The Mountain (A James Shaw Mission Book 2) Read online

  THE MOUNTAIN

  A novel by Richard Turner

  ©2014 by Richard Turner

  Published 2014 by Richard Turner

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced without written permission, except for brief quotations to books and critical reviews. This story is a work of fiction. Characters and events are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Chapter 1

  Tibet,

  Himalayan mountains,

  1249 AD

  Tsering was facing death and he knew it.

  As he fought to catch his breath, Tsering fought his way through the knee-deep snow that covered the side of the tall mountain. Tsering tried to block the blowing snow from hitting his severely wind burned face by pulling the hood down on his heavy fur jacket. Although barely seventeen, Tsering had spent his entire life in the rugged hills and mountains that surrounded the valley he called home.

  Tsering rubbed his raw hands together trying to bring some warmth into his cold, numb fingers. His body ached everywhere. He had been on his feet for close to fourteen hours this day, climbing ever higher into the blinding snowstorm that had gripped the mountain. He had barely eaten or slept in days. Exhausted beyond measure, all Tsering wanted to do was to sit down in the snow and catch his breath. However, that would have meant certain death, from the biting cold or from the things his weary mind told him were moving just out of sight in the blizzard.

  The higher Tsering climbed, the more he began to wonder if it was only his mind playing tricks on him. The thinner the air became, the harder it became for him to breathe or think straight. Tsering had never climbed this high before. Although his body told him to turn back, his heart told him that he must push on. He had to finish the task that he had been given. He turned his head slightly and peered out from under his hood into the storm. Tsering had never seen or heard one of the creatures; however, he was certain that they were following him. His gut told him they were real. Tsering was positive that the only reason that he was still alive was because of what he carried on his back.

  For the past several days, only the fittest and bravest young men had gone one by one up the white-capped mountain that towered high over their homes. They had been chosen by the village elders to place several mysterious objects deep inside a sacred cavern near the summit of the highest peak in the valley. Found one week ago with the body of an odd-looking child on a barren hill near their village, the unusual items were declared a threat to their village’s livelihood by their Lama, an aged and wise, holy man. There had been no discussion, no hesitation; the young men had all gone willingly to cleanse their valley from the evil spirits that had come to their land with the cursed objects.

  When his turn came, Tsering unflinchingly stepped forward even though none of the other boys had yet to return from the mountain. He was the best climber among all the remaining young men in his village. Tsering saw it as an honor to be chosen to carry the body of the child up to the sacred cavern.

  A Sky Burial in which the child’s remains would have been offered up to the vultures was normal practice; however, the village Lama, after four days of deep meditation, deemed it unwise and ordered that the child’s remains be washed and then wrapped in clean, white cloth. It was to be taken to the cavern atop the mountain, to rest there for all eternity.

  Reverently placed inside his wood-framed backpack, to Tsering the body weighed no more than a slender boy of three or four years of age did. Stoically embracing his parents and his older brother one last time before the sun had begun to creep up on the horizon, Tsering told them not to weep for him. Leaving his family, he mustered his courage and quietly walked out of the village, knowing that he would probably never return.

  For days, rumors had swirled through the valley that a beast hungry for human flesh was prowling the peaks. Tsering had heard similar stories as a child. His mother would tell him and his brother to go to bed or the Wildman of the mountain would come and get them. It was a ploy to get them to be quiet, but there were those in the village who claimed to have seen the footprints of a strange beast high up in the mountains. He had never believed the stories as a child, but with all that had happened recently he no longer discounted them entirely.

  Hours later, with the storm still raging all about him, Tsering clenched his old wooden pole tight in his hand as he fought to find his way up the icy slope. His feet felt like solid blocks of ice. The Lama had told him how to reach the cavern; however, with each step, he was beginning to fear that in the blowing snow, he had somehow lost his way. Uncertainty, like poison, seeped into his mind. He looked about and started to believe that he had lost his way when he spotted something a few paces away sticking up through the snow. Tsering forced his tired and aching body to move. With growing reluctance, he made his way towards the object he had seen.

  His gut warned him to be wary.

  He gritted his teeth when he realized that he was looking at a frozen arm sticking out of the snow, reaching out as if trying to grasp at something unseen. He dropped to his knees and dug into the snow. A couple of moments later, he stopped and fought back tears as he looked down on the face of his friend, Dungkar. The youth’s eyes were wide open. A look of unbelievable terror was etched on his face. He opened his friend’s fur jacket to check his wounds. Tsering’s heart leapt into this throat when he saw several claw marks dug deep into the dead young man’s neck. The blood had frozen solid, looking to Tsering like a deep red scarf. Standing up, Tsering sensed something watching him. He spun about and looked behind him. He expected to see some hideous beast standing there with a mouth full of sharp teeth waiting to take his life; instead, all he saw was the swirling snow. Tsering left his friend and continued upwards. A minute later, he came across another body; like Dungkar’s, the man’s throat had been ripped open.

  With a prayer on his lips, Tsering picked up his pace, trying to escape the beast that had killed his friends. Tsering stumbled past the bodies of all those who had gone before him, like grisly signposts showing the way. He soon became numb to the horrid sight; the only thought he had was placing the child inside the cavern before he met his fate.

  When he came across the corpse of the first boy who had climbed the mountain several days ago, Tsering knew his journey was almost at an end. Through the blizzard, he could make out the darkened shape of the rocky entrance that led to the sacred cavern deep within the heart of the mountain. Stumbling out of the howling wind, Tsering was almost at the cave entrance when he saw odd-looking footprints. Warily, dropping to one knee, he examined the tracks. He saw that they were long and narrow, with deep claw-like indentations buried deep in the snow. The blizzard had barely begun to cover them.

  His blood turned cold….they were near!

  Tsering cursed the unseen monsters and then, mustering his fading strength, he ran for the opening. He was almost at the entrance when he tripped on a rock buried in the snow. With a startled cry, he slid face first down the long, shadowy tunnel. A couple of seconds later, he flew out into a darkened cave. Tsering sat up. He felt like a fool as he struggled to catch his breath in the thin air.

  Inside the cavern, it was quiet and calm. Thankful to be out of the storm, Tsering reached under his jacket and pulled out a small wooden canteen. Removing the cork, he took a long swig of Chhaang, a strong alcoholic beverage made from millet by his father.

  The strong liquid refreshed his flagging spirits. With a grunt on his lips, Tsering got back up on his feet and then emptied the canteen into his mouth. Swallowing down the alcohol, Tsering tossed the empty canteen aside. He took his pack off his bac
k, placed it at his feet and then dug inside until he found a wooden torch. Tsering took a flint and struck it hard against a rock a couple of times until a spark landed on the tar-soaked torch. He smiled. Next, he bent down and gently blew on the burning embers. A few seconds later, his torch was burning brightly, illuminating the cavern. At the far end, he could see another tunnel leading down into the mountain. He knew that his task wasn’t over. He had to push on. Tsering threw his pack over his shoulder; with his torch held out in front of him, he carefully made his way into the unknown.

  Tsering wasn’t sure how much time had passed or how far he had gone when he walked out into a massive cavern that seemed to go on forever. He was amazed to find that he didn’t need his torch to see. The roof of the cave seemed to be lit up with tens of thousands of bright lights, like so many stars in the night sky. He edged forward until he came to a tall standing stone. Placed around it were the objects the other boys had carried with them. Tsering removed his backpack, respectfully reached inside and pulled out the child, its body placed into a sitting position before being wrapped in cloth. He took a deep breath and then threaded his way past the other items. Tsering gently placed the child atop of the obelisk-like stone, bowed his head, and said a quick prayer before stepping back.

  It would soon be night.

  There was no way Tsering could risk descending the mountain in the dark, not with the creatures waiting outside for him. He didn’t know why, but he was certain that the creatures would not venture into the cavern to look for him. Tsering decided to rest in the cave for the night and then take his chances in the morning. His stomach rumbled. Tsering rummaged through his pockets until he found a piece of smoked meat. He bit off a piece, sat down on a large boulder, and then studied the mysterious objects on the ground in front of him. He had never seen anything like them in his life. The craftsmanship on the shiny black metal was beyond anything the blacksmith on his village was capable of making. As he chewed his food, Tsering became intrigued with a small, square metallic box with what he took to be strange writing on the side of it. Tsering’s curiosity was up; he couldn’t resist taking a closer look at the box. He stood up and carefully made his way over to the box. It was no more than a couple of hand widths in length and height, but something about it drew Tsering towards it. He looked at the box for a minute. Something in the back of his mind told him that he had to touch it. Tsering slowly reached over with his hand.

  Instantly, a bright blue light enveloped the box.

  Surprised, Tsering pulled his hand away.

  A moment later, the light faded.

  He had come this far; no matter what, he wanted to know what had made the magical box come to life. Tsering brought his hand close to the box. As before, a blue light seeped from the box. Only this time, Tsering didn’t pull his hand away. With a growing smile on his face, he realized that the light wasn’t going to harm him.

  He lowered his hand onto the box.

  Suddenly, an ear-piercing sound filled the cavern. The light from the box turned bright white in an instant, blinding Tsering. An instant later, a searing blast of heat surged from the top of the box up through his hand and then shot out through his entire body.

  Terrified, Tsering let go off the box. He stumbled backwards, tripped over a rock and fell down hard on the rocky ground. Blinded by the light, Tsering called out for his father as he crawled back away from the box.

  It took nearly an hour for Tsering’s sight to return. When it did, he made a small fire from the remnants of his wood-framed backpack. He took a seat and warily eyed the box he had tried to touch. His face felt burned as if he had been in the sun too long. Tsering’s hand was blistered, and painfully throbbed with each beat of his heart. His dirty fur jacket stank terribly and was singed black from the sudden burst of heat. The village Lama was correct, evil spirits must dwell inside the strange objects, thought Tsering. He soon finished off what little food he had. The fatigue from the past few days climb began to take hold. Tsering tried to get as comfortable as he could on the cold, rocky ground. Unable to keep them open, Tsering closed his eyes and thought about his parents and his older brother. They would live in peace now that the valley had been cleansed of evil.

  A few minutes later, he drifted off to sleep.

  He never awoke.

  Chapter 2

  Tibet

  On the border with Bhutan,

  August 12th, 1866

  Arjun Kapoor stopped for a moment to wait for the three men accompanying him to catch up. Born in the hills of northwestern India, Kapoor was in his element hiking through the rugged countryside of Tibet.

  Disguised to look like a party of silk traders making their way to the Palizhen Monastery, Kapoor and his associates were, in fact, British spies. Sent from India into Tibet, their mission was to map the largely unknown country in case the Russians ever decided to invade. Caught up in the Great Game between the British and Russian Empires, Tibet had all but closed her borders to westerners. Trained by a British Army sergeant-major, Kapoor and his men could count their paces with military precision. It didn’t matter if they were on flat land or climbing up and down mountains, their pace never changed. Carrying specially made counting beads, they were able to accurately measure the distances they travelled to within a yard or two.

  Kapoor was a well-educated man who could easily read the stars and constellations at night. Unlike the other men in his party, he was able to use a sextant and many other surveying devices, all of which were hidden in special compartments in the wooden boxes their donkeys carried on their backs. Their notes, checked and double-checked each night when they stopped for their evening meal, were hidden away inside the top of the walking sticks that each man carried.

  Kapoor saw that the sun would be setting shortly. He looked about for a good spot for them to bed down for the night. Less than one hundred yards away, Kapoor saw a small clump of trees nestled beside a stream that looked perfect after a day on his feet.

  Twenty minutes later one of Kapoor’s men, a skinny eighteen-year-old soldier called Deepak Savary, began to cook their meager supper of rice and spiced lamb over a fire. A pot of tea brewed off to the side.

  With his reading glasses perched on his hawk-like nose, Kapoor went over the notes his men had provided to him. As usual, they were all within three paces of one another. Not bad, thought Kapoor, considering they had walked over twenty miles today, some of that through a rocky mountain pass that had meandered from side to side like a snake moving across the ground.

  “Good work today,” said Kapoor as he closed up his notebook and put it away.

  “Thank you, sir,” replied his three associates in unison.

  “Sir, how much farther is it to Tsurphu?” asked Paintal, a former merchant who acted on Kapoor’s behalf when they needed to convince someone that they were indeed a group of merchants trying to make a living selling silk to monks.

  “Another couple of days, perhaps,” answered Kapoor.

  “Then what, sir?” asked Mohan, the man responsible for looking after their donkeys.

  “We’ll turn south and map the border all the way back to India,” replied Kapoor.

  “I’d like that, sir,” said Savary as he stirred the pot of rice.

  “We haven’t been gone that long,” chided Kapoor. “You’ll be home before the New Year.”

  “He’s got a girl waiting for him,” said Paintal, playfully hitting Savary on the arm.

  “Is she pretty?” asked Mohan. “My wife is as ugly as our donkeys.”

  A chuckle ran through the group.

  “Yes, she’s very pretty,” said Savary with a smile from ear to ear on his slender face. “She has the face of a princess and the smile of an angel.”

  “Wait until you’ve been married for twenty years, I doubt she’ll seem so beautiful,” said Paintal.

  Kapoor could tell that Savary wanted to say something, but as the youngest in the group, he knew it best if the young man kept his tongue quiet.

/>   Ten minutes later, just as Savary was about to hand around the food, Kapoor suddenly stood up with a look of danger in his eyes. He looked out into the dark; in his hand was his Colt revolver.

  “What is it, sir?” asked Savary. “Did you hear something?”

  “I’m not sure,” said Kapoor, trying not to sound scared. He may have been the leader of the group, but he was a bureaucrat, not a soldier like Savary. His heart was racing in his chest. Perhaps it was nothing. Only an animal moving around in the dark, thought Kapoor.

  “Please lower your gun. I mean you no harm,” said a voice in the night.

  “Show yourself,” ordered Kapoor.

  A second later, a broad-shouldered man dressed in loose-fitting peasant’s clothing stepped out of the dark with his hands in the air. “As you can see, I am unarmed,” said the man.

  “Who are you?” said Kapoor.

  “My name is Tenzig Shakya, I am a weary traveler on my way to visit the monastery at Palizhen,” said the man. “I was passing by when your fire caught my eye.”

  “Why are you walking around in the dark?” asked Kapoor, suspiciously.

  “I was hoping to make it the next village before night fell. However, I must have taken the wrong path somewhere back in the pass and lost my way. Rather than stop, I decided to keep going in the dark and ended up walking past your fire,” said Shakya.

  Kapoor warily lowered his pistol. “Please forgive me. There are bandits in this region. My fellow travelers and I are on our way to Tsurphu. We are carrying silk that we hope to sell to the monks there.”

  “Your food smells delicious,” said Shakya, looking over at the pots bubbling over the fire.

  “You are welcome to join us,” said Kapoor, waving to a spot by the fire. Placing his pistol in his belt, Kapoor took a seat.

  “Thank you,” said Shakya as he sat down on the ground beside Kapoor.

  “You speak English very well,” said the former merchant, Paintal.