Beyond the Summit (11 page)

Suddenly a high-pitched, piercing yell ripped through the air. Beth jumped a foot, leaving her stomach still in her throat when she landed. “What was that?”

“Yeti!” he exclaimed with terrifying urgency.

The Himalayan abominable snowman? “Really?” A second unearthly yell sent her flying off the rock without waiting for an answer. “What do we do?”

Following him was like riding the middle of a current down a rock-strewn stream, passing smoothly around and between the boulders. “What if it catches us?”

“The yeti carries men into the high mountains and they never come back.”

“Have you ever seen one?"

“No but I . . . A shrill whistle cut him off. His hand at her waist, he quickly turned her to the right. “This way. It is waiting on the path.” The gravity of his voice broke her rhythm and a second later she was heading face first for the ground. Catching her, he yanked Beth from the grasp of phantoms lurking in the darkness.

“But you what?” she asked with an indigestible lump of fear in her stomach.

“I saw a yak’s neck broken by something that took its horns and twisted the head. Only a yeti is strong enough to do that.”

Balance completely deserted Beth as she imagined a Yeti ripping her apart. The current that only minutes ago flowed smoothly around boulders was now crashing her into them. Struggling to keep her upright, he said, “We must hide.”

Shit, I can’t believe I’m doing this
, Beth grumbled to herself as she climbed over a stone wall after him. Hearing another yell, she hurried and snagged her butt on a sharp rock.
Damn.
Hitting the ground, she reached behind and discovered that not only did it hurt like hell but her most expensive trekking pants were ripped. Explain that one in camp. Eric wouldn’t believe her anymore than she believed the grunting yak now charging her. In their haste, they had dropped into a farmer’s yard and his attack yak was on a rampage.

“Run,” Dorje yelled.

Hopping awkwardly to avoid putting weight on the sore hip, Beth raced across the yard with the animal’s hot, moist breath close behind as Dorje grabbed her arm and hauled her onto the wall out of horn’s reach. Hah! Add scraped elbow and one enraged yak to the evening’s journal entry. The darkness offered no reprieve from terror; every sound grew more ominous as it became apparent something was shuffling towards them, but what? A true yeti, boys chasing a large yak, or some mischievous porters playing a prank on Dorje? Beth couldn’t make out a thing, but he seemed convinced that a yeti was dangerously near and they must scale yet another wall and hide behind it. He went first to help her but she was getting good at this. A regular rock climber. As soon as she was over, he grabbed her arm, pulled her down, and placed his fingers to her lips. Crouched only inches apart, his hand still firmly on her arm, she hoped he couldn’t hear the loud stirrings inside her. But how could he not? He had awakened every nerve and cell in her body. In the dim light of the stars, he entranced her with his eyes and all thoughts of yaks and yetis vanished. It was as if they were suspended in a different time and space. His hand gently stroked her arm only once before letting go, but it was enough to arouse her more than Eric’s most competent foreplay.

“We are safe now,” he whispered and helped her rise.

Face to face, hands still touching in an awkward silence, the confident, articulate writer who had a word or phrase for everything went suddenly speechless. If only he’d say something, do something, but he merely studied her face a while longer before whispering, “We must go now.”

The moment had passed but the sensation of his hand on her arm lingered. With eyes now accustomed to the dark and without a howling yeti in pursuit, she felt more sure-footed as they made their way down the rocky path.

As if he knew her thoughts, Dorje said, “I have never heard a yeti this low before.”

“So other people in Namche haven’t seen one either.”

“Usually much higher. Climbers see them and many big footprints, very wide with a large toe. You know Tenzing Norgay who went up with Hillary? He saw a yeti and there is the skin and hair of a yeti’s head at the
gompa
in Khumjung.”

When they reached camp, Dorje left her at the dining tent where Eric was reading by flashlight. “Where have you been?” he said, shining it on her. “And what in the hell have you been doing, Babe? You’re a mess.”

Beth pulled a chair out and collapsed on it. “You’d never believe me,” she said, letting both arms drop to the table and resting her forehead on them.

“Try me.” Closing the book, he sat back against the chair, arms folded over his chest, staring at her. “Was it just you and the Sherpa out there?”

From the table, she peered up at him. “Yes, just the Sherpa and me.”

He leaned forward again and wagged a finger at her. “You’re gone for hours and come back looking like shit. What were you two doing out there?”

“I asked him to take me to a doctor because I’m worried about Helen and it’s a long climb to 12,600 feet. I was dragging after today.” With exaggerated movements, she swung her body out of the chair, lumbered towards the tent door, and turned. “And by the way, coming down, I was set upon by a screaming yeti and enraged yak.”

“Please,” he said, flopping back against the seat. “Give me a little more credit than that.”

Pushing her hip towards him, she displayed the torn-pants. “I did this scrambling over a rock wall trying to save my ass. Now I’m going to bed.” Having said that, she limped outside. Of course he didn’t believe her. She hardly did herself. The whole scene on the mountain had been surreal, but what a fantastic story for her publisher. She grumbled to the moon now above a snow-clad peak, “Where were you when we needed your light. It would have been nice to see what was out there. Now I’ll never know.”

From outside the dining tent, Dorje heard Eric ask, “Was it just you and
the Sherpa
out there?” And her response, “Yes, just
the Sherpa
and me
,
” said it all. What a fool for thinking her sidelong glances and subtle smiles meant anything. A shudder started at his head and shook him all the way to the ground. He had to get her out of his system. To save the few rupees earned that day, the porters and kitchen boys would sleep huddled together on the cold floor of the dining tent, but Dorje had a warm retreat. Remembering their last argument, he stared at Mingma’s house on the highest terrace. His father’s words, “
Nor have you to know me
,” had echoed in his head a hundred times since then. If he returned home tonight, what would he say to Mingma or he to him? His emotions already in an upheaval over Beth, Dorje couldn’t deal with that too.

Instead, he went to Pemba's house because they understood each other. His father’s old friend had converted the second-story living area into a place for tourist dining, reading, chatting, and playing cards plus added a third story dormitory and two private rooms. “Business is good,” Dorje commented in reference to the six empty bottles of beer at the guest table.

With a crooked smile, Pemba spoke freely in Nepali. “These
mikarus
have too much money and don’t value it. They are willing to pay whatever I ask, so why not take it?” He sliced a piece from a compressed block of Tibetan tea, dropped it in hot water, and set the pot on the hearth to finish boiling. “From my window,” he said in a deliberate voice that meant a fatherly lecture was on the way, “I saw you walking towards Khunde with a woman whose hair is the color of sun shining on wheat.”

After pouring the tea into a slim, wooden cylinder, he added butter and salt and then used a wooden piston to churn the mixture. “You’re an ignorant cretin if you get involved with this woman. I’ve seen it before and nothing good ever comes of it. These foreigners meet a young, handsome Sherpa like you and decide to have a little fun while they’re here, but it means nothing to them.”

“Many Sherpas sleep with tourists just to keep them happy. Foreigners think we are always smiling and desire to please, so we keep that image if we want to make good tips.”

Pemba poured the brew now served only on special occasions because Tibetan tea was difficult to obtain after the border closing. “Sleeping with the tourists is not your job.”

Slowly turning the cup in both hands, Dorje trusted this large-eared man barely five feet tall but with the wisdom of a god. “You don’t have to worry.”

“Stay away from her because these women fall in love with the idea of being with a Sherpa more than the Sherpa himself. You’ll only get hurt.”

To shove Beth out of his mind, Dorje changed the subject by relating stories of the old women and their courage. When he finished the tea, Pemba started to pour another. As was the custom, Dorje politely refused, shaking his hand that he couldn’t possibly; then with seeming reluctance, he gave in to a second. A guest must never leave without allowing his host to serve at least three.

When the trekkers went upstairs, Dorje lay on the window bench with a blanket wrapped tightly around him. Exhausted from the day, he tried to sleep but it was impossible with images of Beth invading his thoughts. Beth tasting
tsampa
and pretending to like it, Beth hiking to Khunde with such vigor after having just climbed the Namche hill, Beth hopping onto the rock so close he could smell her hair, Beth asking him to pose with her the next day. But Pemba was right. She merely wanted a picture to show off to her friends at home; she didn’t care about
the Sherpa
. Rolling onto his side, he pulled the blanket over his head to block out the visions swarming over him like ants over a piece of fruit. Finally surrendering, he dreamed of her nestled among blue gentian and purple bellflower with her golden hair splayed beneath her head. Lying propped on an elbow beside her, he lightly traced the contours of her cheek and lips. When she rose to meet him, her kisses lulled him into a deep sleep.

Mingma sat in his place nearest the hearth, a place he would never relinquish to strangers for any amount of money as Pemba had done, but his son cared nothing about such traditions. Dorje’s ways angered the gods and would only bring disaster. Having lost him once, Mingma couldn’t suffer that again. This time he would fight for his son. Marrying a beautiful woman like Shanti might clear the boy’s head and bring him back to the family traditions. In the dim light of the butter lamp, Mingma finished reciting a page of the
sutra
and turned it over. His eyes were tired and his mind, distracted. For two days, he’d been waiting for Dorje to return from Lukla and had seen him walking into the trekker’s camp that afternoon carrying a woman on his back like a lowly pack animal. But it was late now and his footsteps had not sounded on the stairs. Gazing at the dark camp below with only embers remaining of the cook fires, Mingma decided his son would rather sleep on the cold, hard ground than come home. He looked at Nima dozing on the floor mat and remembered how entwined the brothers had been as young boys, always running and hopping together, claiming they were two legs of the same frog. Such a bond they shared. But Mingma also recalled the wrenching pain of his separation and could still hear their cries. If only he had gone to them as promised. Having made a lot of wrong decisions, he couldn’t change the sins of the past now but would atone for them through prayer and hope the gods would forgive him even if Dorje couldn’t.

The next morning, Mingma went to the Saturday market for grain to brew
chang
for the
sodene
proposal
.
Namche teemed with excitement in the bright hustle and bustle, full of color, noise, and smells as hundreds of buyers and sellers jostled each other for space and haggled over prices. Round, bamboo trays overflowing with rice, vegetables, and fruits impossible to grow in the Khumbu carpeted the upper terraces at the entrance. The aroma of fresh herbs and spices filled the air as Mingma wound his way past squawking chickens in reed enclosures and bleating goats straining at their tethers.

Meandering wide-eyed through the crowd, foreigners examined colorful bolts of cloth from India, yak wool rugs, yak bells and tails, brass pots, jewelry, and fruit. Seated on the ground with a foot-powered sewing machine, a Tamang tailor from Kathmandu was making pants to order for two tourists who would pay ten times what anything was worth and push prices beyond Mingma’s reach like smoke spiraling into the sky. How things had changed. He remembered the flourishing salt trade with yak caravans bringing the precious commodity over the Nangpa La from Tibet while he traveled north with his crossbreeds. Life was good until the Chinese shattered his world.

Knowing he could never afford rice brought all the way from the southern Terai, Mingma found a Rai farmer with a flat bamboo basket heaped with millet. Since neither understood the other tribe’s tongue, Mingma asked in the national language, Nepali. “How much for two
pathi
?”
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