has nothing to do with physical weakness.
“What was all that about, anyway?”
The monk’s words gnaw at me. Bad juju. “Nothing. I’m leaving tomorrow.”
Chapter Four
M Y CARRIAGE PULLS up in front of the monastery – a small, battered, dark green truck which stutters to a halt with a shudder that rattles its doors. The chances of it making it down the mountain intact are slim. The chances of it making it to Lhasa Airport, which lies several days to the southeast? It would be a safer bet that Danny Mitchell will end up working on Wall Street.
I sling my rucksack into the back, beside some old rugs and faded bundles tied together with ropes. The driver takes the cigarette stub from the corner of his mouth and flashes me a toothless grin, pulling the canvas flap down over the cargo. The wind and sun have left their signature in the creases and texture of his face. There’s mischief in the small, dark eyes that peer out above high cheekbones. He pulls his fur jacket up round his neck and places the cigarette stub in the edge of his mouth, blinking as the smoke rises into his eyes.
“Are you sure you don’t want to stay on? Even for another week?” says Danny. “The trek round the lakes should be something.”
There’s no question of staying here. I haven’t slept properly since... I glance up at the mountain looming in the middle distance. “I just need to get home.” Behind me, on the steps of the monastery, the old monk is watching.
“I’ll let you know about the next trip, whenever it comes up,” says Danny. “Take care of yourself.” He holds out a hand.
“You too.” I grip his hand and shake it. “Keep out of trouble, okay?” I know he won’t, but saying it absolves me of responsibility when he doesn’t.
Danny grins. I get into the truck, where the leather seats are worn through so that the springs are just visible at the edges. They squeak in protest when I sit on them. It smells of cigarettes and damp clothes, and there’s a crack at the bottom left corner of the windscreen.
The driver jumps in, grinning his gums at me as his cigarette wobbles. He scrapes the long gearstick into neutral and turns the key. He mumbles something I don’t catch, and wheezes at his own joke as the engine growls to life, a puff of smoke chugging from the back, the smell of diesel suffusing the icy air. Danny’s waving figure retreats as we pull away from the monastery, dwarfed by the white mountain. I’m itching to get away from here, back to reality. I thought about little else during another night of sleeplessness, and the memory of that black lake. I don’t do ghost stories, especially ones that gatecrash your subconscience. But I didn’t bank on feeling a sense of loss. Something about losing that feeling of certainty I had on the mountain. That life would never be so clear again.
The truck bounces over the shingle-strewn ground, the springs squeaking their objections like a pen of frustrated piglets. The driver is in his element, hooting and grinning each time we shudder over the bumpy ground. Six years ago I spent three months on the back of a Suzuki DR350, negotiating the rubble trails of Mongolia that are passed off as roads. I like off-road driving, preferably on two wheels – it’s the stuff of adventure. I love the purity, the freedom, the danger. But my fingers close round the roof handle of the truck and my other hand grips the patchy leather of the seat. There’s no-one else on the road for us to hit, but his driving is making me nervous.
We pass through several small towns, where men and women sit on the side of the road selling yak meat from coloured rugs, and children dressed in bright, grubby clothes, with unruly dark hair and running noses, crouch in the street playing games in the dust or running, waving after the fair-haired stranger in the truck. The towns give way to valleys of green splashed with snow, and great canyons spanned by metal bridges; the kiss of
“What was all that about, anyway?”
The monk’s words gnaw at me. Bad juju. “Nothing. I’m leaving tomorrow.”
Chapter Four
M Y CARRIAGE PULLS up in front of the monastery – a small, battered, dark green truck which stutters to a halt with a shudder that rattles its doors. The chances of it making it down the mountain intact are slim. The chances of it making it to Lhasa Airport, which lies several days to the southeast? It would be a safer bet that Danny Mitchell will end up working on Wall Street.
I sling my rucksack into the back, beside some old rugs and faded bundles tied together with ropes. The driver takes the cigarette stub from the corner of his mouth and flashes me a toothless grin, pulling the canvas flap down over the cargo. The wind and sun have left their signature in the creases and texture of his face. There’s mischief in the small, dark eyes that peer out above high cheekbones. He pulls his fur jacket up round his neck and places the cigarette stub in the edge of his mouth, blinking as the smoke rises into his eyes.
“Are you sure you don’t want to stay on? Even for another week?” says Danny. “The trek round the lakes should be something.”
There’s no question of staying here. I haven’t slept properly since... I glance up at the mountain looming in the middle distance. “I just need to get home.” Behind me, on the steps of the monastery, the old monk is watching.
“I’ll let you know about the next trip, whenever it comes up,” says Danny. “Take care of yourself.” He holds out a hand.
“You too.” I grip his hand and shake it. “Keep out of trouble, okay?” I know he won’t, but saying it absolves me of responsibility when he doesn’t.
Danny grins. I get into the truck, where the leather seats are worn through so that the springs are just visible at the edges. They squeak in protest when I sit on them. It smells of cigarettes and damp clothes, and there’s a crack at the bottom left corner of the windscreen.
The driver jumps in, grinning his gums at me as his cigarette wobbles. He scrapes the long gearstick into neutral and turns the key. He mumbles something I don’t catch, and wheezes at his own joke as the engine growls to life, a puff of smoke chugging from the back, the smell of diesel suffusing the icy air. Danny’s waving figure retreats as we pull away from the monastery, dwarfed by the white mountain. I’m itching to get away from here, back to reality. I thought about little else during another night of sleeplessness, and the memory of that black lake. I don’t do ghost stories, especially ones that gatecrash your subconscience. But I didn’t bank on feeling a sense of loss. Something about losing that feeling of certainty I had on the mountain. That life would never be so clear again.
The truck bounces over the shingle-strewn ground, the springs squeaking their objections like a pen of frustrated piglets. The driver is in his element, hooting and grinning each time we shudder over the bumpy ground. Six years ago I spent three months on the back of a Suzuki DR350, negotiating the rubble trails of Mongolia that are passed off as roads. I like off-road driving, preferably on two wheels – it’s the stuff of adventure. I love the purity, the freedom, the danger. But my fingers close round the roof handle of the truck and my other hand grips the patchy leather of the seat. There’s no-one else on the road for us to hit, but his driving is making me nervous.
We pass through several small towns, where men and women sit on the side of the road selling yak meat from coloured rugs, and children dressed in bright, grubby clothes, with unruly dark hair and running noses, crouch in the street playing games in the dust or running, waving after the fair-haired stranger in the truck. The towns give way to valleys of green splashed with snow, and great canyons spanned by metal bridges; the kiss of
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