Downtime - Marc Platt [16]
Charles scuffed Tundu’s head. ‘Shooting as in cameras, you dolt.’ They both laughed together.
‘Besides,’ added Tundu, ‘you will have fellow traveller.’
He pointed up the street to a little figure seated outside the Trekking Supply Shop. A wizened old man apparently gazing out across the mountains, dressed in a weathered saffron robe and holding a long staff.
‘A monk?’ asked Victoria. ‘You could have told me. Is he going to Det-sen too?’
Tundu nodded. ‘But he doesn’t talk – not allowed. And he doesn’t see either. So I am double important as guide and eyes.’
Victoria stared uneasily at the ancient monk. ‘All right, I’ll go with you. I have to get there somehow.’
She tried a weak smile as Charles pulled in close and said gently, ‘And get back again. Do you think I’d really let you wander off on your own?’ He leant closer and kissed her on the cheek.
Blushing vividly, she headed into the lodge to change and fetch her luggage. She had been wrong and had found someone who really cared for her.
Eric was inside, sitting on a chair by the desk. She thought of asking his advice, but as she approached him, he looked up and, staring straight through her, said, ‘There’s a big green space inside my head, man. No flowers, just green big space.
You got any decent stuff, man? Ain’t seen no decent stuff for years.’
‘Sorry,’ Victoria said and hurried to fetch her bags.
She pulled on her walking gear and boots, planted the khaki hat that Mrs Cywynski had given her on her head and settled her bill. At least she could pay for that.
When she came back out into the street, the ancient monk had gone and she couldn’t see Charles. She stared up and down, half panicked. There was another burst of his laughter, mingled with Tundu’s giggle, and she followed it eagerly around the side of the lodge. She faltered as she saw Charles, his arm around the Sherpa’s shoulder, smiling deep into the young man’s brown eyes.
Charles turned and smiled at her too. ‘Good. Here you are.
The sooner you get off the better. Tundu will get you to Phakding tonight, Namche tomorrow. Maybe three more days to Det-sen.’
Tundu shouted something and his sister appeared leading a big brown yak. On it sat the ancient monk. The girl, whose name was Sonam, took Victoria’s bags from her. As they loaded up, Charles proffered Victoria a small packet.
‘Dairy Milk,’ he said. ‘Not yak milk. Chocolate’ll make your diet a bit more interesting. It’s got my address on the back. Stay in touch. I don’t know if I’ll be here when you get back.’
‘Thank you, Charles,’ she said. ‘Good luck with the gentians.’
He laughed and slapped the yak on its rump. He waved for a long time until the street disappeared out of view and only the mountains were rising around them. Victoria was not sure if he was waving at her. She wasn’t sure what she thought any more.
The road to Namche Bazar and beyond twisted its way through the wild country between the mountains. The lower slopes were dark with pine forest, which stretched up to the snowline from where the peaks tore against the blue air. They crossed a wooden bridge over a rushing meltwater torrent and followed the course of the Dhud Kosi, travelling north. Tundu insisted on stopping at the chorten, little way-temples that stood at the roadside like huge chesspieces abandoned by the mountain giants. They were intricately carved and hung with ropes of fluttering prayer flags. And along the route there were prayer walls, spotted with lichen and engraved in huge letters with the lotus prayer – Om mani padme hum.
Victoria, travelling in foreign territory, equipped with an entourage of porters, imagined herself as a sahiba from the days of the Empire. This track was the main highway. They passed other trekkers and merchants, women carrying bamboo baskets bigger than themselves and groups of travelling monks in robes of startling orange.
The old monk, perched on the lumbering yak, seemed oblivious of this. His lips, although silent, mouthed endless mantras as they trudged northward.
Tundu chattered to Victoria in extraordinarily idiomatic