Free The Rose of Tibet by Lionel Davidson Page A

features and apologized for disturbing him.
    ‘It’s nothing, sahib. Tomorrow I’ll be fine.’
    ‘You say you saw some English people in Tibet.’
    ‘That’s right. I met them, sahib. They walked one day with the caravan.’
    ‘Which trip was that?’
    That had been December. Yes, he was quite sure it was December. There was no possibility of his confusing it with an earlier trip. Why was this? Why, because the trip before that had been in September – there had been no caravan in October or November – and in September they had gone by a different route, to Norgku. It was only in December that they had travelled via the Portha-la pass. And it was on the Portha-la that they had met the English party.
    Houston sat blinking in the smoky room, trying to comprehend this. He said at last, ‘They travelled a whole day with you?’
    ‘Most of one day. Four or five hours.’
    ‘Could you try and remember everything that happened that day.’
    There was very little to remember. The weather had beenvery bad, the youth said; a blizzard was blowing. The four people had joined the caravan while it was on the move. They had appeared some time during the ascent of Portha-la. They had caught up with the caravan with difficulty, for one was ill and had to be supported by the others. He thought one of the party had been a woman. They had managed to keep up with the caravan, however, and had bedded down with it when it had stopped for the night. Later they had left.
    Left? Where had they left?
    The boy had no idea. He remembered that guides had turned up for them – either during the night or early in the morning. He had woken to see two of the guides carrying away the sick man, and the rest of the party following. He had been awakened by shouting, in English. He thought the sahibs were angry with their guides. Perhaps they had arrived late. Yes, it had struck him as strange that a foreign party should be travelling in Tibet without guides. He had wondered about that.
    But where had they gone to? Where could they have gone?
    To a monastery, perhaps, to take shelter; the blizzard had continued for a further two days.
    To the Yamdring monastery? Was that anywhere near?
    Yes, it was not far, two, three days, not more.
    And there had been no comment among the caravan team? Could a party suddenly disappear without arousing curiosity even?
    But certainly. Parties were joining and leaving the caravan all the time; and this party had not even paid to join. Nobody had objected to this, of course. In winter wandering groups often took shelter with passing caravans. One would expect a foreign party to do this if they had missed their own guides. He had forgotten all about it himself. To tell the truth, it had only come to mind again when Bozeling had told him the sahib was interested. He hoped he had been of assistance. He would try and remember what else he could of the incident; but he didn’t think there was anything else to remember.
    Houston thanked him, and refused more tea, and also Bozeling’s offer to see him back to the hotel, and said good night all round, and left.
    He felt very ill. He thought he was going to be sick. Hewalked slowly, breathing in the crisp night air, and stopped once or twice to lean against the wall. He could see the glow in the sky over the square, and made towards it through the dark alleys. There was nobody about, and he thought after a while he had lost himself; the glow was getting no nearer. But presently he saw a familiar feature, an upended cart he had passed on the way, and a moment afterwards a white shape glimmering in the dark.
    He saw as he came closer that it was two men sitting smoking on a low earth wall, and he made towards them to ask the direction. He slowed down a bit as he approached. He didn’t know what it was about them. They were sitting per   fectly still, not looking towards him though his footsteps were loud in the alley. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck beginning to