City of the Yeti Read online

  Rachel and I reacted together, “No!”

  Why can’t it be one of the guards?

  The elders approached Uruk, and each held one of his hands. They appeared to have a private conversation with him, and then all three smiled. The guards helped Uruk inside while we watched in sorrow.

  Dad, Grandpa, and Narayan were still monitoring Uncle Colin in the middle of the chamber. Rachel and I ran toward them. “You have to leave!” we both yelled. “The whole place is going to collapse!”

  Dad and Narayan looked up together, wide-eyed, and yelled, “What?”

  “There’s no time to explain!” I said.

  “Danny’s right,” Grandpa said. “Let’s move Colin.” They transported my uncle on his stretcher to the tree line at the far side of the clearing.

  Now it was time for all Sramana to depart. The elders approached us for the last time. “Uruk will give us enough time to get through the tunnel before he…” Nineveh’s voice trailed off.

  They got down on their knees, so their height wouldn’t be so overwhelming, and hugged each of us. “Yes, a very good choice,” Malidiya said, using her hand to brush back Rachel’s hair. “I had my doubts at first, given their age, but now I would have no others as our ambassadors.”

  “Return when the world is ready,” Nineveh said, “and dig out the treasures.”

  Lothal and Mehrgarh walked over next, and we thanked them for letting us live in their home. “I can’t wait to play soccer with you again,” Lothal said. “Sorry for pointing an arrow at you today.”

  “No worries,” I replied. “I’m sorry I aimed at your father.”

  Finally, Grandpa approached and leaned down. “I’m always happy to see family, but my place is with the Sramana now. I want to help them set up again. Your father and Uncle Colin understand; I’ve already said my goodbyes.” We hugged our grandfather one last time. With misty eyes, he added, “I’ll find a way to send you clues about where I am.”

  I followed Grandpa into the tunnel, and then ran upstairs to see Uruk once more. The guards had already poured a trail of gunpowder from the kegs over to where Uruk sat on the floor next to the window. Once ignited with a small lighter, the burning edge would race to its destination within seconds.

  “Come closer,” Uruk said. When I walked up, I noticed that his wrappings were soaked with blood. He reached out and touched my owl necklace, which hung alongside Dorje’s stone.

  “There’s something I want you to see,” he said, and closed his eyes to concentrate.

  Like in a dream, a young Sramana boy entered the clearing on horseback. The boy was laughing and practicing archery. A tall Sramana man – a younger Uruk – stood nearby and watched. The man urged the boy on, but kept a careful eye on the horse’s movements. Finally, the man took the reins, helped the rider down, and gave his son a warm hug.

  The hallucination vanished as Uruk began coughing up blood. “Go quickly,” he said, “while I still have the strength to do this. And don’t forget to pass the stone on to the next human you deem fit.”

  “I will.” It was difficult to leave him, but finally I stepped away. “Goodbye, Uruk.”

  From the bottom of the spiral stairwell, I watched Grandpa, the elders, and the remaining Sramana ride off down the tunnel, the clop of hooves on bare rock fading gradually. I exited through the double doors, which were still unlocked, but that wouldn’t matter now.

  Back in the clearing, I led the horses out of harm’s way, while Rachel guided the groggy Nepalese soldiers into the forest. I glanced up at the observation window. Uruk was staring out, and he waved briefly.

  I told Dad what would happen, adding, “Someday people will dig this out and do a proper study. Those people will include Rachel and me.”

  He smiled. “Of course.”

  Uncle Colin started coughing, and blood dripped from his mouth. He was also less coherent than before. Having just witnessed Uruk, I fell to my knees in concern. “What’s happening?”

  “I think his lung is punctured after all,” Dad replied. “Moving him twice just made things worse. I’m afraid it doesn’t look very good, son.” I could hear a terrible whistling sound as air leaked in and out of his chest during each labored breath.

  Rachel’s eyes opened wide and she clutched my arm. “The Elixir! Do you think it would help? I mean, with an injury like this?”

  “I don’t know, but it’s worth a try,” I replied. We ran over to our bags and removed the small glass bottles. Each of us contributed a pinch of powder and mixed it with water, using a small drinking cup attached to Narayan’s canteen.

  Once again, there was no time to explain. I knew Dad would object, so I kept things simple. “This is a herbal medicine they use to heal their sick.”

  Dad was beyond arguing. We tilted Uncle Colin’s head up slightly, and he managed to sip and keep down the potion. I held up the cup and let the last drop fall onto my tongue. It was so bitter I almost gagged. I hoped I hadn’t just poisoned my uncle.

  Narayan pulled out his watch. Half an hour had passed, and the distant rumble of horses was unmistakable. A Nepalese regiment was minutes away, yet there had been no explosion. I looked up at the window again and couldn’t see Uruk. I called out his name several times, doing my best to imitate a Sramana voice. No response. He’d probably collapsed.

  I was in a panic. Should I run up the staircase and light the powder myself? Was I truly ready for a suicide mission? I took a few steps toward the temple, but then stopped. Something in the grass near the guardhouse glinted in the sunlight. Could it still be there? I raced over and picked up the flare gun, which had been dropped by a Nepalese soldier. If a flare could be fired through the open window, it might ignite the trail of gunpowder. One unused cartridge lay on the ground like a huge, bloated bullet. How to load it? I frantically searched the gun for exposed tabs or buttons, and finally located a small release lever. After more fumbling, I opened the back of the barrel, slipped in the cartridge, and snapped the gun closed.

  Stepping into the center of the clearing, I knew I had only one chance. I can do this, I kept telling myself. It’s just like firing a revolver. After struggling to wrap my fingers around the gun’s thick handle, I remembered shooting the Hedjet kidnapper. I’ve actually killed someone, and I’m only fourteen.

  I quickly refocused on the present, and followed the steps from my training last fall. Using a two-handed grip, I locked both arms out straight, lined up the sights, and took a deep breath. I squeezed the trigger slightly, but then stopped. One last doubt washed over me. Was this the best solution? Would it really be possible to dig all this out later? Maybe it wasn’t necessary. Maybe the troops would simply ignore the temple, ignore the thick double doors. But whom was I kidding? Of course they would notice.

  Then I heard my father’s voice, a galaxy away: “Aim a little high, from that distance.”

  I turned my head in surprise. But why doubt? He wasn’t just a doctor; he was also a marksman. Narayan nodded in agreement.

  I readjusted my aim and fired.

  The fireball screamed across the clearing like a comet, hit the edge of the opening, and bounced inside. At first I saw nothing more than the flare brightening the inside of the room, as if someone had turned on a lantern. But a second later, a brilliant white flash confirmed that the gunpowder trail had been ignited. I sprinted back to the edge of the clearing.

  “Cover!” I yelled. Dad leaned over Uncle Colin as a shield. Narayan pulled Rachel close and turned his back to the temple. I fell to the ground and covered my head with my hands.

  A deep boom accompanied an earthquake-like jolt in the ground. Next came a deafening rumble, as huge boulders crashed down and filled up the chamber. An enormous dust cloud billowed out, though very few rocks were thrown into the clearing. Nor did I see any collapse of the cliff face far above the temple. It was mo
re like an implosion I’d witnessed in Lucknow, where carefully placed charges were used to bring down an old building. An excellent engineering job had been done here.

  After the debris settled, we saw what looked like a natural overhang enclosing a massive pile of boulders, with little evidence of any man-made structure. The place would not draw attention as a potential archeological site.

  We were still coughing from the dust when two-dozen mounted Nepalese troops stormed into the clearing, rifles in hand. They relaxed after seeing our group – and the absence of any monsters. Narayan rushed over and told them our prepared story. His team had blown up a cave that sheltered the last of the Yeti, but not before rescuing the Hawthorne children. The cliff was still unstable, and everyone must stay back. A wagon should be summoned to transport Major Colin.

  The regiment leader rode over to where Rachel and I stood, and smiled with relief. Then he signaled his troops to move away from the cliff.

  Within a couple of hours everything had been arranged. Uncle Colin was carefully lifted onto a wagon to begin the slow ride back to camp. Though still in bad shape, his bleeding had stopped and his pulse was stable. Dad seemed surprised at the improvement in such a short time. My sister and I exchanged knowing glances; maybe we’d made a difference.

  Rachel then pulled out her small Ganesh statue, cradled it, and grinned at me. I nodded in return. Maybe a “Great Guide” of some sort really had been watching over us these past few months.

  As we rode away, I looked back at the earth’s newest geological oddity – a large, deep hollow in an otherwise solid bluff. I would have to remember this place. And on the ship back to England, Rachel and I would need to write down everything that had happened, before we forgot any details. Someday, people would be ready to read our account.

  And someday, visitors would explore the Deshret capital with the same awe and respect they showed toward the Egyptian pyramids or the Acropolis in Athens. They would also flock to a unique museum that housed treasures from history’s most spectacular archeological dig. But would humans ever accept a living race so different from themselves? We didn’t have a very good track record in that regard.

  However, I couldn’t let the thought of past failures stop me now. Just as I had overcome my fear of falling off an elephant, it was time to face another big challenge. I would find a way to make everyone see the Yeti as simply our neighbors, even if it took two hundred years.

  Acknowledgements

  First I want to thank members of my writing group, John Van Roekel and Amy Ohlson, for their helpful comments during the creation of a first draft. I had useful feedback from several teenagers as well: primarily my daughter Shanae, but also my niece Anna, and family friends Sarah and Ben. Special thanks goes to my father, a scholar of world history, who read the initial chapters and strongly encouraged me to continue. He passed away only one month later, making the endorsement a treasured memory.

  As for original inspiration, I must acknowledge the work of Nigel Kneale, the brilliant British writer of speculative fiction. His 1953 television script “The Creature” (for the BBC), and 1957 screenplay “The Abominable Snowman” (for Hammer Films), both depict the Yeti as a race of super-intelligent beings rather than bloodthirsty monsters. This unusual perspective made a lasting impression on me when I watched the film as a boy. By sheer coincidence, Nigel was born in 1922, the year my story opens.

  Hats off to the cheerful staff at Troubador Publishing, who made the production process painless, even as we worked across the Atlantic.

  Last but not least, thanks to my wife Ping for tolerating the many hours I spent on this project. My writing was energized by accounts of her father, a Chinese physician, who spent nearly a year in Tibet during the Cultural Revolution, traveling by donkey to help villagers with medical needs.