valley. Compared to their journey in the other direction, it would have felt easy had it not been for Philip’s wound. Every step he took jarred it, causing the dressings to rub on the scab and shoot pain down his left side.

  Fortunately the weather held, keeping fine and warm, allowing them to make good progress. As they climbed up they met a trading caravan travelling back from Namche. Prem and the men greeted the grizzled looking Tibetans as old friends.

  “We do business with them,” Prem explained as they stood together, communicating in a mixture of Tibetan and Nepali. “We took much of their salt on this very trip.” He looked at Philip. “They’ll trust us. If you would like to ride from here I’m sure we could borrow one of their yaks.”

  Philip looked up at the Gurkha, indignant that they though him in such a bad state, but before he could reply Prem erupted with laughter. When he and the other Gurkhas had recovered, he leant on Philips good shoulder to prop himself up. “No, I’m sorry, when they saw you they offered but I have already said no.”

  They said their farewells and the traders continued, warned but unconcerned about the avalanche lower down the valley and hopeful, Philip thought, of scavenging abandoned equipment scattered around the scene.

  Prem and Philip continued up the trail, walking in companionable silence until, after a hour or so, they finally reached the small rock cairn covered in tattered prayer flags that marked the top of the pass. They stopped to drink and sat enjoying the heat of the sun on a large flat rock, the place unrecognisable from a couple of days before. Looking back down the valley they could see the brown plains of the Tibetan Plateau stretching far away into the distance.

  “How did you get back?” Philip asked, shielding his eyes with his good hand as he looked up at the towering form of Everest to their left.

  There was silence as Prem screwed the top back onto his water b
ottle and clipped it onto his pack.

  “We had just arrived at the baggage when the shooting started.” He rubbed at some dirt on his palm with the thumb of the other hand, staring into the distance. “The whole valley was flashing with the light from the guns and torches. I could see the trees black against the light, every leaf showing clearly. Then we heard shouting and recognised Japanese. I knew there was no way we could go back. We grabbed our bags and I took the map case from your pack before heading off on the bearing you’d set earlier. After a couple of miles we stopped and waited but you didn’t come. At daybreak we moved off again.”

  The Gurkha sighed. “It took us another nine days to get to the border. We were very weak with hunger and Balbir was slowed by the beatings the Japanese had given his feet.” He smiled grimly. “We were found by a platoon of British soldiers patrolling the west bank of the Chindwin river. They couldn’t believe it. At first they thought we were ghosts but when they realised who we were they gave us food and took us to HQ.”

  Prem looked at Philip. “We waited and hoped. So many men wandered in alone after many weeks in the jungle. We prayed you might suddenly appear. Back in Calcutta we met up with others from the column but nobody had news of you. The war ended and still we heard nothing. We came home to our lives in the foothills, to our families and farms but we always remembered the officer who’d died so we could escape that village.” The Gurkha put his hand on Philips shoulder. “I came to accept that you died that day, that you’d been broken by what happened to those villagers in that hut.”

  Philips head bowed and turned away, trying to keep composed. When he did speak his voice cracked. “You’re right. I didn’t care what happened to me that night, I just wanted to make amends in some way for what I’d done. Giving you a chance seemed to be all I could offer. It seemed the only way out for me too. I grabbed a gun and kept firing until I thought I died. When I came to I was in the back of a truck, I’d been shot in the shoulder and had passed out. My wound had been cleaned and dressed. The first Japs treated me well.” He laughed grimly. “They believed I’d fought bravely and to the death. It wasn’t my fault I’d fallen unconscious.” His voice caught and he cleared his throat. “That changed when I reached Rangoon Jail.”

  He looked again at the towering peaks all around. “In a hell like that it’s impossible to believe that places like this can exist in the same world. Two years I was there. No news in or out. Treated worse than animals. When I was liberated and brought home everything had changed. My father had died, a cancer he hadn’t wanted to bother anyone with.” He leant forward, elbows resting on his knees, head bowed. “He never knew I’d survived. Letters I’d sent had never got through and when one finally did it was too late, he’d gone. I often think that he’d have been the one who’d have understood, who could have taught me to live with all that happened. But he wasn’t there. I’d always wondered why he was never still, up at first light and late to bed. Now I knew it was to keep the memories away, to always be doing something rather than remembering.” Philip slowly shook his head. “I finally understood my own father and I couldn’t put my arms around him and tell him. It would’ve been the first embrace we’d ever have had but it would’ve been worth the wait.”

  He sighed and look up. “I decided that I didn’t want to know the truth about you in case you’d all died and what little comfort I could take from my actions was taken from me. It was easier not to ask. I just wanted my old life back again, free of the memories of what happened.”

  He rubbed his eyes, pushing his fingers beneath his goggles so the Gurkha couldn’t see his tears. The relief, the joy he’d felt at meeting them in Namche a few days before finally forced its way out. Prem reached up and undid the top fastening of his jacket. Taking hold of a worn cord that hung hidden around his neck he pulled it out and, unsheathing his khukri , cut through its leather. In his hand lay a tiny gold St. Christopher medal.

  “It was in with the maps. When I looked in the wallet next morning I found it. I didn’t know what it was but vowed to keep it and return it one day.” He looked down at the image, of a man carrying a child across the water. “It seemed to show me what we all owed you, helping us to escape.” He held it out to Philip. “I never thought I would get this chance.”

  Philip took it, his hand trembling. Reaching into his own shirt he pulled out the charm he’d been given by the old Tibetan woman on the trail in to Everest. Slipping it over his head he held it out to Prem. “We’ll swap. This has served me well over the last few weeks. I hope it brings you the good luck and peace it’s brought me.”

  The Gurkha placed it over his head, as Philip tied the medallion around his. He jumped down from the rock and head off up the trail, his vision still blurred. He’d walked no more than fifty yards when he saw the Rinpoche standing by the trail, admiring a wall of weathered mani stones that had been carried up to this desolate spot by devout travellers. Wiping his face he quietly walked over and stood beside him. He was studying a large stone in the centre of the wall, on which intricate text had been beautifully carved around a large relief image of the Buddha.

  “The Buddha told us that everybody has free will and is responsible for their actions,” he said in a calm voice, his eyes not moving from the stone. “But that doesn’t make actions good or evil simply because of their consequence. It depends on the circumstances of the person when the action is done. A bad ending when an action was done for good reasons should not bring shame.”

  With this he turned and walked off in silence along the trail.

  *

  They continued on and late the next day they finally dropped in the fading light back into Namche. Wearily they trudged to the house of Mingma’s family where, after a large meal of chicken and rice, Philip slept on the hard earth floor as if it was a feather mattress.

  The next morning they sat around the hearth with large mugs of warm chang in their hands. Mingma had been to the Police Post at first light to report the avalanche and had returned shaking his head.

  “When I spoke to them they said you had never reported the dead monks by the river.” He looked at Philip. “The officer said that when you visited them last week you’d simply said that a monk was missing down by the river. That is why he did not act, thinking that the man would turn up later and it would be a waste of time sending his men. It was only after we’d left next day that he heard of the massacre from porters coming from Thangboche and realised they must be linked.”

  Philip shook his head. “It’s my fault. I should have brought someone else with us to the Police Post to check what he was saying. Strangely enough, in the end it probably worked out better thanks to him. If it hadn’t been for him telling us about the main Red Army force we may well have been caught by them at Rombuk. They’d have massacred us.”

  He looked around the group. “What are everybody’s plans?”

  “I shall return to Thangboche,” the Rinpoche announced, looking around the faces of the men who’d risked their lives for him. “Lhamu and Mingma have offered to take me. I want to pray for those who were killed and to get a message sent to the Dalai Lama in Lhasa telling him what’s happened and that I’m well enough to continue.” He looked around the faces of the Gurkhas. “I can never thank you or your dead friends for what they have done for me and Tibet.”

  He looked at Prem. “I will speak to the Abbot of Thangboche. Should the families of your dead comrades wish it, their sons will be welcomed there to study. Should they need it, alms will be given. They have only to ask, their names will be remembered and revered.”

  Prem bowed his head. “I will tell them. Balbir always believed he’d been saved by the Lieutenant for some purpose. When the sahib appeared again he knew that the time had come and he went gladly to his fate. I will make sure their army pensions are changed to their widows so they do not suffer more hardship.”

  Prem stood and the other Gurkhas followed his lead, draining their mugs and crossing to the bunks to fetch their poss
essions. Philip slowly stood, his shoulder still painful, and followed the corporal out of the door. He squinted in the bright morning light, sunlight bathing the small lane in a warm light that reflected off the white washed walls. He breathed in deeply, enjoying the sensation of the cool air in his lungs after the smoky lodge.

  The two men stood facing each other awkwardly, unsure what to say. Prem slowly saluted. Philip smiled and nodded, sharply returning the salute before stretching out his hand. Prem lowered his salute and reached out to grasp the hand. The men stared at each other.

  Philip faltered, trying to find words. There were none.

  The Gurkha smiled and nodded, and with their hands still grasped they embraced.

  The other Gurkhas had emerged and came over, hugging him, smiling faces he would now remember with fondness and pride. And with that they were gone, off down the small cobbled street and around the corner.

  *

  It was a beautiful day. Sunlight streamed down through a canopy of rhododendron, leaving pools of dappled light on the trail that contoured its way up the valley. The flowers were now in full bloom, huge splashes of pink and white that sat framed by the vivid green of the foliage. Ahead, high up on a spur, stood the gold pinnacled roof of Thangboche Monastery, glistening in the morning light.

  Philip walked steadily along the trail, his body rested after a day of being fed up by Mingma’s mother back in Namche Bazaar. The only exertion he’d done the previous day was to take a short afternoon stroll up to the radio station, where he’d enjoyed a very pleasant hour drinking tea with the charming Indian operator, who’d been delighted to have a visitor in such a remote place. It would, he’d been assured, be an honour to relay any messages for the expedition. When Philip had enquired about the radio’s performance with the new parts he’d had to walk to collect, the man had looked at him bemused and informed him with a shrug that he hadn’t been out of Namche for nearly two months.