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.
As ever, and almost since the beginning of time, the towering presence of 7,227-metre-high Langtang Lirung loomed large over the valley, and he saw that even now, the evidence of the mayhem and destruction the mountain had rained down upon the old village of Langtang remained indelible. A vast area of barren rock and scree sloped three kilometres down from its peak and spread itself across the valley, beneath which still lay the ruins of a small town and the bodies of most of its inhabitants. It was a stark and poignant reminder of the scale of the disaster and the annihilation of a community that, even after five years, not a single shrub, weed, sprig or blade of grass could permeate the blanket of stone.
The sole building to have survived the landslide, protected from the millions of tons of falling rock by an overhanging cliff, still stood as a sentinel, marking the grave of Langtang like a giant tombstone.
Sujay had been here many times before and wondered if, when and how this cruel manifestation of death might eventually spawn new life and perhaps gradually ease the pain of the past. Nature had been slow on the uptake, it appeared to him. In contrast, and despite the magnitude of the disaster, man’s indomitable spirit had been resolute, and every time he came, he saw that the new village of Langtang, sited two hundred metres away under the protection of solid cliffs at the base of the mountain, had grown yet another hut, shack or barn.
There were new teahouses too, servicing the steadily increasing number of trekkers, some returning to a site they had visited in the past, others simply there out of morbid curiosity; sightseers of the infamous. But for whatever reason they came, all were welcome. They brought their money; income the new population of Langtang badly needed.
Sujay lowered his charge’s rucksack to the ground. This visit was especially poignant for him, almost a repeat of the trip he’d made five years ago with the elderly Colonel Jeffries, although the circumstances could not be more different. He was still coming to terms with the consequences of his journey to England four months previously and remained unsure where they would lead.
He watched the young woman standing motionless on the ridge, hands in the pockets of her stylish and expensive red trekking jacket, staring out across the valley at the desolation below her. The likeness was remarkable and the circumstances bizarre, and he would like to know more about her and her motivation in coming here, but there would be plenty of time for that in the days ahead. He was not naturally inquisitive about his clients, being unremittingly courteous and respectful of their privacy, but the situation was highly unusual. He’d played a significant part in a saga that, for him, still held many unanswered questions.
But for now, as ever, the focus of his attention was the journey ahead and the distance they still had to travel. He checked his watch: 1.15 p.m. He would give her another minute or two before they rejoined the trail. They’d stop for lunch soon and then it would be three more hours to the place where they’d spend their third night. Perhaps she might be more inclined to unburden some of her thoughts now she’d been to see for herself.
The young woman standing alone on the ridge overlooking the Langtang Valley examined the desolate landscape that stretched out below her and she felt a wave of dismay and sadness rising from within. She tried to imagine what force of nature could possibly, without warning, have brought the entire side of a mountain down onto the heads of the unsuspecting villagers and at such speed that afforded them no time to get to safety. It was beyond her comprehension.
She saw figures moving around in the new settlement to the east and felt wonder at their resilience, awe at their determination to start again, admiration for their refusal to give up. She wondered who they were and how they lived their lives.
She thought of Peter standing here and the despair he must have felt looking down on the same scene, realising that his beloved Lisa was in all probability somewhere down there under the rubble and gone forever. She could hear him, even now.
“I have to believe she’s dead. But I can’t be certain. I just hope wherever she is, she’s at peace.”
She swallowed deeply and choked back a tear as she recalled his words back in the garden at Chalton. But the tear was not for Lisa. It was for Peter. If only he were with me now. She looked down at her feet and noticed footprints made by hiking boots just like hers, and she wondered whether any of them were Peter’s. It was five years ago. Surely not?
Jessica Anne Jeffries drew a deep breath of cool Himalayan air through her nostrils, held it for a moment and, with eyes closed, exhaled slowly until her lungs were empty. She remained motionless for a few seconds until her body demanded oxygen, so she opened her mouth and, with eyes glassy and moist, began to breathe normally again. Her moment of contemplation was interrupted by a plaintive call coming from a hundred metres away.
“Miss Jess, I think we must be going now!”
Jess turned her head at the sound and saw Sujay’s arm held high, hat in his hand, waving at her. She waved back in acknowledgement. It was not over. Not by a long way. The search for the truth had started four months ago, the day Leila had returned, and she would not rest until she knew. She took a last look at the valley and walked slowly back to the trail, where her Nepalese guide was waiting for her.