The Abominable: A Novel

“His Holiness has praised me,” says Reggie. “He says that each time he meets me, he is more certain that I am the reincarnation of the eleventh-century tantric sorceress Machig Labdron, and he says that if I were to perfect my chod, I could be the master-mistress of Cho-mo-lung- ma and all of its adjacent mountains and valleys.”

“What was your response?” asks the Deacon. “I only understood the Tibetan word for ‘unworthy.’”

“Yes, I said that I was unworthy of such a comparison,” Reggie says. “But I admitted that the discipline of chod was very attractive to me right now, since, as I’ve said before, at the present the world is too much with me.”

“May I ask a question?” whispers Jean-Claude.

“Just one, I think,” says Reggie. “We need to get on with the blessing ceremony if we’re to get back to Base Camp by suppertime.”

“I just wondered,” whispers J.C., “if this Cho-mo-lung-ma really means ‘Goddess Mother of the World’ the way Colonel Norton and the others said it did.”

Reggie smiles and passes the question along to the Rinpoche with the huge head. The old man—he’s in his sixties but seems older—smiles again and answers in his melodic prayer-rumble.

“Not really, according to Rinpoche,” says Reggie. “And His Holiness thanks you for asking. He says that the sahibs tend to take the translation they like for the names of sacred places here and ignore the places’ true names. The name Cho-mo-lung-ma, he says, can be twisted to mean ‘Goddess Mother of the World,’ but for those like us, he says, who live near it, he says, the more common name for the mountain in Tibetan is Kang Chomolung, which means something more akin to ‘The Snow of Bird Land.’

“But he says that this translation of the Tibetan name for our Mount Everest is also too simplistic,” continues Reggie. “A better translation for Cho-mo-lung-ma, says His Holiness, is ‘the tall peak you can see from nine directions at once, with a summit you cannot see as you draw near, the mountain so high that all birds flying over the peak instantly become blind.’”

Jean-Claude and I look at one another. I think we both believe that His Holiness is having us on.

Dzatrul Rinpoche rumbles his bass tones again. Reggie translates: “His Holiness has decided that our dead man, Babu Rita, will receive a sky burial tomorrow at dawn. The Holy Lama asks if there are any members of Babu Rita’s immediate family here who might wish to stay for the ceremony.”

Reggie translates the question into Nepalese, but the Sherpas continue to look down. Evidently none of them count Babu as family.

Without conferring, or even looking at one another, Jean-Claude and I both stand and step forward, our heads lowered in respect. “Please,” I say, “my friend and I would like to be considered Babu Rita’s family and would be honored to stay for his funeral rites in the morning.”

I can hear the Deacon hiss through his teeth. I can almost hear his thoughts. Another lost morning and day for the climbing effort. I don’t care and I’m sure that J.C. doesn’t either. Babu’s needless death has shaken me to the core.

Reggie translates, and His Holiness grants permission. Then Reggie instructs Norbu Chedi, who speaks some Tibetan as well as some English, to stay with us tonight in order to help interpret.

Dzatrul Rinpoche nods, rumbles again, and Reggie says, “It is time for the blessing.”

The actual individual blessings for all of us, sahibs and Sherpas combined, take less than forty-five minutes. Dzatrul Rinpoche rumbles melodically—I never can tell if he is speaking in sentences or chanting (or both)—and then one of the head lamas gestures the soon-to-be-blessed to step forward to receive his or her blessing. Both Reggie and the Deacon are called forward at the same time, and the Holy Lama gestures for gifts to be given to them: an image of the Thirteenth Dalai Lama and a piece of silk for each, the silk too short to be used as a scarf. Both Reggie and the Deacon bow deeply, but I notice that they don’t go to their knees the way the Sherpas have. Reggie claps her hands, and four of the Sherpas bring in her gift for the Rinpoche: four bags of ready-mix cement. Dzatrul Rinpoche again smiles broadly, and I realize that the cement will go far toward mending the chorten and other relatively new structures on the monastery grounds that are falling apart because they’d been built with little more than mud, rock, spit, and good intentions. The four bags had been an entire mule load during the trek in—yet another source of conflict between the Deacon and Reggie—but to judge from the happy response from His Holiness and his high priests, it is a much-valued gift.

When I’m gestured forward, I bow deeply as the Rinpoche touches my head with what looks like a white metal pepper pot, but which J.C. has told me is yet another form of prayer wheel. Soon we sahibs are all properly blessed and it is time for the Sherpas to receive their blessings. This takes a while longer since each man prostrates himself on the cold stone floor and worms his way closer to the Rinpoche, without raising his head or meeting the holy man’s gaze, to receive his blessing.

The only one who seems to have the attitude that he’ll be damned if he’ll be blessed this day is Pasang, who watches everything with a smiling, faintly amused yet respectful countenance, but who is not gestured forward by the monks and who obviously has turned down this offer of a blessing before. Dzatrul Rinpoche doesn’t seem to mind a bit.

Finally the ritual blessings are over, the Sherpas file out—never turning their backs on the Rinpoche or the high priests—and Dzatrul Rinpoche says as Reggie interprets, “Those of the dead man’s family may stay behind for tomorrow morning’s sky burial.” Then His Holiness also leaves.

J.C. and I step outside the main monastery building to say good-bye to Reggie, Pasang, and the Deacon. The Sherpas have already begun their long trek back to Base Camp.

“You may be sorry that you chose to stay for the sky burial,” is all that the Deacon has to say.

I ask why we’d be sorry, but he ignores me and prods his little pony into a semblance of a canter, moving quickly to catch up to the Sherpas.

“Tell us about this Padma Sambhava that the current Rinpoche is supposed to be a reincarnation of,” Jean- Claude says to our tall doctor. “Was he a man or a god?”

“He was both,” says Pasang.

“In the eighth century, Padma Sambhava brought Buddhism to all of Tibet,” adds Reggie. “He overpowered Cho-mo-lung-ma with Buddha-truth and then defeated the evil power of all the mountain demons and gods and goddesses, turning them all into dharma protectors. The darkest and most powerful of all the demon-goddesses, the queen of the dakini sky dancers, was turned into the pure white peak Cho-mo-lung-ma, her skirts reaching here to the Rongbuk Valley itself. The first temple built in this region was constructed on her left breast. Beneath her vulva was buried a white conch shell from which all dharma doctrine and Buddha-wisdom flow to this day.”

I find myself blushing wildly again. First “testicles” and now “vulva.” This woman is likely to say anything out loud.

Jean-Claude says softly, “If Guru Rinpoche—the Great Teacher, the Great Master, Padma Sambhava himself—defeated all the gods and demons around here and turned them into acolytes for the Buddha, why does Dzatrul Rinpoche say that they’re angry and that he’ll intercede for us?”

Reggie smiles as she hops onto her white pony. “The mountain gods, goddesses, and demons have been largely tamed for those who follow the Way, Jake,” she says. “Those who’ve mastered dharma. But nonbelievers and those of small faith are still in danger. Are you two sure you want to watch the sky burial?”

J.C. and I nod.

Reggie speaks to the Sherpa Norbu Chedi, and then she kicks her pony into motion and hurries to catch up to the line of Sherpas and the Deacon. They are already disappearing into the gray evening. Dr. Pasang nods to us and strides to join the others. “A storm is coming” are his parting words.

And it is gray. Clouds and snow have moved in again, and the temperature’s dropped at least thirty degrees.

“Monsoon?” I say.

J.C. shakes his head. “This front is coming in from the north. The monsoon will come from the south and west, piling up against the Himalayas until it pours over the peaks like a tsunami over a low breakwater.”

Two priests come outside and say something to Norbu Chedi.