He saw that she had stepped swiftly back.
‘Oh, Chao-li,’ she said. ‘It isn’t true. Don’t say that you have killed a bear!’
‘I tell you I have!’ he said, shouting almost above the hammering of his arm, and a peculiar swimming motion that had affected her head. ‘I killed it, and I must eat quickly. …’
‘Oh, Chao-li, I cannot help with a bear.’
He saw that her head was not only swimming in circles but shaking slowly from side to side.
‘Chao-li, I must protect all bears. It is a very great sin to have killed a bear.’
Houston went out again to the bear himself. He got into his jacket himself, and he staggered up into the
chorten
himself. The girl followed him while he did these things, weeping as she explained why she could not help him. Houston scarcely heard her. He was so feeble that he had room in his mind now for only one thing.
He imagined himself eating the bear.
He imagined himself eating it all the way there. He planned all the operations that would facilitate his eating it.
He would not be able to get the bear on the sled himself. He would have to cut it up first. He would have to cut off the limbs, and take them back and eat them, and then return for the body when he was stronger. He would have to hide the body meanwhile off the track.
It was quite dark when he came to the bear. It was frozen to the track, with the sled and gun and knife frozen alongside. Houston booted the knife free of the ice and sat down on the bear and began to cut off a leg.
He started high, above the haunch, but the flesh had frozen into the consistency of toughened rubber, and he couldn’t wait, and with his hand tore off a piece from the side of the incision. Holding it by the fur, he scraped off the meat with his teeth. There was very little taste that he could tell. But he felt it going down, and his. stomach beginning to work again.
The wind dropped as he ate, as it usually did at this time of the evening, but the cold became suddenly more intense. He saw that he was not going to be able to sit about cutting off all the limbs, and that he had better take only one of them to be getting on with. The forepaw seemed the easiest, and he took that. He broke the bone with his knife and gun, and holding the limb down with his boot, finally wrenched off the paw up to the middle joint.
The paw was too big to go in his pocket, and too small for him to trust by itself on the sled. Houston walked home with it in his hand, in the darkness.
The bear tasted very little better than it smelt. But it lasted Houston. He ate several pounds of it every day. He ate it even when he was out of his mind. But a good half still remained when they left.
T
HEY
went through the pass on what Houston took to be 12 April, but which he later calculated must have been the 18th. Despite his tremendous calendaring, he had somehow lost six days – perhaps in delirium or unconsciousness. He had no recollection at all of the pass itself, and very little of the journey to it. It was not possible for the girl to have pulled
him on the sled, for there were four bags of emeralds on it – over a hundredweight of them – so he reckoned that he must have been out on his feet; a state by no means unusual for him at the time.
He had passed through a month of unrelieved horror. The girl had not in any way helped to ease the pain in his arm, which she regarded as a penance for his sinful killing of the bear. Above all animals, the bear was sacrosanct, a mysterious creature of the mountains, who died each winter and lived again each spring. Not even to save life was it permissible to kill a bear; and the fact that Houston had done so during the period of its greatest mystery was so peculiarly abhorrent that she neither could, nor would, do anything to ease his sufferings. Some of Houston’s most nightmarish memories were of trying to ease them for himself.
He had a confused impression of blackness and pain: of sleepless nights with the girl’s tears trickling down his face; of a series of crazy, unreasonable acts. (He had tried, it seems, to set the arm, in a mess of bear fat; and later to freeze it; and then to unfreeze it. And he had wakened one night to find the girl gone, and had discovered her in the place of wind devils, quite naked, in a trance, trying to expiate his sin. Incredibly, she had come to no harm.)
But despite these vicissitudes, he had clung most doggedly to the plans he had made. He had staggered out of the hole on what he thought to be 1 April, and with the girl helping him had gone for his first look at the village. It was set in a hollow, on the banks of the same frozen river; and they had looked down on it for a couple of hours, seeing no Chinese.
They had made the journey again a week later, taking the sled with them this time and two sacks of emeralds. Houston had found a suitable cave for the emeralds, off the track, a cave whose curious ledged roof (the sacks were ‘stuffed in the roof fabric – very laborious’) he later sketched from memory. There were no Chinese in the village this time, either.
He had made one more emerald-ferrying trip a couple of days later; and it was on this trip, it seems, that he had knocked himself out for good. He had a recollection of clambering on to a rock with a sack on his shoulder; and then of finding
himself in his sleeping bag, shouting aloud with the savage pain in his arm. He thought he must have fallen. He thought he had fallen on the arm.
After this, nothing was very clear.
It seemed to be colder in the hermit hole, the wood-pile shrinking.
It seemed to be darker.
It seemed to be stinking constantly, himself not in the big sleeping bag, but in Ringling’s.
Vague impressions only came to him from the blur: of dragging up the smoky steps to the
chorten
and eating his meat raw; of crossing off days, the laborious upreaching effort worthwhile to record their final obliteration.
Of his own voice, drunken and slurred: ‘No, no, you’re wrong. It can’t be. It’s too early.’
‘Chao-li, sit up. Please sit up.’ An idea that his face was being washed. ‘I tell you everything is melting. The sun is shining. I swear it.’
The sun indeed shining, the track wet, everything wet; the world running with glittering slushy water, and himself evidently tramping through it, boots turning an endless treadmill, some inevitable burden at his back, constant aching light in his eyes.
And then not light but dark, and everything gone but the sacks. Only the sacks left to look at in all the world; and he found himself looking at them very closely, and realized he was lying on them. He was lying on the sled. He was alone. It was night.
He came blundering up off the sacks in such distress of spirit that he heard himself wailing. She had left him. She had gone without telling him. Her time had come and she had gone. But then he remembered that it was only her spirit that went. It went and came back. Surely it could not yet have gone far; not beyond recall. He tried recalling her spirit, staggering about on the track in the dark. But it would not answer him, and he went weeping to look for her body that like all bodies had to be left; and saw it some time later, running towards him.
‘Chao-li, be quiet, be quiet!’
‘Why have you gone?’
‘I was looking for the cave, for the other sacks. Chao-li, I can’t find it. I can’t remember it.’
‘Oh, Mei-Hua, don’t leave me.’
‘Chao-li, keep your voice down, I implore you! We are at the pass!’
‘Promise me.’
‘Yes, I promise it. Chao-li, you must help me find the cave. There is little time.’
‘How much time? Tell me, Mei-Hua. I must know.’
The unearthly conversation on the pass in the dark – was it a dream, a nightmare? – all that he could recall with any clarity; but that with much clarity, like the remarks of the surgeon as he was going under in the London Clinic some weeks later. No sense at the time of cross purpose, that the girl was intent on recovering the sacks before daylight, and he on reassurance that she would not leave him. He was obsessed with the idea that she would leave him soon, that she might have left him already and that it was some figment that he held.
‘Oh, Chao-li, not for many years. I swear it!’
‘Tell me. Tell me now.’
‘I can’t tell you. I mustn’t.’
‘You must. I won’t let you go.’
‘Chao-li, the sacks – we have only a few hours.’
‘Tell me. Tell me the year and the month. You know them. Is it now? Is it now, Mei-Hua?’
‘Oh, Chao-li, no. No, no. Not for a long time.’
‘When, then? When?’
And was it then she had told him, or later; this side of the pass or the other? He couldn’t remember. Nothing remained but the words, chasing there and back through his mind, slipping in and out of each other, but always there.
A pig with a curly tail, a tail that was six. A six pig, an earth pig. The six month of Earth Pig. It was a long way off, this pig. It was not yet a worrying pig. There would be time to deal with this pig.
‘
And then?
’
Oliphant had said
. ‘
There must be something else
that stands out. How did you come to be on the stretcher? Would
that have been in Chumbi, or before? And what exactly is Chumbi –
a village?
’
Not a village. A valley, a district. He had been in a little town, Yatung, and then somewhere else. But first? First, yes, a man with a rifle. And the girl in her heavy veil, suddenly. Just these two impressions: a man with a rifle, and the veil.
Then
the stretcher. A palanquin also, he thought. But whether for the girl or the Duke of Ganzing. … Yes, the duke there, too. A distinct recollection of the duke seated amiably by his bedside.
‘In a bit of a mess again, old chep. Never mind. Everything under control. They’ve got you a bottle of the Dalai Lama’s urine – he’s here in Yatung – marvellous specific in certain cases. Also a chep from Sikkim – very clever chep. He’s set your arm. He’ll have it as good as new.’
‘Where is the abbess?’ Houston said.
‘Near by. Quite safe and well.’
‘Can I see her?’
‘Soon. When you’re well enough to be moved. She sends to ask after your health every day.’
‘Can she come here?’
‘Not to Yatung, old chep. The Dalai Lama is here – a tricky problem of protocol.’
‘Then I’ll go there.’
‘Certainly, old chep. In a few days. The snag is, there are rather – rather a lot of Chinese about at the moment. You left a knife lying about with your name on it. They’ve promised not to come into Yatung, but they tend to roam a bit outside, looking for you. Worrying.’
‘I want to see her now.’
‘Yerss. Drink this first. Do you good.’
Days lost drinking things to do him good; drugged days in which he thought of questions to ask when he was asleep and forgot them when he woke up; or was it the other way round? And then – when? – no butter lamps but stars, and a breeze on his face, and bumping up and down.
‘Where – what –?’
‘Ssh. All under control, old chep. Going home now.’
‘No. No! I won’t –’
‘Here. Time for your medicine. Have this.’
‘I don’t want it. I won’t drink it. I’m not going home. I want the abbess. I tell you –’
‘Quiet!
Quiet
, old chep. For God’s sake – There are Chinese here. They’re all over the place. …’
‘I’ll shout to them. I’ll wake the bloody dead –’
‘Ssh. Ssh. For God’s sake – Let me think’ – and in Tibetan – ‘How far to the Court of the Mother?’
‘Four hours at least, Highness. It is not possible there and back before daylight.’
‘Look, old chep, look, it just isn’t
on
. It can’t be done –’
‘I tell you –’
‘The Chinese are after you. If they get you they’ll execute you. It’s a matter of face for them.’
‘I’m going to see her! I’m going to. She wants to see me.’
‘She wants you to go. She’s praying for it. Look, she’s written to you. There’s a letter and a gift in your baggage. It will bring her nothing but trouble and distress if the Chinese –’
‘I know she wants to see me. I don’t care what happens. Put me down. I tell you, I’m not going –’
More mumbled Tibetan.
‘Very well. Now look. This is going to be a bumpy trip. You’ll drink this.’
‘I won’t.’
‘You will. We’re going through the Chinese lines. I promise you’ll see the abbess.’
‘Do you swear it?’
‘Honour
bright
, old chep!’
‘All right.’
Blackness. Lurching, thunderous blackness again, with himself swimming in the middle of it, knowing the presence of soreness and pain but not in touch with them, and then swimming up into touch, re-establishing the old detested relationship.
Oh, God. Again
.
‘Chao-li.’
‘Oh, my love.’
She was lying on top of the covers. She was cold, her face shivering against his.
‘Come inside,’ Houston said.
She went away and came back, and was inside, on his left side, so that he could feel the cold length of her against him, their noses touching.
‘You’ve cut your hair.’
‘Yes.’
‘I can’t see – are you painted?’
‘Only in Yamdring. When I go back.’
‘Don’t go back.’
She didn’t say anything, merely looking at him.
He said, ‘Don’t go back, Mei-Hua. I love you.’
‘I love you, Chao-li.’
‘I can’t live without you.’
‘Yes. It will be very hard.’
Her mouth was open and he put his own to it and lay there, breathing lightly. He felt ill and weak. He said into her mouth, ‘Mei-Hua, don’t go back. Come with me. I couldn’t bear to lose you.’
‘You won’t lose me. We are in the world together. I want you to live.’
‘I love you more than life.’
‘Yes, Chao-li. I, too. Don’t talk now. Don’t talk any more, my heart.’
Houston didn’t think that they did talk any more then. He lay breathing shallowly into her mouth, and thought that he might have slept for a while. He was aware that she was sitting up, putting on her veil. Someone was knocking at the door.
‘What is it?’
‘Food, Chao-li. You should eat something.’
‘I don’t want anything.’
‘Nor I.’
‘Send them away.’
She called out, and took off her veil and lay down with him again; and for some hours then they merely gazed at each other. He had no idea how long he was there – a whole day, perhaps. There was knocking again.
‘Yes?’
‘Good Mother, it is time now. His Highness waits outside.’
‘No,’ Houston said.
‘Chao-li – yes. You must go. Don’t say anything.’
‘No.’
‘My own heart – I want you to be happy. You will always be in my mind. Always think of me. I have given you a half of my tears –’
‘I don’t want them.’
‘Yes. Take them. They are yours. They are a half of me. When you look at them you will be looking at me. When you use them, it is I who will be nourishing you.’
‘No. No, Mei-Hua, no. Come with me. Please come with me.’
‘Oh, my love, don’t make it harder. I want you to go and live. Don’t say another word.’
He didn’t say another word, sunk then in black desolation.
And black outside. And another drink to do him good, and all blackness then, welcome familiar blackness. And then leaving it, crashing out of it, falling. Voices were shouting, guns going off, coloured moons, a dozen of them, floating gaudily in the sky. Flares. Hands seemed to be lifting him, and he was back on the stretcher, jogging at a run. But his arm,
his arm
! Sheer blinding agony, flame-licked unbearable agony, rushing out of his mouth bellowing; and suffocating there as a hand clamped down on it. Searching desperately among the coloured moons, and at last finding it – the welcome, the longed-for blackness; pain riding with him still, but detached once more.
It was mild grey morning when he came to, and he was lying on the ground. He was lying in a misty valley. He could hear eating and smell woodsmoke.
‘
Trulku
.’
He knew the face above him. He couldn’t place it.
‘Safe now,
trulku
. In Sikkim now.’
He placed the man just as he spoke: it was the duke’s major-domo from Ganzing. He tried to ask for the duke, but the words would not come.
‘All well,
trulku
. They didn’t get it. One man was hit and you fell from the stretcher, but the baggage is untouched. How is the arm?’
The arm was not good, and was to become a good deal worse. It was smashed again. They tried to get it looked at in two monasteries, but succeeded only in getting more stupefying drugs. Houston lay for two nights in the second of the monasteries, waiting for a doctor who had been sent for from
Gangtok. The doctor didn’t arrive, but just as they were preparing to leave again, an ambulance did. It was an old Rolls- Royce with a wicker-work body and a door at the rear. Houston lay full length in this impressive vehicle with his feet sticking out of the back; and so, still without his chitty but in some state, made his entry into the town he had tried so hard to reach many months before.