Departure

Sheer unimaginable loneliness.

It struck at the moorings of his soul, casting him adrift, a ragged open scar that drained him, his being pouring from it onto the open ground, drowning him in grief. His life seeming to spill from him with each breath, pulling hard at him, making it impossible to move or stand. Emotionally and physically exhausted, he sat where The Fates had left him, burning in a high altitude sun seated on the stoop in front of a small dusty, empty, simple hut, the only structure around that he could see. He looked in all directions, seeing dozens of paths that converged on this place, like spokes on a wheel, as if it was a desired destination, crossing the open rubble strewn field all around him. The mud daubed hut had walls unadorned over a base of faded light blue paint with white flowers trimmed along the edge. Several runs of rope and string with swaths of colorful cloth tied dancing like pennants ran from a stick on the top of the hut to end secured fragily beneath rocks some feet away. The stoop on which he sat painfully was a paled red, with more sun bleached mud slathered on top that failed to level it, its sharp texture poking through his thick woolen pants. He was a weary, handsome, chiseled man of some forty-five or fifty years, weather dried and smoky, with wind abused skin, scarred with nooks and crannies, each with its own story, scars that ran long and thick, others runnning tightly together like rows in a field. He sat beneath a brimmed hat tossed askance over a thick wave of close and messily cropped hair, cousin to an unintended beard, unsure of itself bristling across his face. He was struck hard by the intense lonliness of being here, somewhere along the walking road at the base of some unknown valley deep in the mountains, whose glacial tops rose thousands of feet high all around him, caving in on him. He knew no one among the handful of nomads he could see, spoke no languange they knew, and had no idea quite how he had managed to find himself here, let alone how to move on. Again and again he endured the intense ache in his heart, second only to the bodily pain and stench that enveloped him, dragging him down, and down again.

Angered, he pulled off his hat, scratching his head hard with both hands, then rubbing it to waken himself, feeling pain and ache with every motion, then abruptly pulling the hat back down snug before the wind and sun took what was left of his sanity. He recalled that moment only a few months ago in Bombay when this sounded like a dream of a lifetime of adventures! Travel to Tibet and see the Roof of the World, cross it, and live life to its fullest, coming out on the other side! It had started well, all excitement and laughter, parties with beautiful women swooning to hear the imaginary tales of their adventure to come, the departure all jaunty and joyful with expectation. The weeks passed and the shiny came off, no more joy, only anxiety as the middle bogged down when Samuels died of dysentery in Sikkim, and the end falling off when Umbart along with Eddington perished in the collapse of the glacier wall on the approach to this unknown valley. Now he was alone, disappointment and loneliness deeper than he had ever known or thought possible was the only voice he heard. He had fallen himself in the search for their never found bodies, and had struck his head from which he still suffered terrible headaches and periods of nausea and double vision. He was miserable.

He had no idea of the date, how long he had been invalid, who had cared for him before he woke alone in this hut, no idea where he was, how to go about leaving, or in which direction to go. He had lain there, in his own filth, capable of and caring for no more movement than to roll from one side to the other, before he woke today, realizing he was not where he thought he should be, learning quickly that he did not know where he was nor how long he had been there. From where he sat, everything was up, juxtaposed with the notion that really, nothing could be lower. His gaze rose to the windswept and snowy mountain ridges all around him, his burgeoning and cloying deep despair bringing first soft then violent sobs, making his head pound until he vomited nothing. After some moments he caught his breath, wiped the snot from his nose and looked up, feeling eyes upon him. Across the scrabbled path he saw the very short, stout, bent old man with an equally aged and bent donkey that seemed destined to tip over, burdened with a wooden cask on one side balanced by a large heavy wooden trunk on the other. The old man was himself laboring under a heavy sack tied with a thin rope over his shoulder, several layers of colorful woolen cloaks and a pointed woolen hat with a curious tuft on top, pulled over his ears, its ties swinging untethered under his knobbled chin.

The old traveler was watching the younger old man, unmoving, then reached out his hand and beckoned come, once. Without waiting for a response, he renewed his slow journey in the direction Armand felt surely was not the way he had thought to go. Feeling no sense of urgency, he looked around, gathered his few things, lamented his soiled clothes, and stood uncertainly. He looked down the path seeing the old man and his donkey hobbling away and turned to follow. He was dead tired, sick and sore. He realized he could not recall when last he had eaten or drank. None of that bothered him. He continued to be wracked with waves of grief that consumed him, threatening to incapacitate him, making his other worries meaningless. His despair deepened. Was this now hope, direction, and with each step, possibly home? He wanted more than anything for the fears to stop, the loneliness and grief to leave him, and to be home... just home.