They set off just before noon that day. Christopher walked bent over so that the boy could use him as a crutch. Even with the splint, Lhaten’s leg would not bear the slightest weight. When, by accident, he leaned on it, it gave, causing them both to stumble.
In the afternoon, the wind rose. An hour later, snow began to fall. Except that it did not fall, but became part of the wind. It was as if the wind had been a spirit that craved a body and now found it in the snow. The higher they climbed, the fiercer the wind grew.
It was like walking against razors. Every breath had to be snatched before the wind could tear it away. They took hours to cover as much ground as they would previously have walked in an hour.
t w
That night, they were too tired even to build a proper shelter.
Christopher dug a deep trench in the snow and they sheltered in that, huddling beneath Lhaten’s namda, a large felt blanket like a rug.
In the morning, Lhaten complained that his left foot hurt more than on the previous day. Christopher undid the boy’s boot and removed the sock underneath. The foot was hard and white and freezing to the touch, like stone. The cold had combined with the interrupted blood-flow to cause severe frost-bite. Saying nothing, Christopher replaced the sock and boot.
“What is it, sahib? Is it frost-bite?”
Christopher nodded.
“Yes.”
There was no point in trying to thaw the foot it would only freeze again, worse than ever. Christopher was worried that the boy’s other foot might go the same way. His boots were made of cheap leather and his socks were too thin. Christopher sacrificed two strips from the namda to provide extra insulation, but he feared it would not be enough.
That day the blizzard set in in earnest. It was as if the fabric of the world was being torn apart. Wind and snow hurtled down from the passes in fits of insanity. Visibility was reduced to almost zero. When they could no longer walk, they crawled, Lhaten dragging his leg.
He made no sound, but Christopher knew he must be in unbearable pain.
By midday they had covered very little distance, but Lhaten could go no further. The gale had not lessened in the slightest, and they still had not reached the pass. Christopher was beginning to think he would have to leave the boy after all, to go for help. But would he be able to persuade anyone to return with him in these conditions?
He built another shelter from the snow. They huddled inside, shivering. From time to time, Christopher made Lhaten eat dry tsampa and wash it down with a handful of snow. In his mind, Christopher was back at Carfax, in front of the roaring fire of logs in the library, reading a tale of Arthur Mee’s to William.
In the night, Lhaten grew feverish and talked in a delirium of frightened words and inarticulate cries.
“Take it away,” he shouted loudly, loud enough to cover the screams of the wind outside.
“Take what away?” asked Christopher.
“What do you see?”
But the boy never answered clearly, and Christopher could only talk to him, offering reassurance that he knew was meaningless.
The night was long. When dawn came, it brought only the faintest of lights.
Lhaten slept at last, like a baby worn out by crying. When he woke, his head was clear, but he complained of feeling weak. He could not keep down the tsampa Christopher offered him. His other foot was frost-bitten now.
Christopher made him walk. It was that or leave him to die.
Like children in a nightmare, holding on to one another as anchors, they clawed their way through the madness of the storm.
They reached the first pass, Sebu-la, that afternoon. Its surface was broad and flat, and they could see a little more clearly through the blizzard there.
“Lha-gyal-lo. De tamche pham,” Lhaten whispered, thanking his gods for giving them this victory.
“The gods have triumphed,” he said.
“The demons have been defeated.” It was this formula all travellers used when they reached the top of a pass in safety. But on the boy’s frozen lips, the words were charged with an intense and cruel irony.
“Lha-gyal-lo,” Christopher repeated, cursing all gods in his heart.
He thought they were still playing games. But the games were over.
Lhaten wanted to stay at the top of the pass, but Christopher forced him to move on when they had rested. It was too exposed there. The path went down now for a bit before rising again to the second and final pass. Every foot nearer was a triumph to Christopher.
They spent that night between the passes. In the early hours of the morning, the wind began to drop, and by dawn the blizzard had stopped. When Christopher looked out, it was as though the world had been restored to him. Out of a grey sky, a grim light filtered down on everything.
That day they made it to the top of the pass, but Christopher knew they were almost at their end. He had to carry the boy on his back much of the way, leaving behind several pieces of baggage to make it possible.
They made their camp just below the pass, in a large cleft in the rock. Lhaten said he could not go any further, and this time Christopher did not argue. He would leave in the morning and head towards the Kampa basin. If the weather held off, someone would return with him. If not, he would buy wood and make a trestle on which to bring Lhaten back.
In the end, it was unnecessary. The next morning, Christopher helped Lhaten out of the cleft into the valley and set about building a snow-shelter for him. It would be warmer than the cleft and easier to find again.
While he was working, cutting and stacking blocks, he heard a voice. It was a man’s voice, calling from lower down the valley. He stopped work and waited as three men approached. They were dressed in heavy travelling clothes, and their faces were muffled behind thick scarves. One was taller than the others and walked ahead as though he were in charge of their party. The men were monks Christopher could see the edges of their orange robes protruding from beneath their chub as They approached slowly, with the caution all travellers show when meeting strangers in the open.
The taller man came up to Christopher and greeted him in Tibetan.
“Tashi delay.”
“Taski delay.” Christopher answered.
“Have you been travelling in the storm?” the stranger asked.
Christopher nodded.
“Yes. We were cut off before the Sebu-la. My friend is hurt. I was going to leave for help today. You’ve come just in time.”
“What’s wrong with him?”
Christopher explained. The man did not pull his scarf down, but scrutinized Christopher over the top of it with dark, piercing eyes. Christopher imagined for a moment that he saw a look of recognition in the stranger’s eyes, as though they had met before.
“When did this happen?”
“Five days ago.”
“I see. You say you were in the canyon before the Sebu-la.”
“Yes.”
“Were you alone? You saw no-one else?”
“No. We saw no-one.”
“Let me look at the boy.”
The man went across to Lhaten and bent down to examine him.
The two monks stood near Christopher, watching. Carefully, the stranger looked at Lhaten’s feet and leg, then examined his general condition. The boy was bad again. He had lost consciousness about an hour earlier.
Christopher did not see what happened next until it was too late to do anything about it. The man stood up and drew something from his pocket. He bent towards Lhaten and put his hand to the boy’s temple. There was a
