Hearts Of Nepal Collection: The Complete Series

Excerpt from Hearts Of Nepal Collection

Mount Everest, Nepal

On the morning of April 18th, 2014 a blazing sun straddled the shoulder of Everest, scorching the tips of the sleeping Khumbu Icefall. On the fractured glacier, sixteen men worked, fixing the ropes under a ridge heavy with ice and snow. Some four hundred meters south, Base Camp Khumbu nestled itself into the barren arms of a rock-laden landscape. Men and women who’d spent the better part of two weeks acclimatizing were going over their gear.

When the first loud crack echoed over the land, all eyes went upward.

Every heart came to a thudding halt.

The sleeping Goddess of the Himalayas woke, shrugged her mighty shoulders and sent fifteen thousand metric tons of ice barreling down to the doorstep of Base Camp. An eerie silence followed and people clawed and stumbled out of their torn and battered tents. A hasty search for the unaccounted began, but nothing could be done for the sixteen men roping the Icefall.

They were lost.

The mountain had spoke.

No one would be standing on her crown looking out over the world this year.

Khum Jung, Nepal - April 25th, 2014

Frank stabbed his ice axe into the steep snow-laden slope and stopped to gaze at the swirling gray clouds clinging to the Western Cwm far below. He looked up at the jagged ridge of the mountain cutting into a slate-blue sky and switched his carabineer over onto the fixed line running up the face of the mountain. The yellow rope doubled and tripled before him as it writhed in the wind. That he barely felt the bitter cold biting his body was a harbinger of things to come.

He planted a foot on the ledge flanking the ridge and felt the teeth of his crampon scrape the rock. Gripping the line, he stiffened, then moved forward one step at a time. The leading edge of the ridge dipped to waist height a few meters ahead. He plodded to it, climbed up and sat.

From here, the whole world opened up before him. To his right, the serrated knife-edge summit of Lhotse and the spiked teeth of Nuptse and Makalu waded in the cloud cover. But neither the panoramic view, nor the summit of Everest drove him. There was something else, something riding on the edge of his mind.

To his left, the spine of Everest went ever upward. “Not that way,” a voice whispered inside him. He scanned the sweeping snow and ice-laden landscape running down to the distant plains of China. A small orange speck clung to a rock not far away. He struggled to his feet and stumbled toward it. A man was sitting in knee-deep snow on the edge of a treacherous rim where a large menacing crack in the snow zigzagged off to a guess.

Suddenly the crack yawned and the mountain groaned, shedding its skin from under his feet. Snow rocketed into the air and swallowed him. Frank clung to the rope, battling the undercurrent dragging him over the edge. He tumbled down, over and over in a white world, cartwheeling, and spinning out of control until—

Frank Kincaid’s heart lurched and he shot up in bed. Breathless and in a cold sweat, he ran his hand through his hair, pulling a knot of it back from his bristled face. As the dream faded, he flipped the heavy woolen blanket off and swung his bony legs over the edge of the thin, lumpy mattress. The cold plank floor met his bare, calloused feet as he sat in the shadows cloaking the room. Standing, he squinted into the sliver of sunlight sliding through the clouded window.

His expedition lead guide, Dawa, was dead.

He shook his head. He’d lost his friend on the mountain, and for what: to improve his client’s chances of a summit? This was the third bad decision he’d made during his life regarding the mountain and it had claimed yet another friend. He dragged his pants from the foot of the bed, stepped into them and shuffled barefoot out to the privy, coughing. It’d been a week since the disaster on the Icefall. Sixteen men—friends he’d known for years—were dead. But the death of his Sirdar Sherpa was on him. He owned it all.

He zipped up and tromped out to the main room where he lit an oil lamp hanging from a hook next to the fireplace. The old stone house he’d lived in for the last forty-five years was a mess. Laundry was draped on the backs of chairs, dirty plates and mugs were scattered about the tables. An empty bottle of wine lay on its side by the stone hearth. He set the bottle back up, stirred the banked embers in the hearth and added a handful of kindling to them. Pulling a heavy wool shirt off the floor, he put it on then slipped into his sandals lying nearby.

As he waited for the flames to gain strength, he yanked a ragged curtain back and peered outside. It was a typical Himalayan morning in the sleepy mountain village: clear skies with hardly a wisp of cloud. Down the lane a rhododendron flanking the whitewashed walls of the monastery was putting out buds. A pile of smoldering juniper boughs lie by the front gate, sending resinous smoke up into the blue dome of the world.

He let the curtain fall back, feeling like a criminal. Guilt traveled with him like a shadow lately and he covered it with silence. Silence that had once turned a woman he loved away and now threatened another who loved him more. He reached beside him, grabbing a handful of pine kindling stacked near the fireplace and added it to the tiny fire in the corner of the hearth. As he did so, his cell phone vibrated in his pocket. He took it out and saw Sarah’s number flashing on the screen.

“Yeah.”

“Well, hello. You were supposed to call me over the weekend…remember?”

He scuffed his feet on the floor and shuffled over to the dining table. Sitting, he kicked his legs out and crossed them. He’d met Sarah Madden three years ago on the mountain when she came to support her son’s ascent of Everest. Well, not exactly to support it. She was against the whole thing, and what was more, he didn’t want her there any more than he wanted her son there. How had he fallen in love with her? They were nothing alike, and yet when he was with her, he couldn’t imagine not being with her.

At last, he said, “There’s been an accident,” and waited for the expected gasp. He wasn’t disappointed.

“Accident?” she said, alarm in her voice. “Are you okay?”

He tipped his head back and stared at the ceiling. “Yeah, I’m fine, but…”

“But what? Frank, talk to me.”

“It’s Dawa…he…umm…there was an avalanche on the Icefall, and he was roping the course.”

“Oh, my God. Is he…?”

All the spit left Frank’s mouth. “Yeah. Look, I can’t talk about this right now.” He paused, wanting to end the call.

“Don’t shut me out! I’ve been through that once with Greg. I can’t do it again.”

“I…I won’t, I promise.” He sighed. “Umm…hey look, I need to get around. Tshe and I are heading for Namche in a bit to meet the chopper taking Dawa home.”

“Call me later?”

“Sure.”

“I love you.”

“I know.” He ended the call, knowing where her head was going right now. And how could he blame her for being worried? He looked up at the five-by-seven framed photograph of Sarah and him on the mantel. The photo had been taken just before she left in 2011, and as he sat looking at it, he thought about a decision he’d made long ago that had altered their lives. Over the years, he’d convinced himself it had been Sarah’s husband, Steve Madden, not listening to Passang on the mountain, when in truth, it was he not wanting to wait ten more minutes for an updated weather report. Had he waited, he would’ve seen the tiny shift in the jet stream, which he would’ve warned Passang about, which would’ve meant his best friend, would still be alive. Steve Madden would’ve then returned home, and Greg would’ve had his father. John would still have his leg, and Sarah would’ve never come here.