— Some of those trumpets, Noel remarks, are made of human thighbones. They’ve drums made of skulls, with human skin on top.
Ashley peers through a window to a man braying a trumpet on a landing below.
— Looks like brass to me, he whispers hoarsely.
They enter a cramped dining room lit only by a few butter lamps. Amid the blackness they make out an array of small dishes set on a low table. The British sit awkwardly upon cushions on the floor.
— What is it? Mills says. I can’t see.
— Macaroni and spices, the colonel says. What else?
The British eat with lacquered chopsticks, the monks replenishing the empty bowls. The colonel glances at Ashley’s bowl, shaking his head.
— A bowl and a half, the colonel says. You’ll spark a riot. The head lama has been dressing and preparing for two days.
— How many have you had?
— Three, the colonel says. And I’m cooked.
Ashley lays his chopsticks across his bowl. His right leg has fallen asleep and he struggles to find a better posture.
— What’s the lama like?
— Damned impressive fellow, Noel says. Supposed to be the reincarnation of a god. Spent thirteen years in one of those hermit’s cells in the valley.
Mills lifts his chopsticks to the hovering shaft of light. The red lacquer is chipping at the ends, the wood mottled with indentations.
— Tooth marks, Mills murmurs.
— They’re probably older than you, Noel says.
Noel is on his seventh bowl. He grins and keeps eating.
The British file into the small chamber. A low ceiling; the scent of juniper smoldering in an urn. Monks sit on benches beneath huge bronze effigies, blowing horns and pounding drums. A pair of monks hold taut a piece of silk, screening something behind. The interpreter presses his face to the floor in reverence. The English stand silent, clutching their hats by the brim. No one speaks.
Slowly the monks lower the screen. A figure is revealed, fixed in Buddha posture and clad in rich silk gowns, the visage staring past. The trumpets drone on. The face is golden, expressionless, beautiful. The lama perceives the British, but does not react to them. No one speaks.
The screen is raised, the figure obscured once more. The trumpets cease. The British look at one another, bowing awkwardly to no one in particular. They file out of the room.
Now they all feast. The porters drink chang and buttered tea and further bowls of noodles. The British hate the tea and claim the yak butter is rancid, but they gulp it down before the monks’ eyes.
Ashley is sweating even as his body feels chilled. He excuses himself, navigating a maze of corridors and small chambers until he passes through the front gate into the bright sun. A syce leans against the outer wall, standing vigil over the mules and swinging a whip of yak wool in the wind. He extends his tongue in greeting.
Ashley sits down on a crumbling half-wall, his stomach churning. A few minutes later Somervell emerges from the monastery with a cheerful gait, his hands in his pockets, his scarf flapping wildly.
— Something disagrees with you?
Ashley glances up at Somervell.
— That wretched tea. I don’t mind the macaroni, but the stench of that rancid butter makes me sick. And I drank a whole cup, God knows why.
Somervell nods. — Perhaps you’d as well get it out.
Ashley unwinds his muffler, walking a few yards to a cluster of dusty rocks. He bends over and lets the tea come out of him onto the stones. He returns to his seat on the wall.
— Blast, Ashley says. Have you got a handkerchief? My last was nicked—
Somervell hands him a handkerchief and Ashley wipes his mouth.
— We ought to have given them handkerchiefs, Ashley says. More useful than brocade.
Somervell rests his hand on Ashley’s shoulder.
— Let me have a look at you. Your face has gone raw.
— No worse than anyone else’s.
— Doctor’s orders. Indulge me.
Reluctantly Ashley lifts his face to Somervell. His skin is broken and scaled, the color going from pink to red to white.
— Have you shown Hingston?
— No.
— Naughty boy. How does it feel?
Ashley coughs. — Perfect bliss.
— What have you been putting on it?
— The glacier cream. But it runs off in the sun.
— Use the Sechehaye. It’s a firmer compound. Been greasing your face at night?
— Yes sir.
Somervell leans back. — Fair enough. Keep it greased. And out of the sun when possible.
Ashley wraps his muffler around his throat. Somervell squints at him.
— Your voice is getting worse.
— Wasn’t any good to begin with.
— How’s that cough of yours?
— Not too bad.
— It sounds ghastly.
Ashley wipes his face again and folds the handkerchief neatly into a square.
— No worse than yours.
— My cough is wretched, Somervell says. But you’ve a precondition. Weren’t you wounded in the throat?
— That, Ashley says, was in the war. This is a climbing holiday.
— You may have frostbitten the lining of your throat. It could block up and strangle you. If the cough worsens, you must tell Hingston. The colonel too. It’s not only for your sake.
Somervell strokes his beard thoughtfully.
— You push yourself too hard, Walsingham. You’re very strong, but no one’s that strong. It’s none of my business, but you can’t forever be taking up someone else’s slack to impress the colonel, or trying to better Price at every turn. The weather this season has been appalling, and what’s worse is that we can’t predict it. Sometimes on Everest you simply must turn back. You and Price each make splendid climbing partners, but I worry what you might try together—
— It doesn’t matter, Ashley counters. Even if the colonel puts me in one of the summit parties, it wouldn’t be with Hugh.
— He’ll put you in. I believe you’ve won the colonel over. He thinks you’re mad, mind you, but he knows you’re damned fit and keen as mustard. I’d wager the first party will be the colonel and me with the gas, the second party you and Price without. We’re to be the capable pair, you two will be the irresistible force. Any idea what the immovable object is?
Somervell shakes his head.
— I don’t like this funny weather, he continues, it’s worse than ominous. We ought to have packed it in yesterday, but no one wants to sulk back to England as failures a third time. And no one wants to have to come here again. The colonel worries what the press will say, what the committee will say. Everyone expects us to triumph, though they don’t know a damned thing about it. Price needs to climb the mountain so he can do his lecture tours, and besides, he must get past Everest before it ruins him. So they need the summit. But I can’t see why you should risk your neck in the same way. Do you follow me?
— Certainly.
— Of course, you’ll do your duty and more, Somervell adds. All I’m saying is don’t let Hugh lead you further than you think you should go. Everest will always be here, she’s been here millions of years. This may not be the year. For God’s sake, it may not even be possible to climb her.
Ashley looks at Somervell. He extends the soiled cloth to him.
— Want your handkerchief back?