Christopher frowned.
“No, Lhaten he wasn’t. And it does matter. It was Dr. Cormac.
He was with me last night. Do you remember?”
This seemed to sober Lhaten up. He knew Cormac. The doctor had treated him on several occasions. He had liked him.
“Don’t worry, sahib. I’ll get you out. But you must have somewhere to go.”
Christopher hesitated. He wasn’t sure if he could trust the boy.
But already he was on his own. Nobody in London would vouch for him. Nobody in Delhi would want to interfere. He needed the boy’s help badly.
“Lhaten,” he began, knowing he was taking a risk.
“I want to leave Kalimpong. I have to get out of India.”
“Of course. You should not stay in India. Where do you want to go?”
Christopher hesitated again. If the police questioned the boy .. .
“You can trust me, sahib.”
What did the boy want? Money?
“If it’s money you .. .”
“Please!” A look of genuine pain crossed the boy’s face.
“I don’t want money. I want to help you, that’s all. Where do you want to go?”
Christopher realized he was wasting time. The police could return to his room at any moment to make a further check on his belongings he guessed it was they who had given the room its second going-over.
“I want to cross the Sebu-la,” he said in a low voice.
“Into Tibet.
I want to leave tonight if possible.”
Lhaten looked at him in disbelief. It was as if he had expressed a wish to visit the moon.
“Surely you mean the Nathu-la, sahib. The Sebu-la is closed. It will remain closed all winter. Even the Nathu-la and the passes beyond it may be closed again if the weather changes.”
“No, I mean the Sebu-la. Along the Tista valley past Lachen, then through the passes. I need a guide. Someone who knows that route.”
“Perhaps you’re not feeling well, sahib. That blow last night. And today .. .”
“Damn it, I know what I’m doing!” Christopher snapped.
“Yes. I’m sorry, sahib.”
“That’s all right. I’m sorry I shouted, Lhaten. I must sound a bit doolaly, eh?”
The boy grinned.
“Thought so. Well, do you know anyone who’d be fool enough to take me at least that far? I wouldn’t want him to come across with me. Just to take me to the Sebu-la. I’ll pay well.”
“Yes. I know someone.”
“Excellent. Do you think you can get me to him without being seen?”
Lhaten grinned again.
“Very easy.”
Christopher stood up. His head spun.
“Let’s go, then.”
“No need, sahib, your guide is here already. I can take you to the Sebu-la. Maybe I’m a little doolaly as well.”
Christopher sat down again. He felt irritated by the boy, though he knew he ought not to be.
“Bloody right you are. I’m not going on a picnic. I’m trying to get into Tibet without an alarm going off half- way across the Himalayas. The main purpose of the exercise is to get there in one piece. I need a proper guide, not a rest-house pot-boy.”
Lhaten’s face fell. It was almost as though Christopher had slapped him.
“I’m sorry if .. .” Christopher began, but Lhaten interrupted him.
“I am not a pot-boy. I am eighteen. And I am a proper guide.
My family are Sherpas. We know the mountains the way farmers know their fields. I have crossed the Sebu- la with my father many times.”
“In winter?”
The boy hung his head.
“No,” he said.
“Not in winter. No-one crosses the Sebu-la in winter. No-one.”
“I am going to cross the Sebu-la in winter, Lhaten.”
“Without my help, sahib, you will not even make it to the first pass.”
Lhaten was right. In this weather, Christopher would need more than just luck and his own limited experience to find and cross the Sebu-la. At this point, he wasn’t even thinking about what he would do when he got there. One thing was certain: he could not attempt the journey by way of the Chumbi valley and the more popular route to the east. There were sentries everywhere. All the caravans and isolated travellers were stopped and examined closely. If he was fortunate, he would merely be turned back. More probably, his visitor of half an hour ago and his chums, whoever they might be, would be waiting for him and the monk had made it clear that his friends would have no compunction about harming him.
“Why do you want to risk your skin on a journey like this, Lhaten?”
Christopher asked.
The boy shrugged.
“This is my third winter in this place, sahib. How many winters could you spend here?”
Christopher looked at the room, at the shabby furniture, at the gecko sleeping on the wall.
“Aren’t you frightened to make such a journey in this weather?”
Lhaten grinned, then looked more serious than ever “Very frightened.”
That decided Christopher. He would take the boy. The last thing he needed on this journey was someone who didn’t know the meaning of fear.
They were lost. For two days now, they had been battling against the snow and the wind, but there were no signs of the chorten that Tobchen said would mark the entrance to the valley of Gharoling.
They had lost the pony. It had fallen into a deep crevasse the day before, taking with it most of their remaining provisions. He could not forget the sound of the dying animal, trapped beyond reach, screaming in pain: the sound had carried in the stillness and followed them for miles.
The old man was growing visibly weaker. Not only physically, but in his mind. His will-power was slackening, and the boy knew he was near the point of surrender. Several times he had had to rouse Tobchen from a reverie or a sleep out of which he did not want to be wakened. Sometimes they climbed up into banks of freezing cloud, where everything was blotted out in the all consuming whiteness. He felt that the old man wanted to walk on into the cloud and disappear, so he held his hand tightly and willed him to go on. Without him, he would be lost forever.
“Will the Lady Chindamani come to Gharoling, Tobchen?” he asked.
The old man sighed.
“I do not think so, my lord. Pema Chindamani must remain at Dorje-la.
That is her peflace.”
“But she said we would meet again.”
“If she said it, it will happen.”
“But not at Gharoling?”
“I do not know, lord.”
And the old man continued to plod on into the blizzard, muttering the words of the mantra, om mam pad me hum, like an old woman ploughing in her field. Yes, that was it. He was just like an old woman ploughing.
He lost the old man on the seventh day, early, between waking and first halt. There was no warning. Tobchen had gone in front as usual, into a bank of cloud, telling the boy to follow slowly. At first all had seemed normal, then the cloud had lifted and the way ahead was empty. On his left, a sheer precipice plunged away from the path, its lower depths hidden in cloud. He called the old man’s name loudly, pleadingly, for over an hour, but
