Hell Is Above Us: The Epic Race to the Top of Fumu, the World's Tallest Mountain, Jonathan Bloom [best ebook reader TXT] 📗

and livestock trades. He stood almost six foot tall, a height unheard of among the Sherpa people. Wrinkled to the same extent as his wife, when the two stood next to each other, their faces were two halves of a split open dried fruit. Shoulders fanned out from Phurbu Tawa’s beefy neck like the high ridges of Kanchenjunga. When his mouth opened, which it did regardless of the presence of others, his voice projected far and wide. Simply put, he met all requirements for leadership. No one knew this more than Chhiri Tendi. A rambunctious lad to be sure, his clever tongue and mischievous larks stopped when his father was present, replaced almost at once with humility and respect.

As the party wore on that night, Phurbu Tawa went from dancing and slapping unsuspecting women’s rumps to telling a scandalous tale of a recent journey to Kathmandu. Those still sober enough to listen did so. Portions of the tale drew laughs from the crowd of friends while others inspired gasps. Chhiri Tendi sat at his father’s side, listening intently even though he did not understand every unseemly detail. The story’s contents were irrelevant. Chhiri Tendi was delighted just to watch his father tell a tale.

It was during the middle of this story that a group of strangers, unexpected and uninvited, walked into the celebration. There were nine of them in all. Their snow-covered military boots clomped hard against the wooden floors. They wore strange clothing that appeared to consist of odds and ends from several different nations’ uniforms. One wore the boots of a British soldier. Another wore the medals of a Turkish soldier. Another the helmet of Greeks. Chhiri Tendi remembers thinking, even as a child that their ill-gotten attire may have been poached from corpses.’ The only consistent part of their garb was a dead king cobra around each man’s neck, stuffed with some kind of material that allowed the animal’s husk to be used like an ascot or muffler. One man stood in front while eight others stood behind shoulder to shoulder.

The revelers ceased discussion just as the leader of the unwelcomed fellows began to speak in Nepali. “We are the Squad of Schismatic Gurkhas…” he proclaimed. He turned to look at one of the men behind him who looked back disapprovingly. “…until we come up with a better name.” The leader walked forward, each step slower than the last. The man studied all of the faces in the silent room. “We have come to this village of Sherpa people because we are starting a revolution across Nepal and we want to recruit you. For too long, the British Crown has held Nepal in its pale talons. They have controlled our government. They have sent us to fight in their name across Asia and Europe. And what do we get in return? Protection? We do not need their protection. We are not children. We are the Kingdom of Nepal, and we are prepared to draw blood from the British and watch their innards spill out, steaming in the cold Khumbu air. Now I know the Sherpa are lazy, unreliable, untrustworthy drunkards unlike the Gurkha people, but we are from the same country and so we are obliged to ask for your participation. Also let me add: If you are not with us…” the nine men pulled out their crooked kukri swords, “…then you are against us.”

A collective, audible inhalation filled the room, followed by silence. Chhiri Tendi remembers a tension in the room so great he felt the air itself would snap. The only people who did not seem terrified were Pasang Lhamu and Phurbu Tawa, his mother and father. Pasang Lhamu scowled at the strangers and whispered something under her breath, her toothless mouth moving almost imperceptibly. Phurbu Tawa rose from his seat which happened to be only feet from the man who threatened the group.

“My name is Phurbu Tawa. Do you have a name as well.”

“It is none of your business unless you agree to join us.”

“I see. Well let me ask you this, and please understand that although this is my question only, I am sure all of my fellow untrustworthy drunkards would like to know. I have done my share of walking across the Kingdom so I know a few things about its people and places. And from what I know, the Gurkha people are renowned for their bravery in war. For their unwillingness to ever turn away from adversity. For their vicious skills in combat. Most importantly, they are known for their dedication. For over one hundred years, your people have been the ones Nepal and England have turned to for help, and you have never let them down. Ever.”

“That is not a question.” retorted the stranger.

“My apologies. Here is the question. If the Gurkhas are such a wonderful people, trusted by everyone to do their job, then is it not the nine of you traitorous donkeys who are the untrustworthy ones?”

The stranger did not move. His expression did not change. He simply stared at Phurbu Tawa. “I have served England for over ten years, and in the past four I have done more for them than you can possibly imagine. I have marched across the deserts of Iraq, protecting the oil fields of Basra from the dreaded Turks, flies on my face and broken, weeping blisters on my feet. I have cut the throats of men, women, and children in the name of the Crown. The men who stand behind me fought on the beaches of Gallipoli, a place you have probably never heard of but they will never forget. They watched as their fellow Gurkhas were cut down by machine gun fire and they fought back when all hope was lost. So do not dare say we are untrustworthy.”

Phurbu Tawa had a dreadful habit of cleaning out his nose with his finger. He had begun doing it again while the Gurkha spoke. The Gurkha was not