by Adam Popescu
Eldest.
A red streak appears with each pile of snow I scoop—a dark red, almost black. My fingers, numb, torn to pieces, keep digging.
Keep digging, my ghost commands.
Don’t stop. I hear my mother calling now, too.
Keep digging, my sisters chant.
Eldest. My father’s cold bark sends a shiver through me.
“Nima,” Val says over my shoulder.
I can hear Ethan, too, like he’s far off somewhere. “Val, look at her hands.”
“Nima. Your hands. Nima, that’s enough, please. Please, Nima stop.”
I can’t. I can’t stop. I can’t leave him; I never told him my choice. The one man who believed I had a choice.
“She’s gonna catch hypothermia, Val.”
He deserved that much. Norbu deserved to know my choice.
There’s a wail, a strange shrieking howl. It sounds like the screaming deities and daikinis you tell children about to scare them into going to bed. There’s something familiar to the cry.
And then I realize that it’s coming from my open mouth.
Don’t look back.
I keep scratching at the void. My fingers hit something that’s neither snow nor ice. They tug at wisps of thick hair. I keep digging, harder than ever now, freeing him from Khumbi Yulha and Jomo Miyo Lang Sangma—I was a fool to doubt their power, a fool to lie. I hit something.
There’s a pocket of air—that’s the kind of ru’ it was, blessed with enough space to breathe, the gods are looking down on me, they can’t take another from me—I scoop free a massive chunk of ice with both hands. I see him, just a fingertip away. So still. Ethan and Daniel and Val, Sherpas and mikarus whom I’ve never seen before, they all help and we pull him free from the mountain. But he doesn’t jump up, doesn’t wraps his tree trunk arms around me. He can’t even stand. Norbu Norgay lies slumped over, his eyes shut, his chest flat, and I reach out and hold him in my arms and don’t let go.
I cry. And as I do, I tell him: my plan, my choice. I tell him our life as I know it will be. Suddenly, his chest moves—Norbu coughs and his whole body shakes. His eyes are open.
“Ethan,” Val says over my shoulder. “Quick.”
The mikarus rush to help, but I won’t let go.
“Norbu,” I say, focusing on his dark eyes, not the darkness pooling in the hole where we scooped him free.
“Gimme your belt,” Ethan yells. “We need to wrap it around the arm, above the wound.”
I stroke Norbu’s face with my torn fingers and he smiles at me the way he should have when we took my father to see Nurse Lanja so long ago.
“Keep the pressure on it.”
He touches my lips and whispers in my ear, and we both laugh.
“My choice,” I whisper back to him.
Then he lets out a cough again, wincing and smiling at once. I lean in, wrap my arms around him, and don’t let go.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
There were many people who breathed life into this book and helped bring it to fruition. I want to thank my family—father, mother and sister—for always giving me the most honest feedback, even if it wasn’t what I wanted to hear. There’s nothing more important to a writer than honesty.
To my Gina for giving me the confidence to keep working even when it felt like the summit was so far away, and it was. We made it, G.
To my friends in Nepal who through their love of this complicated country planted the seed for what would become Nima: Suman Thapa, my brave guide in the Solukhumbu; Cody and Cheryl, the marines who trekked with me into the sky; and the journalist Deepak Adhikari who stoked the fire. Thanks as well to early readers Ammu Kannampilly, who generously alerted me to errors; Parag Khanna, whose own work on Asia was a guiding light; Lisa Choegyal, an expert in all things Nepali; and Dr. Lhakpa Sherpa who has done so much to promote and improve the conditions of Nepalis. To all of you I owe a deep debt.
As a journalist, I am acutely aware of errors and inaccuracies in my work—it’s what we all fear most. That being said, any inconsistencies in this work are my fault and mine alone. This is a work of fiction, and I did take liberties. But in doing so I hoped to tell an honest story about these mountains, and the inspiring people who call the Nepal Himalaya their home.
Reading past and present greats filled my sails: Lil Bahadur Chettri, Manjushree Thapa, Jamling Tenzing Norgay, James F. Fisher, Sherry B. Ortner, Rita M. Gross, Janet Gyatso, Karma Lekshe Tsomo, Lhakpa Norbu Sherpa, George Schaller, John Whelpton, Bruce Temper, Janice D. Willis, Peter Hopkirk, Peter Frankopan, Dr. Hemanta R. Mishra, Jim Ottaway Jr., Sam Cowan, Fitzroy Maclean, Arnold Henry Savage Landor, James Hilton, Sir Rudyard Kipling, Lobsang P. Lhalungpa, His Holiness The Dalai Lama, you were the guides. I would travel with you anywhere.
A very special thank you to my agent, Pilar Queen of United Talent Agency, who had the vision and the guts to take a chance on this story. To Chris and Olivia at The Unnamed Press, who nurtured and believed in Nima from the beginning. Your enthusiasm and feedback are unrivaled.
To Nima, whatever path you chose, thank you. This book is for everyone who stares up at the sky and wonders what if and then pushes towards that unknown. Push.