‘Very well, madam,’ he said. ‘We will play along. But there are certain things you must know. When flying in a helicopter at high altitudes, there are two problems that need to be overcome: the first is a loss of engine power; the second is the loss of rotor lift, as the air thins out. So as you go higher, you have less power and less lift from both the engine and the rotor. These Vistonyis are the best there are, but even they can go up to only 16,000 feet; at that altitude, our all-up weight will be reduced by half to a maximum of 2,000 kilos, preferably less. Also, if we land at higher altitudes, our payload drops drastically; which means, we should carry 500 kilos, possibly less.’
‘That means we carry fewer men or weapons,’ the woman said thoughtfully. After a pause, she asked, ‘What if we carry less fuel?’
‘Then, of course, we could carry more load,’ he replied, ‘but from what you suggest, we will need all the range we can get.’
‘How good are the maps?’ she asked.
He shrugged. ‘They are not meant for flying into an area where no one has flown before. They do not give accurate estimates of altitudes; we will have to fly by visuals. Without ground stations to keep in touch with, we won’t have any forewarning about a sudden deterioration in weather conditions; in the mountains, that is something which happens with almost unfailing regularity.’
‘Is there a way around that?’ she asked in a soft, cajoling voice.
He looked at her and grinned. For the first time, he appeared to be enjoying the conversation.
‘You could pray, madam.’
* * *
They descended the slopes that led to the ridge and managed to move at a much brisker pace while doing so; it meant they were still at a considerable altitude. At dusk, they came upon the ruins of the caravanserai Ashton had seen through his binoculars – a series of mud huts in various stages of collapse. To their relief, there was a stream flowing through the caravanserai. Along its banks were rich pasture and clumps of dwarf willow. The area was also strewn with branches and dead tree trunks and the dung of wild horses and yaks. Ashton and his team were glad to have a fresh supply of water, fodder and fuel, at least for now. They found traces of previous campfires, but Peter examined them and declared they were weeks old.
‘In an inhospitable wasteland like this one, our campsite is almost like an oasis, just too inviting to leave and move on. It makes one almost believe what the
padaban
told you,’ Susan said, looking at Peter.
‘It wouldn’t be the first time that I picked up something while smoking pot,’ he quipped with a grin.
Duggy quickly made a stew of tinned meat and baked beans which they ate together, sitting by the fire. Ashton confessed he wasn’t feeling too bright and preferred not to eat at all.
‘What’s wrong, Colonel?’ Peter asked.
‘Dehydration, I think,’ Ashton said with a wave of his hand. ‘Feeling a little woozy. I’ve mixed some Electral powder in my water. Sleep would help, I imagine.’
‘So where do we find our shamans?’ Susan asked, scraping her plate clean with her fork. ‘Any ideas?’
‘I suppose we’ll scout around tomorrow and if luck favours us, we’ll find our elusive tribesmen near enough,’ Ashton said, his glance straying to the silhouette of the huge inky-black feature which loomed behind them, the clouds obscuring its summit, having descended still further down its flanks. ‘But if it snows, we aren’t going to be picking up any tracks.’
The snow began falling gently even as they sat around the fire. Within minutes, the fire gave off a loud crackle of protest and went out with a hissing sigh. Peter and Duggy sprang to their feet and quickly threw a plastic sheet over one of the mud huts that had lost its roof, but still had three walls standing. After tethering the animals, they moved all their sleeping bags inside the hut and stacked their gear outside.
Peter tried the radio, but could catch nothing except a low hum.
‘Some kind of interference,’ he muttered. ‘It’s not catching anything. I’d thought we might get a weather forecast.’
‘Do you understand Chinese?’ Susan asked.
‘You’ve got a point there,’ he replied with a good-natured grin.
‘It’s probably some kind of magnetic interference; even the compass needle is going haywire,’ Duggy observed, shaking the compass in his hand and shining a torch over it to see if he could get a response.
Peter turned to Ashton and said, ‘Duggy and I will do the watches, Colonel.’
‘I’ll take my turn too, if you don’t mind,’ Susan cut in sharply.
‘We all will,’ Ashton said quietly. ‘I’ll take the last one. It will give me the chance to catch up on some sleep now.’
As he lay in his sleeping bag, he realized that he wasn’t going to be able to sleep. He shut his eyes, nonetheless, and forced himself to lie still, willing himself to rest. But soon, he was tossing and turning, although he tried to restrict his movements, worried about disturbing the others. He could hear Peter, who had the first watch, walk to the spot where the animals were pegged, his boots crunching in the soft snow. He then heard him relieve himself in the area beyond it. Ashton turned over in his sleeping bag again and felt the sweat beading his brow.
I must be coming down with fever
, he thought to himself. He was not sure how much time had passed when he heard the steady yodel of wolves from a distance at first, and then closer; they must have got the scent of the pack animals.
He heard the cough and woke up with a start, his brain fuddled.
Big cat!
Where had he heard that before – in Malaya? He looked around him and saw that the other sleeping bags were empty.
The others must have gone outside
. He tried to get out of his sleeping bag, but found he was too weak to move. He gave himself more time, took a deep breath and slowly got out of his bag. He rested a moment and deliberately began putting on his boots.
‘Peter? Susan?’ he called out. And then, ‘Duggy!’
There was no response; only the sound of the snow, falling steadily.
He went outside, rifle in hand, and found the camp deserted. There was no one around
and the animals were gone
! He forced himself to breathe normally, conscious that he was sweating profusely. He wondered if he might be hallucinating.
Tracks
, he reminded himself.
If they’ve left, there must be tracks in the snow.
He found himself rushing in all directions to find them, but he could see no tracks. He shouted their names again; there was no answer.
Then he heard the cough again. He swung around in the direction of the sound, his weapon at the ready. Then he saw it, some distance away, hazy against the white backdrop – a snow leopard, tail swishing, sitting on its haunches and looking at him. He moved towards the cat, which got up and moved away towards the mountainside, turning back once to look at him. He followed it, hearing his boots crunch in the snow. Ashton saw that one of his boot laces had come undone, but he didn’t stop, not wanting to lose sight of the cat, barely visible now in the snow. He saw the leopard move into a crack in the rocks from which he could see a faint light and hear a throbbing sound, reminding him vaguely of something – he couldn’t remember what. He stopped and stood where he was, feeling the snow fall on the hood of his jacket and slide down to the front. He could hear his heart pounding. Taking a deep breath, he approached the crack in the rocks.
It was the mouth of a cave. As he moved closer still, he saw that a fire had been lit in the centre. Around it sat men in robes. When they saw Ashton enter, they got up and bowed, their hands folded, murmuring in a language he could not understand. One of them was beating a drum.
Of course I know where this is from
, he thought. It was the sound of the
daf
the
padaban
had danced to every night by the campfire.
Two of the men in robes came up and, without a word, bowed and led Ashton to the fire. He was made to sit down. The drumbeats grew louder, until he could hear nothing else. The flames of the fire scalded his face and he could smell the hair of his eyebrows as they got singed. Yet the fire held his gaze, for in its light, he could see the form of a woman, her long black hair covering her face, swaying to the beat of the drum. Then he saw her face.
Those coal-
black eyes!
He heard the voices of the people in the robes; their faces were indistinguishable. He couldn’t make out what language they spoke, but he could understand them. Softly, slowly, insidiously and insistently, they kept repeating their words, as if to ensure that he would remember them. Then another voice, distinctly feminine, said something almost apologetically, to which he screamed, ‘No! No!
No!’
He felt himself being shaken violently. He opened his eyes. It was morning and Duggy was looking at him anxiously.
‘It’s all right, Colonel. You were having a nightmare.’
He sat up and found that his head was clear. His mouth was dry.
‘Please, some water,’ he murmured.
Duggy handed him a water bottle and he drank greedily from it.
Duggy heated some tea in an enamel bowl, poured it into a mug and passed it to Ashton, who was now sitting up in his sleeping bag, propped up by a rucksack. Ashton sipped the hot tea and offered his thanks.
He saw Peter approach, bending low to enter the improvised shelter.
‘Good to see you up, Colonel,’ he said cheerfully.
‘Thanks,’ Ashton replied. ‘Sorry about last night. I don’t think I was able to take my watch.’
Peter looked at him curiously. ‘That’s all right, Colonel,’ he said softly, before nodding and stepping out again.
Ashton got out of his sleeping bag and realized that he had slelpt with his boots on. Although it surprised him, he mentioned it to no one. He emerged from their makeshift shelter to see an overcast sky and a blanket of snow over the entire valley. Small flakes were still falling and the mountain was covered in a swathe of white, with large patches of bald black rock face jutting out.
Ashton picked up his toilet bag and walked to the far side of the stream, carefully balancing himself on the rocks in the middle to get across. When he had finished and was on his way back, he had the eerie feeling that he was being watched. He spun around and saw the big cat again. It was crouched comfortably in the snow, looking at him. He gazed into the large, grey-green, unblinking eyes. Then the cat got up slowly and languidly, stretched and walked away, its tail swishing as it gradually disappeared from view in the snowy haze.
When Ashton arrived back at the camp, Duggy was frying strips of meat on a skillet he held over a fire. He felt his stomach growl; he remembered he had eaten nothing since the previous night. Susan and Peter came by and he looked at their anxious faces and smiled in greeting.
‘I’m fine, you know. Only very hungry.’
Their relief was obvious as they smiled back at him.
‘I think we should tell him,’ Peter said decisively, looking at Duggy.
‘Tell me what?’ Ashton asked, uncomprehending, and immediately saw Duggy avert his gaze.
‘Look, Colonel,’ Peter began gently, choosing his words with care, ‘you’ve just done a Rip Van Winkle on us; you’ve woken up after two whole days of running a fever and being delirious all through.’
‘What!’
‘That’s right. And while you were asleep, Duggy and I went around the area, trying to locate the tribesmen.’
‘And did you?’
‘We haven’t so far.’ Peter shifted on his feet, looking irritated with himself. ‘But we will. It’s a big valley and we’ve had all this snow, which is likely to have covered up any tracks that might have helped trace them.’
‘And what if you don’t find them?’ Susan asked.
‘We will. Even if we don’t, the tribesmen who used our campsite are bound to return here, sooner or later.’
‘Later isn’t going to be good enough for us,’ Ashton reminded him gently. ‘Remember, we have to get through in the time of the equinox. That’s
today
.’
Peter was about to say something in reply, when the walls of the shelter began moving, swaying inwards and outwards. Then, almost as soon as it had started, the movement stopped. Everything was still and silent, apart from the pack animals which were braying loudly in fear.
‘Tremor,’ Duggy observed. ‘A small one. No damage.’ He had leaned out to take a look.
‘Let’s search for the Western Gate,’ Ashton said firmly.
At the note of assurance in his tone, they all turned to stare at him.
‘I think I know where it is,’ he said simply, then described his dream to them, keeping just a few details to himself. ‘What do you think?’ he asked, when he had finished.
Susan was the only one quick to reply. ‘Shamanism is animistic; it’s strongly associated with the power of entering the bodies of animals and interacting with the spirits through dreams.’ Her voice sounded strained to her own ears and she felt a shiver run down her spine. ‘But I suppose it’s just too fantastic, unreal,’ she said, shrugging. Her voice had grown shrill as she uttered the last few words and she giggled from sheer nervousness. ‘Of course, I should have got it earlier,’ she went on, ‘but it suddenly came to me that another meaning of the Chinese word “
wu
” is self-realization or awakening. That’s what this could be! Oh my god!’ she suddenly exclaimed, as though she’d had a revelation. ‘Henry has had a spiritual awakening – he can lead us to the Gate!’
Peter looked at her cynically, shaking his head, unconvinced. ‘Get a grip on yourself, Prof,’ he said. ‘You need to stop clutching at the first straw somebody waves at you.’ He mimicked the gesture he was describing, the anger and agitation mounting in his voice as he spoke. ‘Look around, just take a
look
at this place! If we wander off, we’ll just end up getting ourselves killed.’ He pointed a finger at all of them. ‘We started off with a plan – and we stick to it.’
The last few words were a shout.
‘I saw it,’ Ashton mused, rubbing his chin contemplatively, as though he hadn’t heard Peter’s outburst at all. ‘I think I saw it. No, I think I
heard
it. I can take you through the Gate.’
‘I can’t believe this!’ Peter shouted incredulously, ‘now you too! That was your
fever
talking, Colonel!’