Hell Is Above Us: The Epic Race to the Top of Fumu, the World's Tallest Mountain by Jonathan Bloom (bookreader TXT) 📗

scene of unholy carnage I had just witnessed outside. The altitude was also sapping my ability to make any decisions whatsoever. The look in Chatham’s eyes suggested he was in the same predicament. Our brains did nothing now but regulate basic body functioning, and they did not even do that job well anymore, sending every system into a poorly organized frenzy of activity.

“The screaming outside became a tired, half-conscious moan. The moan then included a bubbling sound as fluid blocked air passages. Then a crescendo in which the moan returned to high pitched scream one last time, a loud snapping sound, and then merciful silence. Ferguson and Wilde were gone…most of their bodies and all of their souls.

“’Hello’ came a voice from outside. It was overly friendly and accompanied by laughter from colleagues. I could not place the accents. English is not his first language, but he is certainly fluent in what appears to be British English. ‘Good morrow. Where is the one they call Chhiri Tendi?’ I could not speak. ‘We know you’re in there. We’re not fools. Is Chhiri Tendi in there with you? These two meals were white eyes. Not Chhiri Tendi. We want him, and then perhaps we’ll leave you alone?’

“I knew then what I had to do. I had to make a run for it. I would race out the flaps of the tent as fast as my straining lungs could take me, ice axe in hand, and glissade down the slope. My pack was next to my sleeping bag. I filled it with as many things as I could think of and started putting it on my back. Chatham was not moving so I signaled to him to please do the same. He simply shook his head. There was no way he was going to muster the courage to move, let alone leave the tent! The man outside began to speak again. His voice was closer now.

“’How rude of us not introducing ourselves! We are the Nepalese Cobras: Cannibal Division.’ With that, a huge, curved blade cut through the tent only a foot from my face and then disappeared. ‘We have been following your Sherpa since Calcutta, just as we have done so many times before with countless teams of Western Men and their coolies. The plan, as always, has been to track colonialists as they enter the Kingdom without welcome, wait until they are at their most fragile, and then kill them. And what better way to kill them than to eat them?’ Chatham cried out a little at this. The blade slashed through again. ‘Their nations are masters at the art of cannibalism. Cannibalization of land, culture, resources, wives, children, fighting strategies, languages. And what they do not eat, they spit out. Trash. Refuse. Not worth a farthing. Leave them hungry and penniless on the side of the road. No, this will not stand. So now we are the ones who eat.’

“I continued to pack, hoping to get away from these savages. I suspected I had enough to survive at least down to the cliff that my failed ‘magic rope’ had gotten us up. There I would need to move quickly to set up a rappel. Perhaps they would not chase me that far? Maybe they would let me go? No way of knowing.

“From outside, I heard some complaints in what sounded like Nepali. Groans mixed in with the words. Some of the cannibals were not well perhaps? Then the leader continued. ‘We watched the porter groups who wait by the docks. It was climbing season and these mindless ants were ready as always to aid Europeans and Americans come weighted down with lucre. “Let me ease your burden and maybe some day I can be like you?” Fools.’ The knife slashed through again, turning the wall into ribbons. ‘Anyway, we were thrilled when we spied a team of Americans unloading from some small dinghies. They connected with a group of porters on the docks and made for the train station. We prepared to follow suit. Then our luck increased manifold. Another group of porters began to prepare for an outing. No foreigners seemed to be present. When we asked, it seemed some Americans were waiting for their porters and Sherpa at the mountain. You! Not only that, but one of the Sherpa was none other than your sardar, Chhiri Tendi. This man Chhiri Tendi owes the Nepalese Cobras. Owes us in blood. Owes us in cries for mercy. You see, his father killed one of our leaders. We promised to come back some day and kill the son. And here we are. We get to address two goals in one climb…kill colonialists and exact revenge on a local enemy of the Kingdom.’

“I had been warned about Fumu’s cannibals before. Several teams, including Malick’s, had returned with tales of their brutality. But I had considered the claims so preposterous as to be figments of climbers’ exhausted imaginations. I had also heard rumors [sic] of the Nepalese Cobras, a small, crazed group of insurgents, spawned from the noble and unparalleled Gurkha infantry, hell-bent on banishing or killing all interlopers in Nepal. But the cannibals pre-date the Cobras. The cannibals have been mentioned in accounts of Fumu expeditions going back almost a half-century, well before the Nepalese Cobras existed. I could only assume the two had joined forces, and the ones we faced now – the “Cannibal Division” – were the newest division of the Cobras. I could not believe Chhiri Tendi was at odds with these monsters; certainly not an enviable position in which to be. Then again the position Chatham and I were in at the time was no better.

“’Chhiri Tendi is not here. He left to find our expedition leader. He went west.’ I lied to save Chhiri Tendi, maybe the bravest thing I’ve ever done, but it did not matter because my words were ignored by the men outside. I heard more