chapter 3 Mountain God
MOUNTAIN GOD
The base camp is simply a tattered, nondescript expedition flag surrounded by half a dozen tiny tents partially sheltered by an overhanging rock. It is snowing lightly and there is little wind.
Clive Harper, a British member of the party, is arguing with the leader of the hired Sherpas.
They are shouting, and some of them are waving their pick axes.
They suddenly fall silent and turn their attention to something happening behind Harper.
He turns to see Crowley trudging toward them.
He runs to greet Crowley to talk to him where they are out of earshot of the Sherpas.
Crowley stares silently at the disgruntled natives as Harper speaks.
“Crowley! Thank god you’re back, man! Look, things have gotten a bit sticky here.
The Sherpas say they won’t go on. The tall fellow there is demanding we pay them now and return.
He said something about a mountain god eating us all.
Look, old man, there’s something I’ve got to tell you.
I overheard two of them boasting how they mutinied and massacred the Gunther party two seasons ago.
I swear old boy . . . I had no idea I was hiring murderers. I’m not sure what to do.”
Harper looks past Crowley, and for the first time is aware that Crowley came back alone. Nonchalantly he asks, “Where are your boys? Maybe they can calm these buggers down.”
Crowley continues to stare intently at the threatening throng.
“The mountain god ate them.”
Harper becomes visibly terrified. “Dear god. They’ll kill us for sure.”
Crowley pushes past Harper, walks straight to his tent, unties his pack, and retrieves something from inside.
He then marches straight up to the ringleader, a huge brute with face wrinkles as deep as glacier crevices.
His nose is black from being repeatedly frostbitten. He is missing most of his front teeth.
Crowley speaks loudly in Burushaski. “Eat now and rest. We camp here tonight. Tomorrow is our assault on the summit.”
The head man is not intimidated. He looks beyond Crowley. “Where are Anil and Shamar?”
With lightning speed, Crowley pulls the revolver from his coat and jams the barrel under the giant’s chin.
The man freezes. The others gasp. Two start toward Crowley but stop when Crowley laughs and flashes a hideously grotesque smile at them.
Everyone freezes where they stand. Crowley shrieks insanely.
“I . . . am the mountain god!” The words repeatedly echo off the mountain peaks. One Sherpa gasps at this blasphemy. The others remain silent.
“And I was hungry!”
Crowley draws back the hammer of the revolver.
He sticks his tongue out like a Tibetan thangka demon.
He shrieks again, this time more painfully shrill—like a bird of prey.
With the barrel of the gun still planted firmly under the Sherpa’s chin, Crowley rolls his tongue, leans in, and obscenely licks the oily face of the trembling man.
He rolls his tongue again like he enjoys the taste. “Ummmm!”
Crowley makes eye contact with each of the other terrified porters.
“Who would deny the mountain god his supper? You? You? You?”
The head man shakes uncontrollably. Piss runs down his pant’s leg over his boots and onto the snow. The others stare at their feet and shake their heads “no.”
Harper mutters under his breath. “Oh, dear god! Oh, dear god! Oh dear, dear!”
Crowley laughs again and shouts. “Don’t look for Anil and Shamar! They are in my belly!”
There is complete silence in the camp. We hear only the sound of the expedition flag flapping in the wind.
“But now . . . I am satisfied!” He uncocks his revolver and puts it away.
“Now you eat. Tomorrow, we climb!”
“All right, Milo. We’ll end that scene. Fade to white against the snowy features of the base camp. Let’s take a short break and make an appearance at Frieda’s party. Some of the guests will be leaving soon, and this will be the last chance for them to see me alive.”
As much as I was enthralled by Bendick’s tale, the aroma of curry was driving me mad with hunger.
“I wish you wouldn’t talk like that, Sir Francis.
I’ll wager you have many good years left in you.
” I didn’t wait for a response. I was out the library door, down the stairs, and on a desperate hunt for lamb vindaloo.
I succeeded in my quest and gulped some down. I also soon succeeded in spilling an obscenely large dollop of chutney down the front of Lord Harris’s borrowed shirt. I was attempting to dilute the turmeric stain with a napkin and cold water when Sir Francis grabbed me by the arm.
“Lots of serious work to do before sunrise, my good man!”
Before I could protest, the old boy had me back in the saddle with pencil in hand. He wasn’t joking. We wouldn’t break again until breakfast.
“Let’s have a change of venue, shall we? Time to introduce our villains.” He freshened his pipe. “Let’s start with an exterior nightshot of a distinguished-looking little library in Paris. New words appear on the screen:”
Bibliothèque de l’Arsenal, Paris