CHAPTER 1
Sujay Bahadur Gurung stood patiently on the edge of the trail, gaze fixed on the lone figure standing on a ridge a hundred metres away. He was weighed down by two backpacks: his own small daypack and the larger, heavier one belonging to his charge. It was not unusual for him to provide such assistance to foreign trekkers, as they invariably brought more than they could easily carry themselves, or usefully need. But he had been standing there a while and even his strong, broad shoulders were beginning to ache a little. He knew he faced the prospect of lugging both of them most of the way back, so he lowered the heavier of the two to the ground and checked his watch.
It was just after 5 p.m. and the sun was steadily going down behind Langtang Lirung, at 7,227 metres the tallest mountain in the valley. The light would deteriorate rapidly over the next hour and it would be dark within two. They had a three-hour trek back to the village where food, beer and a bunk in a teahouse awaited them, and although there was no inherent danger walking at night, he knew the temperature would drop dramatically.
He also knew that despite the weight of his backpack, his charge was not properly equipped for an extended walk in the Himalayan night air, even if it was downhill most of the way. But he had agreed to take the old gentleman to the place he wanted to go to – had insisted on going to – and despite his better judgement, he had felt obliged to take the job.
He hoped for, but did not expect, a big tip, his natural humility precluding any thought that it be taken for granted, and, even though his customer seemed like an honourable gentleman from England, he had been disappointed many times before.
But time was pressing, and he looked at his watch again: 5.09. He would have to call time soon. His experience taught him that staying any longer was going to make things difficult for them both; and, after all, the old gentleman had been up there for thirty minutes. What was there to see any more?
Sujay could envisage the view from the ridge down into the valley basin, but he had no need to go up there himself and take another look. He had seen it many times, both before and after the terrible events of April, and he wanted to remember it as it had been. Before. His charge was standing ramrod straight, binoculars raised to his eyes, slowly panning the valley below, left, right, up, down and back again. There was nothing there, Sujay knew. It was time.
Up on the ridge, the old gentleman peered intently down the barrels of his glasses, hope gradually receding that he might finally find some clue as to what he was looking for. The valley floor was four hundred metres below him, Langtang Lirung and the rest of the Himal range towering over it like giants, their forbidding and foreboding presence threatening, but currently benign and inert. And from Langtang Lirung itself, sweeping into the valley from two thirds of the way up its massive slopes, a continuous trail of scree and rock that extended right across the valley and beyond.
In the valley basin, there was little sign of life and no evidence of anything untoward or unusual; an otherwise natural scene, disturbed here and there by a random splash of colour, a red or yellow or white speck, a blue flash, incongruous in the brown and barren wasteland. Nothing, other than a solitary abandoned building, standing proud but forlorn, nestled up close to the base of the mountain. He didn’t know what he had expected to see and had been told by those who knew better, his guide included, there was, in fact, nothing to see. But he knew he had to come here.
The guide had tried to talk him out of it, but he had been insistent, uncompromising; and eventually, as ever, money swayed the decision. After all, Sujay had a young wife and child and this was his job. A young wife and child, he thought with a sad irony. Now there’s something worth fighting for.
He panned across the valley again and then up at the mountain to the north, a swirl of evening cloud around its peak. He could hear nothing but the chattering of birds and the faint rush of the breeze, a distant howl of wind as it swirled around the valley, and as time wore on, he sensed it getting noticeably cooler. The scene could be idyllic, was idyllic, and without the knowledge of what had happened here four months ago, uplifting.
New life was forming below him, replacing the old, the endless cycle continuing. Relentless. Immortality is temporary, young man. Indeed. The words came back to haunt him, had been in his consciousness for many years, and now stabbed him like a dagger to the heart. His concentration was suddenly broken by the sound of a distant voice.
“Colonel Peter, sir? Please, we must go now.” The cry sounded plaintive, or perhaps it was just the accent.
Without turning, Colonel Peter Jeffries, Intelligence Corps (retired), slowly lowered his binoculars, although his eyes remained fixed on the scene below. Maybe it was the temperature together with the wind chill, or even the altitude, but his eyes were glassy and moist. There could be no other explanation. Dammit. Dammit to hell!
Reluctantly, he stood down. Involuntarily, his body sagged, his shoulders drooped and his head slowly tilted forward, eyes trying to focus on the blurry image of the dusty ground at his feet. The pain was almost overwhelming. It was over.