The enormous woods had originally been the royal hunting estate, but it had been several centuries since anyone had devoted himself to that cruel sport. The huge park had been turned into a nature preserve where the rarest species of plants and animals in the Forbidden Kingdom flourished, and tigresses went there in the spring to drop their cubs. The unique climate of that country, which, according to season, ranged from the temperate humidity of the tropics to the winter cold of high mountain regions, encouraged the growth of extraordinary flora and fauna, a true ecological paradise. The beauty of the surroundings, with its thousand-year-old trees, crystal-clear streams, orchids, rhododendrons, and brightly colored birds, had absolutely no effect on Tex Armadillo or on the bandits. The one thing that mattered to them was not to run into any tigers and to get out of there as quickly as possible.
The American untied Judit Kinski.
“What are you doing?” yelled the head bandit threateningly.
Without a word, the woman rubbed her wrists and ankles where the rope had rubbed raw red marks. Her eyes were studying the place, following every movement of her kidnappers, and always returning to Armadillo, who studiously avoided meeting her eyes, as if he couldn’t take the force of her gaze. Without asking permission, Judit walked to where the king lay and delicately, taking care not to strip the skin from his lips, removed the adhesive gag. She bent over him and listened to his chest.
“The effect of the injection will wear off soon,” Armadillo commented.
“Don’t give him any more, his heart could stop,” she said in a tone that seemed more like a command than a plea, fixing her chestnut-colored eyes on Armadillo.
“It won’t be necessary. We just have to get him on a horse,” he replied, turning his back to her.
As the first rays of the sun filtered through the trees, the light turned as golden as honey, waking the monkeys and birds that erupted in a noisy chorus. The night dew evaporated from the ground, wrapping the landscape in a yellow fog that blurred the outlines of the gigantic trees. A pair of pandas rocked lazily in the branches above their heads. The sun was completely up by the time all the band of the scorpion sect had gathered. With the full light, Armadillo shot a number of Polaroid photos of the statue, then gave the order to wrap it in the tarp they had used in the truck and tie it up with rope.
Now they would have to abandon the vehicle and continue up the mountain on horseback, following overgrown trails that no one had used since the earthquake had changed the local topography, and Chenthan Dzong, as well as other monasteries in that region, had been abandoned. The Blue Warriors, who spent their lives on horseback and were comfortable in every kind of terrain, would have the least difficulty getting there. They knew mountains well, and they also knew that once they collected their reward in money and weapons they could reach the northern border with India in three or four days. As for Armadillo, he had the helicopter, which was to pick him up at the monastery with his prize.
The king had regained consciousness, but was still under the effect of the drug; he was confused and dizzy, with no idea of what had happened. Judit helped him sit up, and explained that they had been kidnapped and that the bandits had stolen the Golden Dragon. She took a small flask from her purse, which, miraculously, she hadn’t lost in the confusion, and gave him a sip of whisky. The liquor brought him to his senses, and he was able to get to his feet.
“What does this mean?” the king exclaimed in a tone of authority that no one had heard before.
When he saw that they were loading the statue onto a metal, wheeled platform to be pulled by horses, he realized the magnitude of the disaster.
“This is a sacrilege. The Golden Dragon is the symbol of our country. There is a very ancient curse that will fall upon the person who profanes the statue,” the king warned them.
The leader of the bandits raised a fist to quiet the king, but the American pushed him away.
“Shut up and obey, if you don’t want more problems,” Armadillo ordered.
“Release Miss Kinski,” the king replied firmly. “She’s a foreigner, she doesn’t play any part in this matter.”
“You heard me, shut up or she’ll pay the consequences, do you understand?” Armadillo warned him.
Judit took the king’s arm and whispered please to be calm, there was nothing they could do for the moment and it would be better to wait for their chance to act.
“Come on, let’s not waste any more time,” the spokesman for the bandits said.
“The king isn’t up to riding yet,” Judit said when she saw him stagger like a drunk.
“He will ride with one of my men until he can look after himself,” the American decided.
Armadillo drove the truck into a hollow, where it was half-hidden, then covered it with branches. As soon as that was done, they began their trek, single file, up the mountain. The day was clear, but the peaks of the Himalayas were lost in patches of clouds. They would have to climb continually, passing through a region lush with bananas, rhododendrons, magnolias, hibiscuses, and many other semitropical species. Higher up, the landscape changed abruptly; the forest disappeared and they would encounter dangerous precipices and often be blocked by huge boulders that had rolled from the peaks, or waterfalls that turned the ground into a slippery mud pit. The ascent was risky, but the American had confidence in the skill of the Blue Warriors and the great strength of their mounts. Once they were in the mountains, no one could catch up with them, because no one would have any idea where to look for them and, in any case, they would be too far ahead of everyone else.
• • •
Armadillo did not suspect that while he was stealing the statue in the palace, the bandits’ cave had been dismantled, and its occupants, hungry and thirsty, bound two by two, lay terrified that a tiger would catch their scent and finish them off for dinner. The prisoners were lucky, because before the big cats—so plentiful in this region—found them, a dispatch of royal soldiers had arrived, sent by the general after Pema had told him the location of the camp.
Pema and her exhausted companions had come upon a rural road where finally they met a farmer who was taking his produce to market in a horse-drawn cart. First, because of their close-cropped heads, he had thought the girls were nuns, but then he noticed that all of them except one were dressed for a festival. The man had no access to newspapers or television, but, like everyone in the country, he had heard over the radio that six young people had been kidnapped. He hadn’t seen their photographs, and had no way of recognizing them, but one look was enough for him to realize that these girls were in trouble. Pema had planted herself with outstretched arms in the middle of the road, forcing him to stop, and in a few words had summed up their situation.
“The king is in danger; I must get help immediately,” she concluded.
The farmer turned around and, urging his horse to a fast trot, took them to the small village he’d just left. There they found a telephone, and while Pema tried to communicate with the authorities, the women of the village began tending to her companions. The girls, who had shown great courage during those terrible days, broke down and cried when they knew they were safe, begging to be taken to their families as soon as possible. Pema was not thinking about her family, however; her concern was for Dil Bahadur and the king.
General Myar Kunglung took the call as soon as he was notified of what had happened, and spoke directly with Pema. She repeated what she knew but refrained from mentioning the Golden Dragon: first, because she wasn’t sure the bandits had actually stolen it, and second, because she knew instinctively that if that were the case it would be better if no one knew. The statue represented the soul of the nation. She did not want to spread what might be a false alarm, she decided.
Myar Kunglung sent instructions to the nearest guard post to pick up the girls from the village and bring them to the capital. With Wandgi and Kate Cold by his side, he himself met them halfway. When Pema saw her father, she leaped from the Jeep and ran to hug him. The p
oor man was sobbing like a baby.
“What did they do to you?” cried Wandgi, looking Pema over from head to toe.
“Nothing, Papa, nothing happened, I promise. But that isn’t important now, we must rescue the king, who is in danger of his life.”
“That is something for the army, not you. You will come home with me!”
“I can’t, Papa. It is my duty to go to Chenthan Dzong!”
“And why is that?”
“Because I promised Dil Bahadur,” she replied, blushing.
Myar Kunglung studied the girl with his eagle-sharp eyes and he must have seen something in the color of her cheeks and the tremor of her lips, because he bowed deeply before the guide, hands before his face.
“Perhaps honorable Wandgi will allow his courageous daughter to accompany this humble general?” he asked. “She will have good guard by my soldiers.”
The guide realized that despite the bow and humble tone, the general would not accept no for an answer. He would have to allow Pema to go with him, and pray to heaven that she would return safe and sound.
The good news that the girls had escaped the grasp of their kidnappers flew through the country. In the Forbidden Kingdom, word spread from mouth to mouth so quickly that when four of the girls, their bare heads covered with silk scarves, appeared on television to tell of their experience, everyone already knew about it. People ran outside to celebrate. They took branches of magnolias to the girls’ families and gathered in temples to make offerings of thanks. Prayer wheels and banners carried their elation to the skies.
The one person who had nothing to celebrate was Kate Cold, who was on the verge of a nervous collapse because Nadia and Alexander had not as yet been accounted for. She was still trailing Myar Kunglung. On horseback, Pema and she were on their way toward Chenthan Dzong at the head of a detachment of soldiers, following a road that snaked up toward the heights. When Pema told them what she had heard about the Golden Dragon from the mouths of the bandits, the general had confirmed her suspicions.
“One man guard at Forbidden Door lived past his wounds; he saw bandits take away honorable, beloved king and dragon. Must be secret, Pema. You were good, did well, not to say on telephone. Statue is valued at fortune. All know that, but who can tell me why the king was took?” he said.
“Master Tensing, his disciple, and two young foreigners were going straight to the monastery,” Pema informed the general. “They started many hours ahead of us. Possibly they will get there before we do.”
“That may not have been the wisest thing to do, Pema. Oh, my. If something happens with our prince Dil Bahadur, who will move up to throne?” the general sighed.
“Prince? What prince?” Pema interrupted.
“Dil Bahadur is heir to the throne, that you did not know, girl?”
“No one told me that. At any rate, nothing will happen to the prince,” she stated, but she knew immediately that she had been discourteous, and corrected herself. “That is, possibly the karma of the honorable prince will be to rescue our beloved sovereign and emerge unharmed.”
“Perhaps.” The general nodded, preoccupied.
“Can’t you send planes to the monastery?” Kate queried, impatient with this war being waged on horseback, as if they’d regressed several centuries in time.
“Is nowhere to land. Perhaps a helicopter could do it, only expert pilot could do such flying. Where he lands is funnel of air currents,” the general explained.
“Possibly the honorable general agrees with me that at least it must be tried,” begged Pema, with the glint of tears in her eyes.
“We know only one pilot who is good enough, can do job. He lives in Nepal. He is a big hero, he flew a helicopter up Everest mountain to rescue lost climbers.”
“I remember that. The man is famous, we interviewed him for International Geographic,” Kate commented.
“Is possible we can reach him. Maybe in next few hours. Ask him to come here,” said the general.
Myar Kunglung had no way of knowing that that pilot had been hired much earlier by the Specialist, and that this very day he was flying from Nepal to the mountains of the Forbidden Kingdom.
Tensing, Dil Bahadur, Alexander, Nadia with Borobá on her shoulder, and the ten Yeti warriors were approaching the steep cliff topped by the ancient stone ruins of Chenthan Dzong. Excited, growling, the Yetis were pushing and shoving each other and exchanging friendly nips, joyously readying themselves for the thrill of battle. For many years they had waited for an opportunity to really let themselves go, and now the time had come. Tensing had to pause from time to time to calm them.
“Master,” Dil Bahadur whispered to Tensing. “I think that finally I remember where I had heard the Yeti language before: in the four monasteries where I was taught the code for the Golden Dragon.”
“Perhaps my disciple also recalls that in our visit to the Valley of the Yetis I told him that there was an important reason for our being there,” the lama replied in the same tone.
“Something to do with the Yeti language?”
“Possibly . . .”
The view was breathtaking. They were surrounded by incomparable beauty: snowy peaks, enormous rocks, waterfalls, ravines sliced into the mountainside, corridors of ice. Seeing that landscape, Alexander Cold understood why the citizens of the Forbidden Kingdom believed that the highest peak in their land, some twenty-one thousand feet high, was the world of the gods. The young American felt as if he were filled with light and pure air, that something had opened in his mind, that minute by minute he was changing, maturing, growing. He would be very sad to leave this country and return to so-called civilization.
Tensing interrupted Alex’s musings to explain that the dzongs, or fortified monasteries, which existed only in Bhutan and the Kingdom of the Golden Dragon, were a blend of convent for monks and bunker for soldiers. They stood at the confluence of rivers, and in valleys, to protect nearby towns. They were constructed without plans or nails, always following the same design. The royal palace in Tunkhala was originally a dzong, until the needs of government forced it to be enlarged and modernized and turned into a labyrinth of a thousand rooms.
Chenthan was an exception. It rose from a natural terrace so sheer that it was difficult to imagine how the materials were brought there to build it, or how it had withstood winter storms and avalanches for centuries, until it was destroyed by the earthquake. Narrow steps had been cut into the rock, but the monks had so little contact with the rest of the world that it had seldom been used. That path, practically carved from the mountain, was interrupted from time to time by fragile rope and wooden bridges strung across crevasses. The route had not been used since the earthquake, and the bridges were in very poor repair, with the wood rotted and half the rope eaten through, but Tensing and his group could not stop to consider the danger; there were no alternatives. The Yetis crossed them with complete confidence; they had come this way before in their brief excursions outside their valley to look for food. When the party saw a body lying in the depths of a ravine, they knew that Tex Armadillo and his crew had been here before them.
“The bridge isn’t safe, that man fell,” Alexander said, pointing.
“His horse isn’t down there. Maybe he didn’t fall from the bridge, maybe he was pushed,” Dil Bahadur suggested.
“Why would they be killing each other? That doesn’t make sense,” Alexander replied.
“Possibly there was an argument, and maybe that man disobeyed the leader,” Dil Bahadur ventured.
“We don’t have time to find out. We have to get across,” Nadia interrupted.
“If the bandits made it on horseback, and maybe even dragging that heavy Golden Dragon, then we can do it, too,” Dil Bahadur pointed out.
“That may have weakened the bridge even more. Perhaps it would not be unwise to test it before we start,” Tensing determined.
The chasm was not very wide, but neither was it narrow enough to use Tensing’s and the prince’s wood staf
fs. Nadia suggested that they could tie a rope to Borobá and send him to test the bridge, but the monkey was very light, so there was no guarantee that if he crossed others could do it, too. Dil Bahadur scanned the terrain and saw that by luck there was a stout root on the other side. Alexander tied one end of his rope to an arrow and the prince shot it with his usual precision, driving it firmly into the root. Alexander tied the other rope to his waist and, steadied by Tensing, slowly ventured onto the bridge, carefully testing every bit of wood before he put his weight on it.
If the bridge gave way, the first rope would hold him briefly. They didn’t know whether the arrow would hold, but if not, the second rope would keep Alexander from dropping into the void; however, he could still splatter like an insect against the sidewall of the chasm. He hoped that his experience as a climber would help.
Very gingerly, Alexander started across. He had made it halfway when two planks split and he slipped. A scream from Nadia echoed among the peaks. For a minute or two, no one moved, until the swaying of the bridge stopped and Alex regained his balance. Very slowly he pulled out the leg that was hanging through the broken boards, then lay back and, using the first rope, got back on his feet. He was debating whether to go forward or return when he was startled by a strange noise, as if the mountain were snoring. They first suspected one of the tremors so common in that region, but then they saw the stones and snow rumbling down from the peak. Nadia’s scream had triggered a landslide.
Helpless, the friends and the Yetis watched the deadly river of rock hurtle toward Alexander and the delicate bridge. There was nothing he could do, it was impossible to go forward or back.