City of the Yeti Read online

  City of the Yeti

  Robert A. Love

  Copyright © 2016 Robert A. Love

  Cover Illustration by Frank Attmannspacher

  Map illustration © Mike Reagan 2015

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events

  and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination

  or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons,

  living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Matador®

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  ISBN 978 1785894 503

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Matador® is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

  For my mother, who taught me the true meaning of empathy

  Contents

  Prologue

  Part I

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Part II

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Part III

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Acknowledgements

  Prologue

  Phil dared a whisper. “Ryan, there’s something outside the tent.”

  Ryan rolled over in his sleeping bag and frowned. “It’s just the wind. Turn off your lamp and go to sleep. We’ve got two thousand feet to climb tomorrow.” He buried his head under the covers.

  “All right, all right,” Phil said. “I need to finish these notes first.”

  Phil’s hand was shaking. He wasn’t sure whether it was nerves or the cold. The thermometer read zero degrees even though it was summertime. But at an elevation of three miles, that wasn’t unusual. He also knew that, up here, another problem might be low oxygen. Ryan, being a physician, would be a good person to ask, but he was already snoring.

  Phil took several deep breaths, and struggled to complete his journal entry.

  Day Three at base camp in Tibet. Still adjusting to the elevation. Can see the summit clearly now. Besides Ryan and myself, there are six others: two British engineers and four Sherpa guides. Tomorrow, we push on to establish a second base camp. We’re crossing glaciers that no human has ever set foot upon. I’m optimistic we’ll be able to map an approach to the north face. Philip Hawthorne; British reconnaissance expedition to Mount Everest; 18-July-1922.

  When Phil shut the small logbook, he heard scratching again, like something scraping against the canvas. The noise was distinct from the familiar wind that howled around the tent. He decided to wait until dawn, only a few hours away, before investigating; getting dressed was just too much trouble.

  He lay down, exhausted, and pondered his role here. The mission was to chart a safe route up the world’s highest mountain, but not to actually finish the climb. That would happen next summer. However, Phil’s participation in future expeditions seemed unlikely, even as a renowned Oxford professor and expert on Asian cultures. It was simply a matter of age. At sixty-two, this excursion had already pushed him to his limits. He drifted off to sleep quickly.

  As first light filtered through the tent, Phil awoke to something strange: silence. The wind had died, and he heard no activity outside. The Sherpas were usually up early, preparing breakfast and packing equipment. Had everyone overslept? He pulled on his thick pants, parka, and wool cap, and then leaned over to wake Ryan. His younger friend’s sleeping bag was empty.

  After exiting through the double flap system of the tent, Phil looked around, puzzled. There was no one in sight. He walked a few yards to the nearest Sherpa tent and poked his head in. They were gone. It was the same story at the other Sherpa tent.

  Phil plowed through a snowdrift to the final tent, presumably occupied by the two British engineers. Surely Ryan would be in there with them. But he found only clutter, as if they’d left in haste.

  Realizing he was alone, Phil instinctively scanned the horizon. Clear skies allowed him to see across most of the glacier. The closest landmark was a cliff, about a quarter-mile away, with a small cave at the bottom. It was the only possible place the team could be, unless they’d all fallen into a crevice on the glacier.

  It took Phil nearly an hour to cover the distance, since he took small steps and probed the surface carefully, checking for any cracks in the ice. Finally entering the cave, he was shocked to find the entire team sitting on the ground, leaning back against rock walls, unconscious. Fortunately, everyone had dressed for frigid weather; otherwise they wouldn’t still be alive.

  Phil ran over to Ryan and shook him. “Ryan! What are you doing here?”

  Ryan replied in a groggy voice, “We noticed something moving around and followed it.” Suddenly his eyes popped open, and his face twisted in panic. “I saw it, Phil! Some type of giant gorilla, with a hideous face!” Ryan tried to stand, but his knees kept buckling. “We have to get off the glacier!”

  “We can’t leave now,” Phil said. “Too many people are counting on us. You had a bad dream, or a hallucination. Maybe the oxygen levels…”

  The others stirred after hearing the two men talk. The Sherpas recovered quickly and fled in silence toward their home villages. The two British engineers staggered out, muttering that they’d seen enough of this place. Ryan stumbled along behind them, but Phil grabbed his arm.

  “Wait! We can’t abandon the mission,” Phil said. “How will you explain this to the organizers? We won’t get paid, much less get any credit for our work.”

  “I don’t care anymore. Sorry, my friend, but I want to live,” Ryan said.

  Phil glanced around. “What do you mean, live? There’s no danger here.”

  Ryan broke free and trudged off across the ice without looking back, leaving Phil at the entrance.

  Confused over the sudden turn of events, Phil sat on the cavern floor to think. After several minutes, he concluded that he’d have to return as well. He rose up, but then froze at the sound of muffled footsteps behind him. A tall figure was emerging from the blackness.

  Phil had half-expected this. Why else would the team have been so fr
ightened? The figure approached slowly; it didn’t rush at him like a wild animal. In fact, it walked almost like a man. Finally, the stranger came close enough for its face to become visible. Phil was scared, but his curiosity as a scholar overcame any desire to flee. He thought of his wife Helen, his grown sons James and Colin, and his cherished grandchildren Danny and Rachel. The memories were comforting, and he relaxed, waiting for the creature to make the next move.

  Part I

  In Search of a Legend

  As for me, I am tormented with an everlasting itch for things remote. I love to sail forbidden seas, and land on barbarous coasts.

  Herman Melville, from Moby Dick

  Chapter One

  The beast’s bloodshot eyes were fixed on mine; I knew I had to act quickly. The elephant had lowered its head to the ground and was holding perfectly still in front of me. This was my cue to climb on, yet I hesitated, fighting the memory of the last time I tried and fell off. My younger sister Rachel, already sitting on the animal’s neck, taunted me from above, “Hurry up, Danny! What are you waiting for?”

  Several locals had gathered to see whether a British boy could handle this simple maneuver. If that weren’t enough, our lifelong friend Kumar stood nearby and teased, “Daniel, being fourteen in India means you’re a man. Be brave and climb aboard.” Kumar was two years older than me but matched my height and weight. An all-white set of slacks and open-collared shirt highlighted his dark brown complexion, and kept him cool in the September heat.

  Suddenly, a pack of wild monkeys invaded the plaza, screeching and running all about. No one was trying to stop them, of course – not in this country. My heart raced with panic as I remembered the bite I’d received only a few months earlier. The little monsters were headed straight for me, arms waving wildly above their heads.

  I had to choose between the lesser of two evils, so I hopped forward, clutched the leathery hide just above the elephant’s eyes, and scrambled up the bulky forehead. The gentle giant rose to its feet, unfazed. I crawled over behind my sister and sat on the blanket covering its neck.

  Kumar applauded from below. “Very good! Now we’re off to the marketplace. There’s something I want to show you. You’ll be safe up there, in case our local tiger shows up for a human dinner!” He tried to hide a mischievous grin.

  This time Rachel was spooked. “What? Didn’t somebody shoot it last week?”

  “Nope,” Kumar said. “And even if they had, another would’ve taken its place.”

  “Don’t listen to him,” I whispered in her ear. “He’s just trying to scare us. No tiger would enter a big city. Now, let’s pretend we’re the Duke and Duchess on a Sunday outing in the English countryside.” Rachel relaxed; this was a game we played often.

  Kumar walked ahead, guiding the elephant forward by pulling gently on a rope. My bouncy seat, combined with the hot afternoon, made me feel seasick, so I looked around for distractions. I quickly realized that we’d done things the hard way. Other passengers were boarding elephant taxis from the side, using a footstool. Also, most of the animals wore a wooden platform with seats designed for passenger comfort.

  A few minutes into the ride, Rachel turned her head and asked, “Do you think we’ll ever see the real English countryside?”

  “I’m sure we will,” I said. However, India was all we’d ever known. Our parents had visited this northern city long ago, fallen in love with it, and stayed to raise a family. Even so, we’d grown up in a nearly separate universe of British schools and social circles. But that made outings like this one special.

  Our taxi lumbered onto a busy main street, still led by Kumar on foot. Although this was 1922, the scenes surrounding us were straight out of the previous century. A narrow lane on one side was reserved for animals – elephants, camels, and horses – while the opposite side overflowed with pedestrians. The wide, middle lane supported a river of bicycles, as well as pedal-driven and hand-pulled rickshaws toting either boxes or passengers. Occasionally we spotted a sparkling new automobile – a luxury owned only by Indian royalty or British officials.

  Along each side of the street, buildings were packed together and painted with murals of Hindu religious figures or local celebrities. Multi-colored clothing, hung out to dry on countless balconies, created a kaleidoscope effect across the horizon. One Hindu temple was covered with thousands of detailed stone carvings depicting animals, gods, and people from a variety of religious festivals.

  Eventually our elephant veered into a large, open-air marketplace, jammed with tables, stalls, and booths, where everything imaginable was up for sale. Around the sides, small stores displayed handicrafts, pottery, jewelry, and textiles. Long fabrics blew gracefully in the breeze, and provided turbans for Sikhs, who never cut their hair but kept it wrapped atop their heads.

  One section of the market offered grains, fruits, and vegetables. Ready-to-eat food was also available, cooked in nearby kitchens, leaving the air thick with sweet and spicy aromas. Since elephants weren’t allowed near the food areas, Kumar helped us dismount so we could snack. We feasted on tasty skewers of meat called kebabs, crispy samosa pastries filled with potatoes, and fresh naan flatbread.

  Three types of people were visible: an upper class of well-dressed elite; then a middle class of skilled workers, artists, and merchants; and finally, a lower class of unskilled laborers with service and cleaning duties. They all mingled peacefully, the silk robes of the rich brushing against the tattered rags of the poor.

  Kumar had once explained, “We believe it is our karma, or destiny, to be locked into one social class for many generations.”

  “Yes, the caste system,” I’d replied. “Doesn’t seem fair to me.”

  We wandered into a remote corner of the marketplace where few shoppers ventured. Kumar pointed to a small store in the shadows. Lined up outside were tall clay statues of a muscular fellow sprouting several arms and wearing snakes as ornaments; this was Shiva, the Hindu god.

  “There’s something very unusual inside,” Kumar said, using a mysterious voice. “I’ve been coming to the market for years, but only recently noticed this shop.”

  Peering through the front door, I saw a large, glass-covered display case built into the back wall. The store’s owner, an elderly man with uncombed white hair, invited us in for a closer look. The case contained relics and artifacts gathered over many years by explorers of the region, and it resembled a miniature museum. Kumar led me to one spot, where I stood openmouthed, my nose pressed against the glass, gawking at a rounded cone almost a foot high and made of thick, dried, brown skin. The base had remnants of dark brown hair.

  I jumped when the owner, standing close behind me, spoke in a loud voice. “This little treasure was brought in years ago by a Sherpa hunter. The Sherpa are people from remote regions of Nepal and Tibet. It’s the scalp of a Yeti. Have you heard that word before?”

  “Of course,” I replied. “The Abominable Snowman.”

  The owner wrinkled his nose. “No, that’s a misunderstanding of what Sherpa guides said during British expeditions to Mount Everest. The correct translation is wild man of the snows.”

  Kumar pulled me aside and whispered, “Didn’t your grandfather disappear on one of those expeditions this summer?” I nodded a response, not wanting to discuss it now.

  “This scalp is our best evidence yet for the creature,” the owner continued. “Otherwise, we have only large footprints in the snow or blurry images on film.”

  “But some travelers have reported seeing one, right?” Kumar asked.

  “Yes, but that’s not solid evidence,” the owner said. “The strangest thing is, people who report a Yeti usually can’t remember where they were at the time.”

  I stared at the display again, but didn’t buy his story about the scalp. I’d heard too many wild claims, and seen too many fake artifacts, to be so easily duped. The c
one could have been constructed from simple animal hides. Still, it looked real enough to send a shiver down my spine, especially when I pictured a hunter scalping anything. The size implied a creature with a head larger than any ape, certainly larger than a human. My imagination tried to paint a more complete image, without success.

  “You’d think by now there’d be at least one Yeti captured alive,” I said. After more thought, I added, “If they do exist, there must be something special about them – some kind of power that protects them.”

  Everyone fell silent, studying the exhibit. Finally, the owner leaned in closer to me, ignoring Kumar. “Perhaps your parents would like to stop by and see this scalp, eh? I could offer a good price.”

  Kumar tapped my shoulder and pointed upward. A sign on the case read: NOT FOR SALE. I turned to the owner. “Oh, so now it’s available? Well, you won’t steal our money with your tricks. Come on, Kumar, let’s go.”

  We stomped outside, where Rachel was examining the Shiva statues. The owner stood in the doorway and delivered one last comment: “Remember, my friends, there are many unsolved puzzles in this world. Keep an open mind.”

  I spoke to Kumar quietly, so Rachel wouldn’t overhear. “What do you think of the scalp, or whatever it is?”

  “Well, some say the little museum has been verified by experts,” Kumar said. “I don’t know if that includes the scalp, though. If it’s real, I can’t believe he’s trying to sell it. Whatever, most people around here do believe in the Yeti.”

  Rachel walked up with a weary expression. “Can we go now?”

  We remounted our taxi, this time using a stool Kumar borrowed from a shop. “There’s one more event we can’t miss!” he said. “I’m taking a shortcut, so hold on!”

  Yanking hard on the rope, Kumar led the elephant down a narrow lane between two apartment buildings, which I assumed was never intended for large animals. The beast’s skin rubbed against the walls, and it bellowed in anger, trying at least twice to back up. We scraped several window shutters, nearly tearing them off. I expected residents to start yelling or throwing things at us but, oddly, no one seemed to care.