Iced!: The 2007 Journal of Nick Fitzmorgan (11 page)

“Okay.” I walked over to him. “Hello.”

“Hello,” he said in perfect English. “My name is Darje Jiban.”

“You speak English?” I asked him.

“I wasn’t sure how to react when you arrived,” he explained. “I thought it best if I stalled for time and pretended not to
understand English.”

“Do you know where my dad is?”

Jiban looked down. “No, I’m sorry. I wish I did.”

My radar told me he was telling the truth. But I still had a million questions. “How do you know him? What were you doing
at our house? Why did you have a replica of a human skull?”

Maura held up a hand to cut me off. She indicated I should take a seat with her on one of the two benches that leaned against
the side of the house. Jiban swung the other bench around and seated himself so we were facing each other.

“Go ahead, Jiban,” Maura directed. “Tell your story.”

He nodded and looked at me. “I have been helping your father research a movie script he’s writing. It’s about famous explorers.”

Just by sitting down, I was starting to feel more in control “How did you meet my dad?”

“That’s a long story.” He gently smiled. “Let me first tell you about myself. I come from a family of yak farmers. Everyone
has always told me that is my job in life. They say I should be happy enough with raising yaks—and not go wandering off to
the tops of mountains. But I am the only one in my family who has not climbed Mount Everest. A year ago, on one of his research
trips to the area, your father, Henry, heard about my collection.”

“What collection?”

“Some people in your country collect baseball cards,” he replied. “Here, I collect artifacts and bits of climbing history.
Like the climbing axe used by Sir Edmund Hillary and the empty oxygen tank of the first blind climber. Your dad thought looking
at my collection could help him write his script. He came to this farm and sat just where you are now. We talked for hours,
and we became friends.”

I watched his face as he spoke, but still saw no signs of deception. “You took things off the mountain?” I asked.

Jiban looked horrified. “No, of course not. To me, that would be like robbing someone’s grave. I believe that when people
die on the mountain, all their possessions should remain with them. Do you understand?”

I nodded. It made sense to me. I didn’t like it when boat salvage teams took jewels and other personal belongings off shipwrecks
where people had died. It seemed disrespectful. I guess this was kind of the same thing.

Jiban was saving, “I acquired these items from auctions and private sales.”

“Why did you collect all that stuff?”

“I have this dream to climb the mountain goddess, Mount Everest.” His eyes lit up as he spoke.

I asked, “Then why don’t you?”

“This.” Jiban pointed down at his right leg.

“What?” I couldn’t see anything special about it.

JIBAN’S SPECIAL SHOES

He explained, “I was born with one of my legs shorter than the other. It’s not a major problem—for a yak farmer. But I let
it keep me from climbing. When I told your father about my leg, he put me in touch with Benny Myles. He helped me get a pair
of specially designed shoes. And now look!”

Jiban was up and walking around. Everything looked smooth, and I couldn’t tell that he had ever had a problem.

“Benny Myles sent me boots especially designed for climbing,” said Jiban.

“That’s just something Uncle Benny would do,” I told Maura. “My godfather always wants to make sure that everyone’s happy,
especially people he works with, like my dad.”

Jiban sat back down. “On his last visit to this country, your father told me that he was worried about something. He didn’t
say what. But he told me that he would call me every evening at nine o’clock my time. If he did not call, he said, that would
mean that he was in danger. That meant that I should deliver the skull to you, his son, and repeat the strange phrase—”

“Wonefas nepo,” I said.

Jiban nodded. “That’s right. I had no idea what it meant. But I trusted your father.”

“You flew all the way to Los Angeles to tell me that and throw a skull at me?” I asked.

Jiban explained, “I was already in the city to deliver items to your father that had once belonged to adventurous climbers.
It was research for his movie.”

“Why didn’t you just mail the stuff?”

“Your father believed someone was tampering with his mail. He couldn’t prove it, but he did ask me to hand-deliver everything
to him personally. I was fine with that—it gave me a chance to meet Benny Myles in person and thank him.”

“I wasn’t even supposed to be home,” I said. “What would you have done if I wasn’t there to take the skull from you?”

“I would have waited until you returned,” he answered.

“But what does this all mean?” I rubbed a hand over my face, suddenly feeling very, very tired.

“Your father was secretive,” Jiban said. “He did not tell me anything more. He explained what I was to do and said that then
I should come back home.”

“And do what?”

“Once again, he didn’t say. I am sorry.”

I believed him. And I felt pretty stupid for acting so dumb earlier. But I didn’t know how to begin apologizing.

“Now,” Jiban said. “Do not move. I insist that you drink some tea and have something to eat. It will make you feel better.”

MOUNT EVEREST LOOMING IN THE DISTANCE BEHIND MAURA AND JIBAN

He went inside for a moment and returned with a huge, steaming cup of tea, with plenty of milk and sugar already added. Maura
and Jiban sipped from mugs of “chang,” a thick, rice-based beer that, according to my guidebook, many Sherpas brew in their
homes.

My eyes went to Everest, its peak lost in the clouds. “Do you think he’s up there?” I asked.

“I heard talk in Namche Bazar that two men have gone up one of the trickier routes of the mountain without a Sherpa,” Jiban
said. “One of those men could be your father.”

“Well then, that just leaves us one choice,” I stated.

“Oh, no,” Maura said.

“What is our one choice?” Jiban asked.

“We have to climb Everest.”

EVEREST BASE CAMP

Today, I felt like I was back to myself
again. After a good night’s sleep, I think I finally kicked the altitude sickness.

We spent last night in Base Camp. This was the first stop on the climb up Everest. It’s surprising to me that it’s not colder
here. In the sun, temperatures were in the high forties.

Set on a relatively flat piece of land, Base Camp feels festive. Maybe it’s the brightly colored tents that are set up around
the huge boulders. Or it could be the prater flags flapping happily in the breeze that added to the high energy These flags
were put up by Buddhists in the hope that they would help protect the climbers on their journey.

Base Camp is more like a little town than a camp. It has its own doctor, a few trading tents where supplies can be bought,
and a communications center with a satellite telephone and Internet access.

Yesterday, we had tried to reach Judge Pinkerton again. I called Dad’s cell phone and even tried sending a note to his e-mail
account in case he could somehow check it. I didn’t dare say too much in case his e-mails were being intercepted. But I wanted
him to know we were close by.

Last night, we used Maura’s credit card to buy all the climbing gear, tents, oxygen tanks, food, and water that we would need
for the climb.

The sun was setting as we wrapped up our shopping. We were leaving one of the supply tents when we ran into a group of Sherpas.
They had just returned from the summit. A few of them recognized Jiban and greeted him with surprise. While I couldn’t understand
what they were saying to him, I heard the Nepali word for “yak” and then “farm.”

Jiban’s face turned red, and it was obvious they were giving him a hard time.

“I am leading my expedition up Mount Everest tomorrow, and then we’ll see who is laughing,” Jiban said. He was speaking in
English for our benefit.

The other Sherpas just chuckled and shook their heads.

Jiban looked at Maura and me. “I want to ask these FOOLS if they saw your father on the mountain. I will join you in a moment.”