Chapter Ten
It’s not the kind of life he cares for. He misses traveling on a whim, of tasting foods from every corner of the world whenever he fancied it. He misses feeling like the world is his playground instead of his cage. It’s only her smile, her happiness, that makes his self-imposed prison bearable.
PHUKTAL GOMPA, ZANSKAR VALLEY
Anna is freezing.
The snow is fresh, more powder than ice.
With every shuffling step, she finds herself trudging through knee-high drifts.
It’s exhausting. She’s sweating in her coat from the exertion, but with every gust of wind she feels the chill.
She understands now why Khiran was so eager to hurry.
Wherever it is they’re going, can only be reached on foot.
Had they made it a few days earlier, they would be hiking over rock instead of snow.
It’s been at least an hour since she’s been able to feel her toes, her only consolation knowing (from unfortunate experience) that she’s immune to frostbite.
“Where are we going?!” she shouts, fighting to be heard. It feels like the storm smothers the words the moment they leave her lips, but Khiran must hear enough. He points, his hand rising impossibly skyward. Anna’s gaze follows, her steps faltering.
It is nothing but a shadow in the storm, a hazy outline blurred by snowfall, but it’s enough to make out the flickering lights winking like eyes in the dark. Windows. Hidden in the mountainside, seemingly carved from the very same stone, are buildings.
“Phuktal Gompa,” Khiran says, the wind almost swallowing the words entirely. If he hadn’t leaned down, close enough for her to feel the heat of his breath on the shell of her ear, Anna’s not sure she would have heard him at all.
His hand catches her elbow, steering her closer to the cliff face. It looms over them like a guardian, blocking the wind the closer they get. By the time Anna is able to touch the rock, she’s not sure if the low whistle in her ears is real or an echo.
“There’s a small cave up ahead,” Khiran assures her. There’s a carefulness in the way he watches her, concern warring with reality. “We will rest there until the storm passes.”
Anna knows, without asking, that he came to the decision for her sake rather than his.
His hair is windswept, his cheeks flushed pink, but he doesn’t tremble from exhaustion or shiver from the cold the way she does.
She leans on his offered arm, happily letting him bear some of her weight as her feet fumble.
The cave, to her great relief, is closer than she imagined.
Unfortunately, it’s also far smaller—barely enough room for them to tuck their bodies in. No room for a fire.
Khiran motions for her to climb in first, before following behind her.
The ceiling is so low, Anna has to crawl on her hands and knees to get to the far end.
She lays on her side, watching Khiran inch towards her.
When he lays down, facing her, she understands why he wanted her to go first. His back is to the opening, bearing the brunt of the chill.
When he opens his arms, Anna doesn’t hesitate to fold herself into them. “Are you warm enough?”
No, she thinks, but it tastes unappreciative despite it being the truth. Instead, she says, “I’m getting there.”
“Many make the pilgrimage here, but I’ve never made the journey myself,” he confesses. “It is more taxing than I imagined.”
“I’m sure the snow isn’t helping.”
His answering hum is dark with grudging agreement.
She tucks herself fully against him, the tip of her nose brushing his throat. Her face is so cold, his skin burns in comparison.
“You’re freezing,” he mourns, reaching between their bodies to unzip his coat. He holds it open, an invitation she can’t refuse. She curls up against him, their knees knocking and her hands soaking up the warmth of him.
She sighs, cocooned in his arms and folded into his coat on top of her own. Outside, the wind whistles. Not an echo, after all. “Tell me about where we’re going,” she murmurs, trying to fight the heaviness pulling at her eyelids.
He knows her too well. “Sleep, Anna.”
She could argue, insist that she’s fine. Any other time, she probably would have. But there is a song in the way the wind whistles, a melody that feels as old as the mountains themselves. Anna lets it sing her to sleep.
It’s the silence that wakes her.
She turned sometime during the night. Her back is warm against Khiran’s chest, his coat draped fully over her. A sliver of light plays on the back of the cave wall, rising and falling with Khiran’s breathing. She knows, because she can feel it in time with the breath tickling the back of her neck.
“You’re awake,” he says, but there’s no accusation in it. Only warmth. “It’s midmorning.”
Anna shifts, turning so she can face him properly. “I must have been more tired than I thought.” She looks over his shoulder, peaking at the tiny glimpse of blue sky. “It looks like the storm passed.”
“It stopped a little before dawn. It will still be difficult with the snow, but at least we’ll be able to see properly. Are you ready?”
Part of her wants to beg for five more minutes, knowing the warmth she has now will be long gone once she’s back to shuffling through the snow, but her joints are stiff from sleeping on the hard ground. Begging for movement. “Let’s go.”
They crawl out, Khiran offering her a hand.
In the daylight, the opening looks even smaller than the tiny cave felt, but she doesn’t dwell on it long.
Outside, the world is white framed by blue skies.
Pristine in ways that feel increasingly rare.
Below them, a river so blue it almost looks otherworldly cuts through the landscape.
She looks up, trying to find the windows she had spotted through the storm, but they’re too close to the cliff face to see it.
“What did you say it was called?”
“Phuktal Gompa,” he answers, walking ahead of her. Anna follows, trying to step in the tracks he’s already made. “It’s a monastery.”
Anna thinks of Venice—of the years she lived as a nun, just so she could be permitted to heal without risking accusations of witchcraft. “What religion?”
“Buddhism.” He looks back at her, a thoughtful frown creasing his brow. “Which I’m now realizing you probably know very little about.”
She shrugs. “Only the bit I read from that book you have on religions. It gave some information on the origins but very little about the practice itself.”
“I have a book on religion?”
Anna’s certain he probably has a book on just about everything spread throughout all his little hideaways.
Artfully bound in leather and pages gilded with gold.
He’s always seemed to have a penchant for hoarding things he finds valuable but never really looking at it.
“You do—did,” she corrects, stomach twisting.
“I suppose it depends on if our home is still standing.”
Khiran says nothing. Anna appreciates that he doesn’t try to ease the ache in her heart with false optimism. Even if the house still stands, they will likely never be able to return to it.
They continue on in silence, slowly scaling the mountainside until Anna spots the first glimpse of red-tiled rooftops.
She thought it had been an optical illusion when she had seen it through the haze of wind and snow—that they couldn’t possibly be built into the rock—but in the daylight, she’s only more convinced.
The buildings stagger, following the slope of the ridge of the mountainside, and seem to be built of the same stone it stands on.
As they draw closer, Anna spots the round mouth of a cave perched at the back of it, spies the hint of steps leading in. “Does it go into the cave?”
Khiran nods. “Yes. The Tibetan monks have been here since the 15th century, but the caves are thousands of years old.”
Anna traces the lines of the stepped roofs. “Why here?”
It’s beautiful. Peaceful. She knows that can’t be why he chose it. There were plenty of smaller, unassuming communities they passed and could have stopped in. None of them would have been even half as difficult to get to.
“I’m acquainted with one of the monks.” He flinches. “Not that he’ll recognize me. He’s a good man… he’ll take us in and ensure that we have food and shelter.”
“What language is spoken in this area?”
His eyes slide to hers. “Tibetan is most common.”
She nods. “You’ll help me learn?”
Khiran’s face softens. “Of course.”
They continue to climb the zig zagging path.
Anna bites back a curse when her foot catches a spot of ice buried beneath the snow—Khiran’s grip on her hand is the only thing that keeps her from tumbling.
Even still, the leg of her trousers bears the brunt of her misstep, sticking wet and cold against her skin for the rest of the hike.
By the time they finally reach the monastery, Anna is happy just to be back on level land.
She immediately feels the eyes on them, but a quick glance proves there is no unkindness in their stares but, rather, surprise.
Anna imagines how haggard they must look—how foolish to brave the Himalayas in the middle of winter—and feels herself flush as deeply as the sea of maroon robes staring back at her.
One of the monks steps forward, his face round and his eyes concerned beneath his mustard yellow hat as he looks over them.
He’s young, certainly no older than Jiro.
She can see the youth in the lankiness of his limbs, as if he’s still growing into himself.
He seems to be searching for words, but Anna doesn’t understand why until Khiran speaks to him in the local language and relief colors his face.
She doesn’t know what he’s saying, but she can hear the request in his inflection.
The boy looks between them before giving a sharp nod and gesturing for them to follow.