City of the Yeti Page 10

  Wow, if a sick kid can pull that off, imagine what an adult Hedjet could do.

  “Are you sure you’re all right?” he asked.

  “Yeah,” I said. “No wonder we have scary accounts of the Yeti. Can any Sramana do what you just did?”

  “Probably, but my clan concentrates on terror, and we’re proud of it!”

  We exchanged a long serious look, and then both burst out laughing.

  “That’s a powerful weapon you have there,” I said, still chuckling.

  His smile vanished. “No, not really. Humans have the ability to eliminate all Sramana. And they will, eventually.”

  The atmosphere was instantly glum, so I changed the topic. “Tell me more about that treasure.”

  “Well, supposedly humans have brought things here for safekeeping. But I don’t know the details. Maybe it’s just a lie, like the Hedjet killing humans mentally.”

  This rumor of human treasure really sparked my imagination. I’d have to ask Nineveh about it. I decided not to press Ephesus any further today.

  “What will happen when news of the recent fighting gets back?” I asked.

  “It will trigger a major Hedjet reaction, but not until spring. Like I said, some have been preparing to attack this city for years, despite our elders’ desire for peace. And while there are other Deshret villages, none offers more riches than this place.”

  “But the Deshret here will defend it, and the Hedjet will be outnumbered, won’t they?”

  “Not if Hedjet warriors from all across the Himalaya unite into one army.”

  We both fell silent and considered the possible outcomes. A nurse finally asked me to leave, but I promised to return soon. Ephesus and I agreed to work on a solution to the looming civil war.

  The next afternoon, his bed was empty, and I assumed he’d been moved to a recovery room down the hall. A doctor – the same one I’d bumped into – saw me and pulled me aside. In a slow, deliberate voice, she said, “I’m sorry to tell you this, but Ephesus’ condition grew worse after your visit.”

  “How could that be? He seemed fine yesterday,” I said.

  “Smallpox often works that way; there are false recoveries. He fought bravely, but lost his battle last night.”

  “Battle? Do you mean he’s… he’s dead?”

  She nodded. Another doctor called her away, and I was left standing alone. Of everything I’d experienced since the bridge collapsed, this hit me hardest. I rushed home and into the guest room where I slept. I sat for an hour, barely moving, not knowing what to do. Rachel, after hearing the news, came in and put her arm around my shoulder. I was tired of always trying to be the stronger sibling; I broke down and had my first good cry of the whole ordeal.

  But there was little time for anguish. Harappa, who’d also experienced a false recovery, was now in a delirium of high fever and chills. Rachel asked me for my advice on praying, but I didn’t have much to offer. I feared for Rachel’s state of mind if we lost Harappa too.

  That night, we both decided to stay at Harappa’s bedside. She was drifting in and out of consciousness, and a doctor said that the next twelve hours were critical. We each sat in a wooden chair, our feet propped up on the edge of the bed, with a blanket wrapped around for warmth. Harappa’s mother soon joined us, but the rest of the family and all her friends were excluded from the ward. Before long, the nurses turned down the oil lamps to a faint glow, and the ward became very quiet.

  I’d almost fallen asleep when I had a strange sensation. My concern for Harappa – already high – exploded to an unrealistic level, and my heart pounded with apprehension. I glanced at Rachel, who was starting to cry.

  We turned our heads and saw Nineveh standing silently in the doorway. He’d come to visit his great granddaughter, and we’d been able to perceive his innermost feelings. Not just the usual words of communication, but raw emotions of worry and heartache. How was that possible?

  This was the second time I’d tapped into the Sramana mind unintentionally. Again I wondered if we’d begun to change in some way, after extended interaction with their species. Maybe that explained how Lama Dorje, who’d lived here several months, had been able to read my mind in Pokhara, though to a limited degree.

  Nineveh walked over to Harappa’s bed and sat in a large chair positioned against the wall. He waved a hand to acknowledge us, and then closed his eyes. As I watched him, my speculations continued. Maybe the ability to directly share feelings was almost within human grasp – a level we might reach someday. Maybe the Sramana were the next step in human evolution.

  Harappa coughed, and I flinched. I set my fantasies aside and focused on the present. As the night wore on, her breathing grew more labored, and her pulse continued to drop. Rachel and I were so tired that a nurse brought in two cots for us to lie on. We couldn’t leave now; the end seemed near.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Just before dawn, I opened my eyes to see Harappa lying very still. The other visitors were still dozing. I nudged Rachel and we leaned forward to study our friend. It took a few seconds for us to determine that she was still breathing. Rachel gently touched the blistered forehead and said, “Her fever’s gone!” The comment woke Nineveh and Amri, who also leaned over.

  Harappa opened her eyes halfway and asked for a drink of water. A nurse rushed over to examine her, and told us that she was stable now. She had survived the most dangerous phase of the illness, though she would bear many scars from the healing scabs. Rachel beamed, and Harappa returned a little smile of her own. Amri and Nineveh each held one of Harappa’s hands, and I let out a sigh of relief.

  That afternoon, Nineveh led me to a corner of the castle where a large stone – with a hole drilled through it – was oriented to focus sunlight onto the floor. “This allows us to determine the winter’s solstice, when the sun’s midday elevation is lowest. Today is that day. I thought you’d like to know.”

  I went back to Harappa’s bedside and told Rachel. At first she didn’t react, but then put it all together. “That means today is December twenty-first, give or take a day.”

  “Yes,” I replied. “Very close to Christmas.”

  “Well then,” she said, gazing at Harappa, “we’ve been given a very nice present, haven’t we?”

  From this point onward, I kept close track of the calendar. By late January, the epidemic had subsided, with both Harappa and Amri returning home. Soon afterward, Nineveh dropped by our house. I assumed he’d come to tell us something important.

  We gathered around, asking for updates. His voice was somber as he described how dozens of Sramana had died, despite the vaccinations. Many of these were children, including Ephesus and a girl from the other Hedjet family. Uruk, along with most of the adults, had fully recovered.

  Nineveh had no information about distant Hedjet populations, although at least one of their towns was probably infected. However, Hedjet villages were relatively small and spread out, thus an epidemic at one location might not spread far.

  “What will happen in the spring?” I asked.

  “I don’t know which will come first: a Hedjet assault, a human search party, or simply warmer weather.” After further thought, he made his choice. “The Hedjet are good winter travelers, even at higher elevations.”

  I couldn’t do much about the Hedjet, but maybe I could sidetrack the humans. “If Rachel and I can get to Jang, we’ll convince searchers to ignore the mesa, at least for a while. We’ll say we found all kinds of diseases up here – whatever it takes.”

  “Yes, that’s worth a try, once the trails have cleared,” he replied.

  But I was just fooling myself. If humans suspected that strange creatures lived up here – after spotting the hoodless soldiers – then they would rush in no matter what Rachel or I said. Any description we offered of the Sramana as a peaceful culture would be viewed
as mental trauma from our stay.

  I looked down and mumbled, “If only we hadn’t come, you wouldn’t be in this mess.”

  “You mustn’t think that way, Danny,” he said. “Pilots would have spotted our city in another year or two, and deduced that we’re not human. And a Hedjet attack has been expected for decades; I’m surprised it hasn’t happened yet.”

  I looked up, and he resumed, “If anything, your arrival has forced us to wake up and weigh all our options.”

  “Can’t you just order everyone to leave, and avoid any conflict?” I asked.

  “I’m not a dictator here,” he replied, his voice showing a rare hint of annoyance. “The Deshret must follow their conscience, and some will stay to defend the city against any intruder.” Then his tone softened. “However, most are willing to abandon the mesa, and in fact we’re nearly ready. We’ll leave after the first thaw.”

  “Where can you go?” Rachel asked.

  “There are smaller Deshret villages in Tibet. However, these too will be spotted eventually. All Sramana must now seek new homes, in even more remote places. Cooperation between clans is needed desperately.”

  He paused, and then rested a large hand on each of our shoulders. A big announcement was coming. “Despite your age, it seems that you two must become our human representatives, perhaps the last ones ever. It is a great responsibility, but I have faith in your ability to understand, and carry out, whatever I ask.”

  Rachel and I glanced at each other, anxious to hear more.

  “First, there is something you must see. I will show you a place where the fruits of our civilization – and all its human interactions – have been stored for ages. This treasure must never be forgotten, nor plundered. That is why we choose a few humans every century to bear witness – in case the Sramana perish.”

  There was that word again: treasure. So it must be true! One phrase flooded my thoughts, from my conversation with Ephesus: Secret cave.

  One of Nineveh’s bushy eyebrows shot up. “Oh, so you’ve heard?”

  But it would be many weeks before the topic of treasure arose again; Nineveh was simply too busy. During February and March, the city buzzed with activity as residents prepared for events once considered impossible: invasion by hostile armies, and an exodus from a place that had offered sanctuary for millennia.

  Almost three hundred young adults, both male and female – a third of the population – trained daily for battle, despite frigid conditions and snow-covered fields. Blacksmiths and other artisans churned out fresh weapons such as bows, arrows, and swords. Tailors assembled leather body armor strengthened by metal plates, similar to the gear used by ancient Mongolian warriors.

  But I didn’t see the point. Even if they were successful in thwarting a Hedjet attack, their technology was no match for the human army that would follow. I pictured the Nepalese army, alongside British reinforcements, storming the mesa with rifles and canons. The prime minister of Nepal would declare himself a national hero for destroying a race of monsters known to kidnap human children.

  Preparations for departure were also underway. Inside sheltered barns, carpenters labored day and night to construct more horse-drawn wagons and carriages. Families packed away their most precious possessions. Wooden crates of non-perishable food, and barrels of drinking water, were stockpiled in the central square, waiting to be loaded aboard the wagons.

  Rachel and I wandered through the city, looking for ways to help. We were amazed at the lack of hostility toward us. Only in a few instances did we encounter cold stares. One case was Uruk’s family, consisting of a wife and their remaining child – a daughter. He probably regretted his decision to bring us here from the cave. And though his family was packing, it wasn’t clear whether he’d stay and fight. I didn’t have the nerve to ask him.

  As for our host family, Lothal and Mehrgarh truly believed that Rachel and I could divert human attention from the mesa. For them, the crisis was merely a defense of the city against the Hedjet, whom they despised. Lothal, while very young for a Sramana, was allowed by tradition to stand alongside his father in battle. Meanwhile, Harappa and Amri argued for the family to flee intact. Both sides remained stubborn.

  One night in March, Rachel and I sat in Harappa’s room as she sorted through her keepsakes. I glanced out of the window and saw the full moon – the fifth one I’d seen since living among the Sramana. I longed to return to my own family.

  Then I heard a twang. From her closet Harappa removed a short-necked, stringed musical instrument that looked like a pudgy guitar. It was hollowed out of a single piece of wood, and had two openings, the lower one covered with dried sheepskin. Four thick strings made of sheep intestine ran lengthwise, and crossed over an ivory bridge near the bottom. A dozen thin metal strings stretched tightly underneath the top four. All the strings were held in place by wooden pegs at the top of the neck.

  “Oh, I know that! It’s a sarangi,” Rachel said. Harappa looked surprised.

  “We have similar instruments in India,” I explained. “But I’ve never seen one this nice. Where’d you get it?”

  “A Sherpa trader brought it to the mesa many years ago,” Harappa replied.

  I winced, remembering how Sherpas sometimes dealt in Yeti scalps. Sadly, I now believed that the scalp in Lucknow was real.

  Harappa sat cross-legged on the floor and positioned the sarangi in her lap. She played a few warm-up notes by dragging a horsehair bow across the top strings. The fingers of her left hand touched the inner metal strings to change notes, while simultaneously bending the outermost strings. It looked very difficult to play, and I assumed she’d been practicing most of her life.

  “The sarangi dates back thousands of years,” she said. “The name means one hundred colors, because it sounds so much like a voice – either human or Sramana.”

  Harappa pointed to Rachel’s Ganesh statue, sitting on a nearby table. Next she pointed at the window and to the moon beyond. “I’m going to play a traditional Sramana song for you. It’s about Ganesh and the moon.” She giggled at our puzzled reactions. “Don’t be shocked to find Hinduism in our folk songs. Remember, the Sramana influenced human religions.”

  She positioned the bow to start, then paused to offer a final thought. “Whenever I play, I also sing words in my mind. If you concentrate, you’ll hear the story that goes with this music.”

  The performance began with a mixture of gliding tones, rich harmonies, and changing tempos. Music flowed through the house, and I assumed the rest of the family was listening. Harappa’s voice floated in like someone singing off-stage in a large theater.

  “Moon was once very handsome, and enjoyed his life among the twenty-eight constellations of the night sky. One day, Moon saw Ganesh and laughed at the god’s appearance. Ganesh was so humiliated that he cursed Moon to be destroyed by disease. The curse worked immediately, with Moon growing thinner and darker every day. The worried Moon went to Shiva, who advised him to apologize to Ganesh. Moon apologized, but Ganesh was only partly satisfied. The curse was modified but not lifted. For fifteen days Moon would still lose his rays, but afterwards he would grow bigger and stronger. So now we have the cycle of the moon, growing to fullness, and then waning.”

  The final sarangi chord lingered for several seconds.

  Harappa looked up and smiled. “Over the centuries, Sramana culture has swelled and declined, like the cycles of the moon. It’s now time for a waning, nothing more. Someday we’ll rise again, and our two races will learn to live together.”

  “I hope you’re right,” Rachel said. “And I hope I’m here when it happens.”

  Part III

  Guardian of Secrets

  It is irrelevant how many centuries may separate us from a bygone age. What matters is the importance of the past to our intellectual and spiritual existence.

  Ernst Curtius, re
ferring to Heinrich Schliemann, the man who discovered Troy.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The message arrived one morning in late March. Rachel and I were to meet Nineveh at the city’s main gate for an all-day horseback trip. Little snow had fallen recently, and we were taking advantage of a break in the weather. It was still cold, but at least above freezing.

  Bundled in warm leather coats and boots, Rachel and I walked through the north gate to find workers nailing extra planks onto the large, but thin, wooden doors. I wasn’t very impressed with the fortifications. The place just hadn’t been designed to withstand a major assault, not like the castles of Europe or palaces of China. The surrounding rock wall, even at eight feet, was really only meant to keep out animals or accidental hikers.

  Two empty saddles awaited us. Our escort party consisted of Nineveh, a female elder named Malidiya, and three soldiers in full battle gear. They all wore grave expressions. Apparently this was not some casual picnic, but a very special event.

  The elders were draped in long, silk robes decorated with fur trim. Malidiya, whom I’d seen only once from a distance, was as tall as Nineveh, and had thick, billowing, dark gray hair, like a rain cloud perched atop her head. Nineveh’s pure white hair was pulled back into a long, elegant ponytail. The two could have been a European king and queen plucked from medieval times, and I almost said so, but I knew Nineveh would just laugh.

  Malidiya spoke to Nineveh in a way that we could overhear. “So these are the human children.” She studied us for a while, as though we were rare birds. Rachel cast nervous glances at the elders, and I tried to ignore their stares. When Malidiya’s voice returned, it was serene and consoling. “They’re a good choice, Nineveh.” She flashed a grin at Rachel, who visibly relaxed.