Sacred Mountain by Robert Ferguson Read Free Book Online Page B

he stood admiring it a young Tibetan woman came towards him, her head bowed and hands held together in greeting. Her woollen clothes were brown and a deep purple, covered at the front by a colourful striped apron on which she now wiped her hands. She reached up to her forehead on which hung a disc of beaten gold, a polished coral stone mounted at its centre. It was hanging on a band of Tibetan turquoise that ran around the crown of her head, keeping her long, shining hair tightly held in a bun. She carefully removed the headdress, some of her hair falling free as she did so, and grabbed Philip’s hand, trying to press the jewel into it.
Philip froze, unable to move as her dark eyes locked onto his. In them he saw a desperation he’d witnessed before, a plea for help that brought back terrible memories; ones he longed to forget.
“No, please …” Philip stammered, “please, you keep it.”
Undeterred she continued, trying to force his hand open while leaning forward slightly and indicating over her shoulder with her head. He could see the fine hair of a tiny baby strapped to her back.
“No,” Philip said again, desperate to get away. He reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out some loose rupee notes, pressing them all into her hand while holding her other one tightly closed around the gold.
She looked at him, as if puzzled as to why he was so frightened of her. Quietly she said something in Tibetan, gently reaching out to take his hand and slowly placing the back of it against her forehead. She seemed to study him as she replaced the headdress, carefully tidying the hair that still drew Philips eyes, before holding her hands together once more and continuing past him up the alley.
Philip stood, his hands now clenched by his sides to stop the trembling. He wanted to turn and stare after her, to check she was real and not a figment of his mind, but he couldn’t summon the courage to do so. He strode forward, suddenly desperate to get away and hurrying round a sharp turn at the bottom of the alley found himself emerging into a sun-drenched square.
At the centre stood a huge Stupa, a Buddhist shrine that to Philips’ eye resembled a giant bell. Its base was a large plinth of stone on which sat a huge white dome. From this a tall, stepped tower climbed into the sky, crowned with what looked like a huge, golden umbrella. Long lines of prayer flags ran from this down to the outer walls of the square, themselves embedded with hundreds of copper prayer wheels. The tower had large eyes painted on each side, gazing down over the square which was crowded with Tibetans. There was hardly any space remaining without a flimsy hut or makeshift tent on it. Smoke filtered through the roofs, goats bleated from their tight tethers by doorways, while a crowd of women waited with wooden buckets beside a stone water trough.
Philip found himself surrounded by smiling children, all with hands held out and shouting for his attention. He smiled, shaking his head but to no affect, until a young Tibetan man, his thick woollen coat hanging free from his upper body but still tied around his waist, came over waving a short leather yak whip at them. They scattered, screaming with excitement. He looked at Philip suspiciously, before turning and gesturing Philip to follow. They walked through the hovels, in places the path not wide enough for two people to pass. Finally he ducked under a makeshift door made from a hanging blanket and held it up for Philip to follow.
His first impression was of how tidy it was. Despite being little more than fabric and skins on a wooden frame tied together with flax, it felt homely and warm. Wooden stools sat around a small hearth made of nothing more than three flat stones. Philip coughed as smoke caught in his throat and eyes, but when the man pointed to one of the stools and they sat, the air got cleaner and less of an irritant.
“Thank you for rescuing me from the children,” Philip said slowly, not sure