Sacred Mountain

by Robert Ferguson

  “We must take this straight to the Chinia Lama at the shrine,” Zigsa had whispered, standing up and leaving the tea beside him untouched. “He is the Dalai Lama’s representative here and will know what to do. It must be placed somewhere safe from the traders and given to the monks so they can repair it. They are very skilled at restoring such items.”

  Philip followed him through the warren of tiny alleys that criss-crossed the refugee shelters and up a short flight of stairs to the ornate doors of the shrine. Zigsa strode in without even acknowledging the main golden statue and led Philip up more stairs to a small room where an old monk sat writing at a desk.

  The Tibetan nodded towards him. “This is the Chinia Lama.” The two men spoke briefly and then fell upon examining the book. After several minutes the old monk came around his desk and took Philip’s hand, raising to his forehead and saying something.

  “He is thanking you,” Zigsa translated. “For saving such an important item and restoring it to us. He asks where you got it from as he is concerned that other such works have been lost as well.”

  Philip retrieved his hand. “Tell him not to worry. This book was being smuggled out by some Tibetan monks when they encountered some problems. It was the only manuscript they had with them and nothing was lost.” He paused and looked at the abbot. “You must warn him that he has an important guest on his way. It was he who was originally escorting the Kanjur. He’ll be here in a few days’ time.”

  He’d taken his leave, declining to reveal the identity of the traveller, feeling that after all that had happened the fewer people who knew about the mission the better.

  Since that visit Zigsa had always welcomed him warmly and now even offered him black tea with sugar rather than butter. It felt like a tranquil refuge where Philip could recover from the exertions, both physical and mental, of the previous few weeks.

  On one occasion, a week or so later, he’d been led by the Tibetan, whom Philip could see was bursting with excitement, straight over to the shrine. Here he’d been delighted to find the Rinpoche, who’d arrived a couple of days before, and spent an enjoyable afternoon with him. His attempt to visit the UN was looking promising. He’d managed to obtain the necessary visas for India, Britain and the US and was just awaiting for his travel arrangements to be confirmed.

  He’d looked worried and Philip had tried to reassure him that he’d be well received and treated.

  “To be honest it’s not that,” the Llama had confided. “It’s the travelling in the aeroplanes that I’m apprehensive about. Tell me,” he asked, leaning forward in his chair, “What is it like?”

  Philip thought of the flight into Kathmandu, of the updrafts buffeting the plane as it wove between the forested peaks of the Himalayan foothills. He wasn’t sure what to say as he didn’t want to lie to a highest incarnation of Buddhist Llama. “It’s easier than climbing over a Himalayan pass and more comfortable than camping in the mountains,” he replied tactfully. “The only thing is it can get a bit bumpy as the plane bounces around in the air.”

  The Rinpoche nodded. “Before I was a monk I used to enjoy breaking in young ponies on the Steppe. If it gets too rough I will close my eyes and imagine I’m there once more, the wind in my face and sun on my back.”

  It was the last time he saw him. By the time of his next visit, he was gone.

  *

  In his spare time Philip hadn’t been idle. On his last night in Thangboche, staying with Lhamu’s family, he’d listened to her father’s stories and reminiscences of the earlier climbing expeditions, taking copious short-hand notes into his battered notebook. The old Sherpa had loved it, arms waving as he relived his memories in front of a new, enthralled audience. Philip had explained his plan to Lhamu as they’d sat alone by the dying fire later that night, her eyes sparkling with an enthusiasm he prayed was more than the reflected glow of the embers.

  Back in Kathmandu he’d used the notes to outline a series of articles about the Everest attempts of the 1920’s, including the mystery of the disappearance of Mallory and Irvine and whether or not they’d managed to reached the summit before vanishing in a storm. If accepted by his editor he’d be able to invite Old Karma, accompanied by Lhamu, to Kathmandu to interview him in more detail. He hoped that after spending so much money on the exclusive rights to the current climb, The Times would be keen to cash in. His proposal went further than this, but he’d not dared mention all of it to her in case it didn’t come off. It was with some trepidation that he’d sent through the proposal to the Features Editor and he then waited nervously for several days for a response. When it came, sitting in the pile of incoming messages at the Public Telegraph Office one morning, he couldn’t bring himself to read it but had shoved it in a pocket, not retrieving it until he was sitting in the gardens of the hotel with a large pot of coffee before him. Taking a deep breath he unfolded the flimsy telegraph paper.

  “Attn. Philip Armitage, Times Correspondent. Proceed with old Everest articles x 3. Reasonable expenses only please for Sherpa in Kathmandu. Re. your second proposal. We agree so long as the current climb is successful . Best Jack .”

  Philip leapt to his feet bursting with excitement and spilling most of his coffee in the process. Lhamu was going to be coming to Kathmandu to look after her father. He felt a surge of hope now that he’d be able to spend time with her and get to know her better, away from the mountains. More exciting was the second proposal. If Hunt’s expedition managed to climb Everest then the amount of interest in the mountain worldwide would be huge. Philip had suggested a series of lectures at the Royal Geographical Society, where the old Sherpa, in tandem with Philip, could talk about Everest past and present. If Lhamu came to Britain with him, he’d have the chance to show her more of his life.

  He smiled to himself. His sister Mary had married an American during the war, meeting him while he was on leave in London and happened to shelter in the same tube station as her during an air raid. That had, by all accounts, caused quite a stir back in Norfolk when people found out. Imagine if he turned up there with a Sherpani. He laughed out loud. Damn it, who cares, he thought to himself.

  He walked quickly through the streets to the Indian Embassy, where his cultivation of their good will came into its own as his brief message was happily transmitted by their radio operator to their station in Namche.

  They arrived just over two weeks later, a period that dragged interminably to Philip, with the old Sherpa revitalised by his journey on pony to the capital. They stayed in the same small hotel as Mingma and the young Sherpa did everything he could to ensure that the old man’s stay was comfortable.

  That evening Karma had gone to bed early, tired from the journey and Philip had seized the opportunity to take Lhamu out to a nearby restaurant. Initially they were like teenagers, tongue-tied and smiling shyly at each other again but slowly the awkwardness passed. They sat at a rickety table at the back of the dimly lit restaurant where there was no menu and no choice. The rice and lentils sat untouched in front of them as soon they were chatting and laughing together.

  When the conversation finally died down, Philip took a deep breath, wondering whether his heart had ever worked as hard on the march to Tibet.

  “I’d like to spend more time with you,” he blurted out at last. “If the Everest climb is successful, my paper have offered to bring you and your father to London for a lecture tour. I’m sure your father would enjoy seeing England and it would, well, it would give us more time to get to know each other.”

  He paused, fumbling for words. “If the climb doesn’t succeed I could try to get a posting out here, perhaps with Hutch in Delhi. That way we can be near to each other, assuming that is what you’d like …” He stopped, finally exhausting all the words in his mind and responding to a gentle squeeze on his hand.

  Looking up at her he saw her smiling. “I have spent my life being told about the world outside the mountains; of the great cities and railways and the sea. It always excited me but was frighten
ing, so big and hard to understand. I often thought that if I ever had the opportunity to go I would probably not have the courage to take it up. Now that moment is here I’ve never been more certain of anything. I would love to go to your country,” she replied quietly. “In London, in Delhi, in Khumbu, I’m sure we could be happy.”

  They toasted their future in chang which, at that moment, Philip thought tasted better than any champagne he’d ever drunk. They left and started walking slowly back to the hotel, stopping outside and, after arranging to meet the following morning, he kissing her goodnight gently on the hand.

  It was still early and Philip, too elated to sleep, walked slowly back through Durbar Square. Hawkers were carefully tending their corn cobs as they cooked on glowing charcoal embers. Saddhus sat cross-legged on the bases of monuments, their faces smeared white with ash and bronze bowls placed before them in which to collected alms for their supper. Monkeys performed acrobatics, hanging off bars and jumping through hoops as laughing children watched wide-eyed. The western sky was still tinged orange from a fast fading sunset that still silhouetted the dark outline of the High Himalaya. It felt so good to be alive.

  He didn’t hear the voice at first, his name alien and out of place in such an exotic place.

  “Armitage, sahib?” it said again and this time he turned. It was the runner from the Indian Embassy holding out a folded note.

  He reached into his pocket and without looking shoved a handful of rupees towards the boy, snatching the message from his hand and ripped open the light air-mail envelope.

  It contained one small piece of paper, on which was written:

  “Snow Conditions bad… Abandoned Advance Base… Awaiting Improvement. All well.”

  Philip fumbled for his wallet, dropping more bank notes on the ground as he pulled out the folded sheet of paper that James had given him at Thangboche all those weeks before. His heart was pounding as he translated the code, checking it carefully before daring to believe.

  “Summit May 29th, Hillary. Tenzing. All well.” He looked at his watch. If he got the message off tonight there was a chance it would reach London in time for the story to be broken in The Times on Coronation day. He turned and started running towards the Embassy. Everest was conquered.

  Notes

  The characters in this book are mostly fictitious, created to tell a story against the backdrop of two historical events; the first Chindit Expedition into Burma in 1943 and the British Mount Everest Expedition of 1953. While I have tried to convey the atmosphere and feel of these two events, neither is represented historically accurately either in terms of timescale or the actions of the characters within them.

  The characters in Sacred Mountain who are journalists, with the exception of the main character Philip, and mountaineers do use the names of the climbers and correspondents who were there in 1953, but all their characteristics and actions are completely fictitious, created for the story.

  The Times correspondent on Everest in 1953 was James Morris (now Jan Morris, the famous writer). My thanks go to her for responding to my requests for information and for her encouragement in the project. Over the years the conspiracy theorists have suggested that news of the expeditions success was held back so that it would arrive in London on Coronation Day. Anyone who has read Morris’ Coronation Everest (1958) and spoken to her will realise that this was not the case, and indeed she nearly died descending the mountain in time to get the dispatch off.

  The Mail correspondent Ralph Izzard did leave Kathmandu and trek towards Everest, but did not have a transmitter or interfere with Expedition communications. This is fiction added to create the story. His book An Innocent on Everest (1954) is an excellent account of the whole episode, giving more flavour to the expedition than the rather functional accounts of the climbers. He returned to Nepal a couple of years later with the Mail in search of the Yeti, recounted in his book The Abominable Snowman Adventure (1955).

  The Telegraph correspondent Colin Reed and Times correspondent Arthur Hutchinson did remain in Kathmandu for the duration of the climb. Their actions and words within the book are fictitious.

  There are several meetings and conversations with members of the Everest Expedition in the book. These are all fictitious, albeit in places that they should have been at the time. The climbers did stay at Thangboche to acclimatise and, while there, were invited to the monastery for a blessing.

  As well as the books mentioned above, I also used several accounts of the Expedition written by the climbers to help get an understanding of it. There were The Ascent of Everest (1953) by John Hunt, South Col (1954) by W.Noyce and High Adventure (1955) by Edmund Hillary.

  Everest – The Swiss Everest Expeditions (1954) and The Mount Everest Reconnaissance Expedition 1951 (1952) by E. Shipton gave excellent descriptions of the landscapes, countryside and high passes, the former particularly good for details of the peoples, monasteries and villages encountered.

  For general details of Tibet and the Tibetans I used Seven Years in Tibet (1953) by H.Harrer and Through Forbidden Tibet (1936) by H.Forman.

  To get an understanding of the North side of Everest I used the accounts of the three British Expeditions there in the 1920’s, alluded to in the book. They were Mt. Everest – The Reconnaissance 1921 (1922) by C. Howard-Bury, The Assault on Everest 1922 (1923) by C. Bruce and The Fight for Everest 1924 (1925) by E. Norton.

  For details on Kathmandu and Nepal in general I referred to The Forgotten Valley (1959) by K. Eskelund, The Sherpa and the Snowman (1955) by C. Stonor, Nepal Himalaya (1952) by H. Tilman and Tiger for Breakfast (1966) by M. Pleissel.

  For the Burma story, I used The Burma Campaign (2010) by F. McLynn, Forgotten Voices of Burma (2010) by J. Thompson and War in the Wilderness (2011) by T. Redding.

  My main inspiration came from Return via Rangoon (1994) by Philip Stibbe, a memoir of his time as a Chindit and POW in Rangoon. He was my old school Headmaster.