The Smell of Telescopes (7 page)

I exempted Bertie from the task. He sprawled on the snow, reading my copy of Laocoön. The valley was roughly the same size as Colchester, flat and completely barren of animal or plant life. [
This region is almost as devoid of life as the following 32 paragraphs are devoid of notes.
] I made a total circuit, in the opposite direction to my companions, which was a decision they had arrived at. I felt agitated, but there was a force inside me which bawled with delight, as if my subconscious was enjoying a holiday. For a strange reason, I was reminded of my old Provost at Eton. After a hearty stamp of the valley, the other climbers joined me for a light meal. I said nothing about my experience, though they were equally disturbed. We fidgeted away the majority of the afternoon.

In the evening, I watched the stars wheel in the sky. They had never been observed from this region and I hoped to catch them doing something different. Disappointed, I crawled inside my tent. I fell asleep rapidly, as if prompted to do so. My dream was remarkably coherent but pedestrian. I saw myself stand and leave the tent. My comrades were also emerging; we seemed pleased just to stretch our arms at full length. Then we got up to all manner of silly games: prancing, skipping and waltzing. We felt as if we were prisoners released from long captivity, ecstatic simply to have a space in which to exercise. Suddenly I woke in a cold sweat. Somebody was clawing at my tent. I cried aloud: “Who is there? Bertie, is that you?” I fumbled for my ice-axe. There was a mocking laugh. I gripped the tool and thrust the spike upwards. It punctured the fabric but did not penetrate a fleshy body beyond. I frowned.

Crawling out, I was amazed to notice that the tents of my companions were also shaking. There had been a fresh snowfall, but no footprints led away from my site. Like an economical cactus, each tent poked out a spike from an ice-axe. Then the occupants emerged and stood in confusion, while exchanging terrified glances. Nightcap askew on his head, Bertie began to chant a mantra, calling on his patron demon to guard his life. I insisted that he refrain from his diabolism.

“But we are being attacked by ghosts!” he wailed.

I raised a hand. “Nonsense! I have already explained that no wraiths exist in the valley. No-one has ever died in this location. Therefore our ordeal must be due to some natural phenomenon. A practical joker perhaps? I suspect our radio-operator has finally caught us up. His silly sense of humour is well documented.”

“If that is the case, where is he now?”

I scanned the horizon. There were no hiding places in the chilly dip and the starlight reflecting from the shallow walls illuminated the scene cheaply and efficiently. “I do not care to argue with a Sherpa. As leader of this party I order everyone back to bed. I will have an answer to your insidious question by morning.”

Reluctantly, the explorers returned to their tents. Bertie wanted to curl up with me for safety but I warned him that the men might talk. With ninety-six little shudders, he pulled his nightcap down over his eyes and left me alone. I pondered. Quite plainly, the radio-operator was not with us. His aerial would be visible even had he hidden under a snowdrift. The remaining explanations were a freak wind in the shape of a body or else a levitating monk come to take revenge for our violation of his territory. I gazed up, but the stars were all where they should be.

I said nothing about the matter over breakfast, though Bertie huffed and agitated to bring it up. My colleagues were keen to begin the journey home, but I was too curious to depart now. I stalled them with scientific blather about the need to conduct a week’s worth of experiments. Furious haggling was set in motion and we settled on a stay of three days. Bertie moaned at this news and retired to study Laocoön’s anti-phantom remedies. Unfortunately, this section, at the back of the volume, had been eaten by a goat on the train to S——.

That night my dream came back, with an altered choreography. I danced a tango rather than a waltz. Each time I passed my berth, I heard fretful snoring coming from within. The others strutted with me, icicles clenched between their teeth. I woke to a staccato tapping of heels on the side of my tent. I sat up and placed my eye to the hole I had jabbed the previous night. There was nobody outside, but I saw the pale irises of my comrades peering from their own gashes. Bertie was inconsolable. He gibbered in an embarrassing fashion from the security of his sleeping-bag. I crawled out and shook him free. To my extreme dismay, he repeated our dance, stark naked. He whipped up snow in a swirl which seemed momentarily to congeal into the shape of my Provost. Wagging a glacial finger, the illusion crumbled with a horrid jollity and I brushed academic flakes from my shoulders. Bertie fell to his knees and clutched at my swollen ankles.

“You promised an answer! Tell it to me!”

“Get a grip on yourself. Perhaps we are all suffering from delusions occasioned by extreme altitude. Or maybe we should stop cooking with yeti dung. The problem is medical.”

Bertie shook his head. “It was a ghost.”

I snubbed his hysteria and returned to bed, sleeping soundly until a beam of early sunlight poked through the rent, buying my brow with a coin of light. The climbers were in mutinous mood, refusing to cook breakfast. They lazed and shared Laocoön, alternately chuckling and yawning over his syntax. I persisted with my measuring and classifying, though there was a severe lack of phenomena to which these processes might be applied. I worked without a break, eventually filling my notebooks with observations before packing away my instruments for the descent. I watched the moon pour over the horizon, licking my toasted face with its butter tongue. I decided to spend my last night in the open.

I perched on a folding stool and did my best to remain awake. But my bones were too heavy, knocking against each other beneath my skin. At the same time my spirit broke free from the rigging of my nerves, like a sail fleeing a mast in a storm. I was standing in front of myself, roaring and giggling, waving my arms in triumph. Soon I was joined by my comrades and we held an impromptu party. Bertie was present, looking less worried than in the daytime. I kicked and jabbed at my body, seated on its stool. Then there was a cry and another Bertie rose up from his sleeping-bag, shaking a fist as he raced past us in his slippers. He continued towards the edge of the valley, vanishing over the rim. Obviously his body was leaving his spirit behind. We did our best to console the soul, which seemed a trifle glum, like a yolk without a shell.

Once more harassing my sleeping torso, I was startled when it jerked and I was sucked back inside. I opened my eyes to see the others emerging from their tents. They demanded: “Were you making that noise?” They began to accuse me of being the joker responsible for disturbing their sleep on the previous nights, but I protested vehemently. It was better to seal my lips about what I had witnessed—I did not want them thinking I was mad. I merely related the barest facts.

“Bertie has deserted us. The barometer will have to be abandoned. He fled in his nightcap and pyjamas.”

There was nothing we could do. Had he been British... As it was, the sensible course of action was to forget about him. At first light we left the Q—— valley forever, heading back towards the Z— P— Plateau. A week later we reached the Y— R— Glacier. It was faster going down. We dropped off Shantarikshita, Langdharama, Dromtönpa and Tsongkhapa, useful workers but taxing on the tongue. We failed to rescue our teapots from a crevasse but brewed tea in the thermal springs near R—D——. Somewhere beyond M——, after crossing the L—— passes into the B—— Hills, we were astonished to notice a ragged figure coming closer. It was Bertie, a man so broken his decrepitude had turned full circle back to health. Only his toothless smile betrayed his identity. He screamed: “Out of my way! I must get back to Q—— at once!”

I gripped his arm. “What happened, Bertie?”

His eyes were blank. “I ran all the way to S——, where I milked the local goats, hoping to bottle Laocoön’s missing pages. I soon trapped the one who had devoured his anti-phantom advice. I drank the milk and became aware of my true predicament.”

“Are you returning to collect your spirit?”

He nodded, struggling out of my clutch. “Laocoön knew the dangers of the valley all along. This is why the levitating monk did not attempt to land there. The human race has been around for a long time, and before us there were demons and ogres with souls. The surface of the planet must be crowded with ghosts. Trillions of spooks all competing for the same piece of land. Think how uncomfortable it must be! Layers of wraiths struggling for space, like ashes in an oven. Even in the polar regions there will be troll spectres crowding the icebergs!”

Plainly he had lost his sanity, but I decided to humour him. “Ghosts everywhere except in Q—? Without population it also lacks revenants. Doubtless a paradise for apparitions?”

“Absolutely. Land is now at a premium for phantasms. When we entered the valley, our souls were overjoyed to see so much open space. They were determined to stay there, rather than return to the crowded outside. They formulated a plot to ensure we remained. Every night they came out of our bodies and attempted to frighten us to death. Spectres must linger in the vicinity of their passing away.”

“Come now, Bertie, this is claptrap. Spirits cannot depart bodies at will. They are strapped to the bones.”

Leaning forward, the Sherpa tapped his nose. “That is normally true. But the low pressure caused our souls to expand and the ectoplasmic knots worked loose. Unfortunately our ghosts were not terrible enough to induce heart-attacks in our bodies. Every time we awoke, they had to take refuge back in the mortal shell. But on the third night, I ran away in my sleep. My soul was unable to stop me and I have been a hollow man ever since. It is essential I reclaim my spook!”

I shuddered. “What will happen otherwise?”

“Without a spirit I am a zombie. I can decay but not die. My phantom will thus never be registered as legitimate. This means suspension of all afterlife privileges. No free chains or walking through solids. I know it wants to leave the valley to look for me but it has no idea where I might be. I hope it has enough sense to stay put until I return. Now I must go. I am unravelling at the navel.”

The climbers chortled as Bertie trotted off. They did not credit his story and maintained that even if it was true they would rather socialise with other ghosts when they expired, rather than occupy a valley alone. I was less confident and felt a peculiar need to follow the Sherpa. Instead I contented myself with calling:

“How will you reabsorb your soul, Bertie?”

He turned briefly and replied: “My religion has a ritual for such an event. I will devour the ghost.”

“Bon appetit!” I watched him recede in the distance, a torn particle in a cosmos of unblemished snow.

Still joking over this encounter, my colleagues reached S— before me. I dragged my feet, resentful of their company. The shadow of a flying sage passed over the ground... I looked up at a rogue cloud... Everything I do ends in disappointment. I rejoined my expedition at the station. Its members were playing football with my Laocoön. Pages were strewn over the track. We boarded the 05:09 express to Calcutta, but I sat on the roof. I booked a passage back to East Africa when we reached the city. The others retired to the Hotel D——, a prime location for picking up the BBC World Service. [
The BBC World Service had not even started at this time, but I hope to obtain employment with the organisation and am thus determined to make as many references to it as possible.
] I had nothing to say to them; they did not even wave me off as my ship left port. Cold rascals.

Arriving at my plantation, I was dismayed to find it had been burned down. Witnesses claimed to have seen a man throwing burning maps onto the crops. There was nothing for it but to visit my parents in Colchester, where I had left them so many years previously. I stopped in the Pyrenees on my way, but climbing had lost its savour. In a decayed cathedral town, I happened to bump into my old Provost, who was searching for rare books. He might have bought my Laocoön had it remained intact. I was desperately short of money. As it was, he asked me to share a bottle of wine (Vin de Limoux, not to be recommended... Dash it! I have spilled some over the next sentence.) We fell into conversation... but he insisted that when I set my experiences down on paper I should avoid dots as much as possible... He had no love for them. My confession was an effective purge and I left him feeling stronger.

When I reached my childhood home, I found it empty and boarded up. A neighbour peeped at me through her curtains and came out to relate a glum story: my father was dead and my mother had been locked in a madhouse. It seems they never gave up waiting for me to return. One night they heard a noise on the stairs. Rushing out to embrace me, they were shocked to find a pale Scotsman mounted on a bicycle. He required directions to Aberdeen. My father collapsed and his own ghost jumped onto the contraption: with a most ungentlemanly yell, the pair pedalled off into the aether. My mother grew depressed; she knocked on the door of the local asylum and asked to be admitted. Fortunately my father made a will before his demise, leaving the estate to me. I was thus ensured a reasonable degree of luxury in my troubles. It was a great help...

Now I sit in my room, planning a return expedition to Tibet. But the difficulties are insurmountable; I have lost my nerve. Besides, I hear on the radio that Shipton is already there, mapping the region with accuracy and panache. I search the bookshops and market stalls for another copy of Laocoön [
X.D. Laocoön's ethnographic books have largely been discredited, but a first edition of his masterwork,
Fables from the World's Attic
, can fetch upwards of  $1,000 9 (enquiries to Gamma-Ray Russell, 5 Birch Terrace, Horam, East Sussex). Laocoön—"the translator without a conscience"—probably never ventured further than his own attaic
.] but there are none to be had. I decide to make use of my skill as an engineer. I will knock down the house and rebuild it in the form of a mantra, a global prayer-wheel which may bring me even more solace. Only my Provost can really help me understand my predicament, but I am wary of him. I must stay away from Eton.