‘So there we are,’ I say briskly. ‘Soon it’ll be safe with McLellan Sahib, and we can forget about it.’
‘Yes, Doctor Sahib.’ He looks puzzled, as if he’s wondering whether I really believe what I’ve just said.
Cherma lies moaning softly, while the others quietly sip their tea. Their English isn’t as good as Nima’s. I’ve no idea how much they’ve understood.
‘Where’s Cedric?’ I say suddenly.
Nima blinks. ‘He is not with you, Doctor Sahib? He is with us in the night, but when we are waking, he is going out.’
‘Stupid hound may have got lost. I’d better go and make sure he’s all right.’
As I set down my mug, Nima holds something out to me. ‘For you, Doctor Sahib. For the climb.’
I’m astonished. It’s the white ribbon-like scarf he wears around his neck, the one with the prayers. ‘But Nima – I can’t. Your wife made it for you—’
‘Is for you, Doctor Sahib,’ he insists with surprising firmness. ‘Is danger. Is good you are taking.’
His expression is shy, yet tinged with pity. Does he mean something more than physical danger? Does he know?
To my horror, there’s a lump in my throat and my eyes are stinging. I’ve felt so alone. To think that someone else might actually suspect what I … ‘Thanks,’ I croak, stuffing the grubby ribbon in my pocket and scrambling out of the cave before I disgrace myself.
Cedric isn’t with Garrard and Kits, or snuffling around camp. I stomp about in the twilight, calling for him and trying to regain my composure. Grey spindrift is streaming over the ground as I trudge past the stockpile and the latrine area, towards the indigo slash of the crevasse.
I lean over the edge as far as I dare. ‘Cedric?’
The darkness flings back his name, but to my intense relief, I glimpse no pale, shaggy form far below.
Then I hear him, muffled whimpers behind me. ‘Oh Cedric, you daft beast!’ Last night, after we finished the ice caves, the exhausted Sherpas dismantled the tents and left them at the stockpile in a tangled mound of rope and canvas – which is now faintly heaving.
Cedric’s got himself thoroughly muddled, and it’s quite a job unearthing him, as I have simultaneously to pin down the tents with packing crates so that they won’t blow away. At last he’s free, yelping with joy and slobbering all over me.
‘Ha! Not avoiding me now, are you, my lad? That’ll teach you to nose about in the stores! Ow!’
I’m kneeling in the snow and he’s nuzzling my face when the sun’s first rays touch the western peaks. My spirits lift. Over by the Sherpas’ Altar, Pasang stands quietly singing a prayer, and from Garrard and Kits’ cave come the usual early-morning coughs. Above me, the ice cliff is a deep shadowy blue, and above that – out of sight, yet silently calling – is the summit we mean to climb. I’ve been in danger of forgetting it, but it’s still there in all its beauty and cruelty. No, not cruelty; it’s simply a mountain: the Crystal Mountain I’ve longed for all my life. Nothing can alter that.
Cedric’s convulsive trembling jolts me back to the present. He’s panting with terror, his ears flat against his skull, his black lips peeled back. With a frantic whimper he squirms out of my grip and hurtles towards the Sherpas’ ice cave.
Clouds have dimmed the sky, and suddenly I’m cold. The sun looks ill. The grey light feels troubled and wrong. The wind is still blowing, but I can no longer hear it. No hiss of spindrift, no roar over the Saddle. I can’t hear Pasang singing, or Garrard and Kits coughing. The silence presses on my chest like the silence of a dream – but I’m not dreaming, I am inside the silence, cut off from earthly things.
My scalp is prickling, my body shrinking from what it knows is here. I can’t move, can’t breathe. Dread is a stone inside me, holding me frozen.
It is standing on the other side of the crevasse.
It was night when I saw it on the Crag, but now there is no merciful dark to obscure it and leave room for doubt; there is only this relentless, unnatural, diseased grey light.
I see it as clearly as I see my own mittened hands clutching my knees. I see its windproofs and balaclava and hood, all crusted with frost – so that, although it has human form, it seems made of ice. Around it, the snow is lifting and swirling in the noiseless wind, but what stands before me remains unmoved, the long tapes of its hood hanging straight. Ice rimes its snow glasses and renders it eyeless, and yet with some deep-buried part of my brain, I know that it sees. Its malevolence blasts me like the frozen breath of the crevasse: rage without end, unspeakably strong, howling eternal darkness from which there is no escape.
A voice cuts through from the other world.
With an effort, I jerk my head towards camp.
I see a corner of the Sherpas’ ‘door’ drawn aside, a slab of yellow light staining the snow. I hear Garrard calling Kits to breakfast. I hear the wind roaring over the Saddle.
When I turn back to the crevasse, the figure is gone.
But it was there. I saw it.
And worse than that, it saw me.
16
So I was right about the rucksack. But I was wrong to feel relieved when I escaped Camp Two. I’d assumed that some kind of law confines it to the place where it was killed, like a ghost in a Victorian Christmas number, doomed to re-enact its own death. But what I saw on the other side of the crevasse isn’t confined to Camp Two. And it isn’t re-enacting anything.
But why does it haunt? That’s what my mind keeps circling back to. And why is it angry? Did Kits stumble on the truth when he said we ought to search for the body? Is that what it wants? To be taken down the mountain and buried with its comrades on the knoll? Rest in peace, Arthur Ward?
That’s not it, I’m certain. Nothing so benign. What I felt coming at me across the crevasse was no yearning for eternal rest; it was malevolence and rage, and it was directed at me.
I’ve just remembered another reason why ghosts walk. To warn the haunted man to prepare for death.
Is that why I’m the only one who sees it? Is it a portent of my death? I think of Cedric avoiding me, and that gorak perched on my tent at Base. Is that why Nima gave me his ribbon? Because I’m going to die?
‘Stephen, a word.’ Kits is standing a few yards off with his hands on his hips, looking very solid and real.
‘In a minute,’ I mumble.
‘Now. My ice cave, chop-chop.’
In a daze, I watch him trudge towards the cave mouth.
But even if I’m wildly mistaken about everything, about what I saw on the Crag and now here at the crevasse – even if it’s all simply the result of oxygen deficiency – how does that help? The idea that altitude is giving me waking nightmares, that thin air is altering my very perceptions and deceiving my own mind into betraying me … I find that horrifying.
It’s a kind of possession.
* * *
I’m with Kits in ‘his’ ice cave. Garrard’s here too, sheepish and embarrassed in his rôle as ‘witness’.
‘Witness to what?’ I ask distractedly.
‘To what I’m about to show you,’ snaps Kits. ‘I want you to be in no doubt that I’m keeping my side of the bargain.’
Holding up Ward’s match-tin, he stows it with ostentatious care in the rucksack, then packs the rucksack in one of the olive-green bags we use for the post.
‘I’ve included a note to McLellan,’ he adds, very tight-lipped. ‘I’ve no doubt that he will appreciate the historical importance of what I’m entrusting to his care. There.’ He ties the neck of the post bag securely with a double knot. ‘I’ve told Nima to give this to Lobsang as soon as the supply party gets here, with orders to take it straight down to Base. Satisfied?’
‘Of course. I’d have taken your word for it, you know.’
‘I’d rather you saw for yourself, since it clearly matters to you so much.’ He speaks with studied forbearance: the long-suffering older brother, humouring the younger one’s wild ideas.
Well, how’s
this for a wild idea, Kits? What if I sent a note of my own? Dear McLellan, this rucksack is haunted, burn it at once. Wouldn’t that go down well?
Although on second thoughts, Kits would love that. He’s made it quite clear that he thinks I’m being irrational, but he’s not getting rid of me that easily. My mind is made up. I’m definitely climbing to the Great Shelf. Damned if I’ll give him the satisfaction of leaving me down here, meekly caring for Cotterell, while he forges ahead for the summit.
* * *
Kits takes the lead, then Garrard, then me, then the Sherpas and finally Cedric, whom I’ve once again ‘forgotten’ to send back to Base. I’m using him as an early-warning system. If anything follows, he’ll be the first to know.
Luckily, we don’t have to climb the ice cliff itself, as Garrard has found a way up a shadowy defile on its eastern flank. It’s tricky work, hacking steps around great tumbled blocks and pinnacles (why did I ever long for those?). In places, the ice is so rotten that my axe sinks in with alarming ease. In others it’s adamantine; I struggle to knock off shards, which fall with that sinister, slithering echo. And behind everything is the dread. If it can appear by daylight …
An avalanche crashes past the far end of the cliff, blasting us with snow.
When it’s over, Garrard gives a jittery laugh. ‘That was a bit close.’
I don’t reply. There are worse things than avalanches.
After two exhausting hours, we’re above the cliff, and on to a vast whale-backed ridge, which appears to lead directly up to the Great Shelf. Kits is jubilant. ‘We can simply walk along it all the way!’
As usually happens, the ridge turns out to be a lot steeper than it appears. The snow is firm enough, but we’re at well over twenty-three thousand feet, and the sheer effort of putting one foot in front of the other is immense. I focus my will on the rasp of my breath and my savagely aching legs. Step. Breathe. Breathe. Step. Breathe. Breathe …
We haven’t gone far when we’re spent. As we pause, chests heaving, Garrard suddenly stiffens. ‘What’s that down there?’ he gasps.
‘Where?’ pants Kits.
‘Hundred feet down … On the highway.’
My heart turns over. Deep in the defile, a shadowy figure is following our trail.
Kits fumbles for his field glasses. ‘It’s Pasang,’ he mutters.
Oh dear God, something’s happened to Cotterell. I should never have left him. What was I thinking?
Fearing the worst, we retrace our steps down the porters’ highway, towards the toiling boy.
He’s nearly done up, coughing and slumped on his ice-axe. ‘Major Sahib worse,’ he wheezes. ‘Nima say Dr Sahib come fast!’
‘But why the hell did they wait?’ I explode. ‘I told Nima, any sign that he’s worse and you take him straight down to Camp Two!’
The lad blinks at me through frosted eyelashes. He’s scared, he doesn’t understand.
‘We could draw lots,’ suggests Kits.
‘Don’t be an idiot, I’m the doctor, of course I’ll go!’ I knew this would happen. I knew I wouldn’t escape.
‘Bad luck, old chap,’ says Kits. He’s standing with his back to the edge and his snow glasses pushed up on his forehead, trying not to smirk. He knows it has to be me. He only suggested drawing lots to appear even-handed before Garrard.
I wonder what would happen if I pushed him. For an instant, I picture the shock on his face. Garrard’s blank disbelief …
Christ knows I’ve not the remotest desire actually to do it, it’s merely an idle thought; like the ones you get when you’re in the Tube, and it flashes across your mind, What if I jumped? But the fact that it’s occurred to me at all makes me feel awful.
I put my hand on Kits’ shoulder and give it a squeeze. ‘You be careful up there, old man. And don’t get too smug. Before you know it, I’ll be joining you at Camp Four!’
* * *
I knew I’d be forced back to Camp Three, and Pasang seems to know it too. He knows I’m a marked man. He’s keeping a wary distance as we head off down the porters’ highway.
So is Cedric. He’s devised a novel mode of getting down the tricky bits, but it doesn’t involve me. When Pasang is immediately below him, the beast half leaps, half slithers on to the lad’s shoulders, then uses him as a springboard and jumps to safety. The first time he did it, he nearly knocked Pasang flying, but since then, the Sherpa digs in his ice-axe when he hears Cedric coming. I’m making them go before me, so that I can keep watch for any change in the dog’s behaviour.
It’s well past noon by the time Camp Three appears below us. I make out the black mouths of the ice caves in the cliff, with the stockpile and the crevasse over to the side, and in front, on the Plateau, the giant block of ice that is the Sherpas’ Altar.
I can’t see anyone about. With a sinking feeling, I picture Nima inside, tending a rapidly worsening Cotterell. How could I have left him? What if he …
Cedric scrambles past Pasang down the last few steps, and on to the Plateau. I watch him dart past the Sherpas’ Altar and pause to sniff the wind. Then his ears go back and he’s off, racing straight past camp. He’s heading for the flags that mark the porters’ highway down to Camp Two.
‘Cedric!’ I shout. ‘Here, boy! Cedric!’
He doesn’t even glance back. In horror, I watch him dwindle to a dirty-white patch amid the glaring chaos of ice. Then he disappears.
‘Cedric!’ I’m shocked by the desolation in my voice.
He has wandered off before, but this feels different. This feels final. His eyes were starting from their sockets. He was terrified.
Pasang is staring at me. I mustn’t lose my nerve; it’ll only alarm him.
‘Well,’ I say briskly. ‘I was going to send him back to Base anyway, so he’s saved us the trouble!’
But inside, I’m reeling. It’s terrifying how much I’ve come to rely on that dog. I can’t believe he’s really gone.
* * *
There’s no one in the Sherpas’ cave, or ours, or Garrard and Kits’. They’re all gone. It takes a moment to dawn on me. Camp Three is deserted.
The panic in Pasang’s face mirrors mine. I force a smile. ‘Nothing to worry about, Pasang, they’ll have left us a note.’
Sure enough, on Cotterell’s ‘bunk’ I find a tin of coffee pinning down a page torn from a notebook. As I skim it, my smile freezes.
‘All’s well,’ I tell Pasang, who’s crouching outside the cave mouth, chewing pan. ‘Nima and Cherma have taken Major Sahib down to Camp Two. It’s too late for us to follow them today. We’ll stay here tonight and head after them in the morning.’
The boy points to the Sherpas’ cave. ‘I camp, Doctor Sahib?’
‘You’d best bunk in here with me, it’ll be warmer.’
He gives an uncertain nod, and points again at the other cave. ‘Pasang there, yes?’
He doesn’t understand; or maybe he’s daunted by the idea of bunking with a sahib. ‘Very good,’ I tell him. ‘You settle yourself in there and make us some tea.’
When he’s gone, I re-read Cotterell’s note.
Dear Dr Pearce, it begins in a vigorous hand that turns shaky towards the end. Earlier I was feeling grim, and Pasang panicked and sped off to fetch you. Happily, I’ve since improved, but your excellent man Nima has decided not to wait, and is taking me down to Camp II – against my wishes, although I understand he has orders from you & is impressively determined! Don’t follow us down. I’m quite well enough to walk, & no doubt a swift descent will do the trick.
You should also know that Lobsang’s supply detail (which had been and gone before all this occurred) has brought a post bag from Base. Plse take Garrard & Kits their letters; vital for morale. I repeat, don’t follow me. That’s a command decision. I want you where you’re needed most, with G & K on the push for the summit. Sorry you’ve been put to this trouble. I’ll write again by nxt ‘Sherpa post’ & let you know how I go on. Yrs, Gordon Cotterell.
Th
e silence in camp appals me. How will I get through till morning, with only Pasang?
And what’s Cotterell hiding behind that military guff about ‘command decisions’? He’s clearly desperate not to scupper the expedition, but his condition must have alarmed Nima for him to have dared to force a descent. I’m hanged if I’ll obey his ‘order’. I need to go down there and help him as soon as I can.
It’s two in the afternoon. Too late to follow them today.
Or is it? If we left now, could we make it before dark? Maybe Pasang could, but not I. After twice tackling that defile, I’m almost ill with fatigue, every muscle screaming for rest. I’ve no choice but to stay here. I never had a choice.
In the post bag are three bundles of letters, neatly sorted by Cotterell. Flinging mine on my bunk, I call for Pasang.
He appears at once – I suspect he’s been waiting outside – and I hand him the post bag containing the letters for Garrard and Kits.
‘Pack this in your doko. Tomorrow you’ll take it up to Kits Sahib at Camp Four.’
He nods. I’m unsure how much he’s grasped, but I’m too drained to try again. ‘Very good, Pasang, you may go now.’
‘Yes, Doctor Sahib.’
It’s all I can do to pull my stuff-sack ‘door’ across the cave mouth and weight it with tins; to light the Primus under a pan of snow, then wrap my sleeping bags around me without taking off my boots.
I must have dozed. When I wake, the light around the door is dimmer, and the Primus is hissing beneath a pan of water.
Cotterell’s bunk looks disturbingly empty. It feels important that I do something about this, so on impulse, I turn it into a makeshift larder, piling it with a random assortment of provisions fetched from the back of the cave: canisters of tea and Bourn-Vita, sago, brandy balls, biscuits, the post bag …
The post bag? But I gave that to Pasang. He must have misunderstood me and left it here. ‘Pasang!’ I shout.
No answer. He’s probably asleep.