Sacred Mountain by Robert Ferguson

pulled himself to his feet. “Let’s go,” he announced with more enthusiasm than he felt. “If I stay sitting any longer you’ll never get me standing again.”
Mingma smiled and turned, leading him through the small village. There was only one street; a muddy track lined on either side by small squat houses made of thick, grey stone. Elaborately carved doors and shutters were open, allowing smoke from the cooking fires to escape. Young children stood in the doorways watching them pass, hiding their filthy faces behind the door jambs. Cockerels strutted around, scratching at the mud in search of scraps of food and a skeletal looking dog slunk off down an alley when he saw the young Sherpa approaching. Almost as soon as they’d left the village the trail started to climb, slowly at first as it crossed gently sloping fields. When these were left behind it quickly rose above the river, switching back on itself in a series of hairpins. It was hard going and Philip had to stop frequently to catch his breath. It wasn’t just the climb making him breathless but also the altitude. They were heading north, into the High Himalaya and were quickly gaining height. The thin air left him panting after walking only a few hundred yards. Philip noticed enviously that Mingma hadn’t even broken a sweat, but waited for him patiently at every turn.
“Why don’t you go on ahead,” Philip said irritably as he recovered from a particularly steep climb. “It’s a good path so I can’t get lost. You can get things organised for our stay tonight in Namche.”
Mingma reluctantly agreed, torn between the logic of doing so and the possibility of losing Philip. “Keep on the main trail,” he instructed. “I will send back my youngest brother to meet you and bring you to our house.” With that he was gone, disappearing at what appeared to Philip to be a jog.
Philip looked out over the valley. The river he’d been relaxing beside only a few hours before was now no more than a winding ribbon of churning white far below. Its rushing waters created a distant roar that bounced off the valley walls to give a feeling of vastness.
He started off up the trail again, walking at a slower speed than the one he’d felt obliged to keep up with the young Sherpa. In this steady rhythm he felt better, mechanically pacing forward and finding less need to stop. His mind was able to wander away from his aching legs and think about what James Morris would be doing. It must have been much harder to do this trek with fit mountaineers snapping at your heels. He also thought about Izzard and what he was going to say when they met. If the truth be known he was rather looking forward to it. After two weeks out it would be good to chat with someone from his own world, even if that person was, in theory, a rival.
The climb seemed to go on and on, but at least the trail was well graded and much of the climb was in shade. After a couple of hours, during which time he’d only had to stop twice for a drink, he saw a small boy of about eight skipping towards him down the trail. The boy stopped and greeted him solemnly, two large, apprehensive eyes peeping out from beneath a mop of unkempt hair.
Philip tried to smile and waved a tired hand towards the boy, who immediately turned and fled back up the trail, stopping whenever he reached a corner, but always keeping as far ahead as possible. The light was going. The sun has set behind the jagged skyline of the western valley several minutes before and the light of dusk now silhouetted the ridge in a warm orange glow. Looking up he could still see the evening sun playing on the summits of the peaks on the opposite side, but it was getting increasingly hard to see where to put his feet on the broken trail.
The boy had sped off and disappeared into the gloom, but when Philip finally reached the place he’d last seen him and turned the corner he was met by the sight of lamp and firelight. A small town of maybe eighty houses