Читать книгу The Breath of God - Jeffrey Small - Страница 9

CHAPTER 1

PUNAKHA VALLEY, BHUTAN

“THE NEXT ONE WILL BE the most dangerous.”

Most dangerous? Grant Matthews spat out the remnants of the Himalayan river water he’d just inhaled on the last rapid, a Class IV.

“You good?” Dasho, his Bhutanese guide, called to him in accented English.

“Just need to catch my breath.”

The current slowed as the Mo Chhu, the Mother River, widened. Grant balanced his paddle on top of the neoprene spray skirt that kept the icy water from entering his kayak and shook out his arms. He needed to stretch his legs too; the yellow boat barely accommodated his six-foot-two frame.

Dasho approached him with powerful strokes. “Monsoon season just passed. Chhu very fast now.”

Grant pushed his helmet back, brushed his wet hair out of his eyes, and studied the guide’s tanned face, his wide cheekbones. “So, how does a Buddhist monk become a river guide?”

When he arranged his trip to Bhutan, he’d asked his travel agent to find a tour guide familiar with the country’s many monasteries. Grant hoped to find what he’d been searching for hidden in one of them. When the agent told him that Dasho, a former monk, led tours and kayaking expeditions, he knew he’d found a kindred soul.

“Father died two years ago,” Dasho replied. “I was only son with three sisters and a mother. Left the monastery to provide for them.”

So he lost his father around the same age I did, Grant thought, estimating Dasho to be in his early twenties. He then quickly shrugged off the memory of his sophomore year in college: his once invincible father—the great reverend—and his scandalous death. He lifted the paddle off his lap and swept it through the water.

“I’m sorry.”

“No sorry.” Dasho smiled. “I could be farmer.” He pointed with his paddle across the river.

The valley rose gently from the riverbank in tiered fields planted with wheat, peppers, and beans. A lone sun-wrinkled farmer worked the plants with a wooden hoe. On a hill beyond the fields, a strand of Buddhist prayer flags fluttered on forty-foot-high poles. The snowcapped peaks of the Himalayas framed the picture in the distance.

“So you traveled through India before coming to the Land of Thunder Dragon?” Dasho asked, alluding to Druk Yul, the name the Bhutanese used for the tiny Buddhist kingdom nestled in the Himalayas between India and Tibet.

Grant nodded. “Research for my PhD.”

As soon as the words left his mouth, a rush of anxiety flooded his body. My unfinished dissertation, he thought. The members of his dissertation committee at Emory University in Atlanta, even his mentor Professor Billingsly, were skeptical when he’d first outlined his research plans five years ago. The story he proposed to track down was only a legend, they’d said, but Grant was determined to unravel the ancient mystery.

He’d just spent a week in the cold, barren moonscape of the northern Indian Himalayas near Kashmir. Several monks at the Himis monastery in Ladakh had become suspicious of his inquiries there. A hundred years earlier, similar questions had brought unwanted attention from the West to their isolated monastery with devastating consequences for the questioner. Grant planned to handle Bhutan differently.

He grinned at Dasho. “I much prefer your milder weather and lush landscapes.”

“We measure progress by gross national happiness instead of gross national product.” Dasho beamed. “And you tackle toughest river?”

“I like the challenge. Learned in college on some big water.”

“You Americans enjoy pushing everything to extreme.” Dasho chuckled.

“Ah, that’s the secret to our progress.”

Progress, he thought with a hollowness in his gut. He wasn’t making much, and he was running out of time. Bhutan had hundreds of Buddhist monasteries, and he could only afford two weeks in the country. The tenuous lead he’d received at Himis from the one monk he’d befriended didn’t specify which monastery in Bhutan might hold the treasure.

“What you are searching for was moved long ago,” the elderly monk had whispered.

“Where?” Grant had asked, glancing down the cloistered hallway to make sure no one approached.

The monk had shrugged. “Certainly to another Buddhist monastery. Probably Bhutan.”

In the two days he’d been in Bhutan, Grant had already visited three major monasteries, one in Paro, the city he’d flown into, and two in Thimpu, the country’s capital. In each he’d approached several monks, but not a flicker of recognition had passed over their faces when he hinted at what he was looking for. Grant shook his head. This kayaking trip was an indulgence he couldn’t afford, even if he’d worked the past month without a day off.

He should have finished his dissertation last year. The extension he’d received on his scholarship would run out in the spring, and he was tapped out. From the moment he’d graduated from high school, he’d been on his own financially. His father had rejected his choice of college and his academic interests. He’d worked to pay his way through undergrad at the University of Virginia and now grad school at Emory with a combination of teaching assistant jobs and late nights waiting tables.

Grant pulled his paddle through the jade water. Sweat began to drip inside his black wet suit. What if I can’t find it? The fear nagged at him, but he wouldn’t give in to doubt. He couldn’t let the skeptics in his department at Emory prove him wrong.

He increased the pace of his paddling. The water was getting more tumultuous, and his body responded naturally. His mind, however, was still immersed in his strategy for tracking down the truth. He stroked the paddle with his whole body, his blood surging through his veins as if powered by the energy of his resolve to return to the search. Tomorrow he would visit the monastery in Punakha, a few miles downriver from where he paddled. Of the monasteries he’d targeted, Punakha’s was the largest, but he willed himself not to get his hopes up.

“Whoa,” Dasho called from behind. “Who you racing?”

Grant paused to let his guide catch him. Soon the river picked up speed as the crop fields on each side transitioned into progressively steeper banks. Ten minutes later, the two kayakers were encased inside a gray granite canyon, bumping over the small rapids that occurred with increasing frequency. Only a few trees managed to grow from the sides of the craggy cliffs, their exposed roots clinging to the walls like a rock climber’s fingers searching for holds.

Just ahead, Grant saw that the river narrowed again and then dropped out of sight beyond a grouping of boulders. “Follow me, my friend,” Dasho said, paddling into an eddy near the right cliff wall. The guide raised his voice over the noise of the falling water ahead of them. “Meet Laughing Buddha.”

Grant pointed to the large boulder in the center of the river. “The Buddha’s head?” He enjoyed the creative names paddlers used to describe the rapids, falls, and various obstacles in their rivers, like kids finding animals in the shapes of the clouds.

“The water flows on sides of rock are Buddha’s upheld arms, and fourmeter fall beyond that is Buddha’s body.” Dasho added with a grin, “And if you hit wrong way, he will laugh as you flip.”

“Four meters?”

“Class five. Lots of water this week. Don’t take many tourists to Laughing Buddha.”

Grant felt a twinge of regret for letting his ego rather than his brain fill out the questionnaire about his kayaking experience. Most of his kayaking had actually been on Class III rapids with the occasional IV thrown in for terrifying effect. Now he faced descending the most difficult navigable rapid; the next highest classification, a VI, was considered too dangerous to run.

He examined the cliff walls at the river’s edges—too steep to pull the boats out and walk around. “How do we approach it?”

“See right fork? We take that. At top of fall, paddle hard as you can, and lean back. If you go vertical too soon, you capsize.” Dasho made a flipping gesture with his hands and winked. “No problem for you. Just follow me.”

Dasho spun his kayak, facing the rapid. He yelled over the roar of the falling water, “One more thing: careful when you land. A boulder under high water makes large hole; don’t get caught inside.”

Grant paddled two quick strokes next to his guide. For the first time, he could see over the rapid. The smooth sheets of water at the top of the fall churned into a foamy meringue as they spat over the edge of the rocks and then tumbled into a turbulent frenzy at the bottom. Grant wasn’t sure what made him more nervous: the twelve-foot fall ahead of him or the swirling whirlpool where the water pounded into the river below.

He’d seen a number of hydraulics over the years, but this one was by far the largest. When water cascaded over a large rapid, it would occasionally strike submerged rocks at the bottom that caused the current to recirculate on itself, creating a whirlpool or a hydraulic, as paddlers called them. Rafters and kayakers stuck in hydraulics often had to be pulled out. Both he and Dasho carried throw bags with thirty feet of rope each. He hoped they wouldn’t need them.

“I watch for you at bottom,” Dasho said. Taking long smooth strokes equally on both sides, he guided his kayak through the water straight for the right fork.

Grant caught his young guide’s mistake as soon as he made it. Dasho glanced over his shoulder just before reaching the top of the fall to yell his final words of encouragement, “Don’t forget to have fun!”

A slight error, really, but as Grant had learned, any misstep under dangerous conditions had a way of compounding itself, like an avalanche picking up power as it gathered snow on its slide down the mountain. The slight twist in Dasho’s body caused his kayak to drift off center, just a few inches to the left. The powerful current then exacerbated the problem, pushing him further off his line. Dasho was quick to recover, digging in on the left side of his kayak, paddling ferociously. The bow of his boat swung to the right just as he crested the fall.

He’d overcorrected and his maneuver to straighten his kayak cost him much of his forward momentum.

Grant held his breath, watching from the upper pool. Dasho hit the churning water below nose-first at a steep angle. Grant flinched as the kayak flipped. His guide’s body twisted unnaturally when it slapped the water. A queasy feeling spread through Grant’s stomach.

“Roll, Dasho. Damn it, roll!” he shouted, but he knew his voice couldn’t be heard over the thundering water.

The pale underside of the blue kayak spun in the whirlpool as water pummeled it from the fall above. Dasho should have either rolled or exited the kayak by now, but Grant saw no sign of him. His guide was either trapped or unconscious. In either case, he needed help.

Grant knew he had to descend the rapid quickly. A checklist of his options flashed through his mind. Landing on top of the other kayak would create a whole new set of problems. A glance to shore confirmed his earlier assessment—no way to go around. His only choice: time his fall just right.

With a firm, two-handed grip, Grant lifted his paddle in the air and let his boat drift forward slowly. Another few seconds, he guessed, watching the boat below. His heart pounded as if he’d been paddling hard, although he had yet to move. Just a second more. His breathing quickened.

Now.

The moment Dasho’s kayak spun to the left, Grant sank his paddle deep into the water. His arms and back burned with his effort. He hit the rapid dead-on. The roar of the water and his own pulse drummed in his ears. Pressing his feet into the kayak’s plastic footrests, he leaned his long torso into his last strokes. The drop came so quickly, he didn’t even register it until he felt the splash of his impact.

Grant squinted through the cold Himalayan spray.

There!

Dasho’s boat bobbed upside down only a few feet away. Four quick strokes and he bumped against it. The turbulent current now rocked his own kayak; he was caught in the same hydraulic that trapped his guide. Grant fought back the chill of fear that crept up his spine. If they were both to live, he had to focus on the task ahead. He formed his plan. First, he would right Dasho, and then he would worry about getting them out of the swirling hole.

Gripping his paddle in his right hand, Grant grabbed for Dasho’s kayak with his left. His fingers slipped on the wet hull. He tried a second and then a third time with the same result. He needed a new plan. Leaning as far to the side as he dared, he searched the frigid water for any hold on the boat’s underside. He took rapid, shallow breaths to avoid sucking in the water that splashed around him.

He felt the lip of the kayak’s opening. The spray skirt was attached, which meant that Dasho was still inside. He clenched his numb fingers around the narrow lip. Bracing his legs against the walls of his own kayak, Grant jerked his left arm upward while he torqued his body to the right.

Dasho’s kayak started to roll. A rush of triumph surged through Grant.

Then a gush of current from the hydraulic hit Grant’s kayak on the rear quarter, twisting him unexpectedly. He struggled to compensate for the jarring movement while maintaining his balance and his grip, but the water overpowered him. His hand was ripped from the other boat.

He flipped.

Upside-down and spinning underwater, Grant opened his eyes. He couldn’t see through the turbulent green. His lungs ached. And, he realized, he no longer held on to his paddle. The urge to panic threatened to consume him faster than the frigid water enveloping him.

His only hope was to follow his training. As he’d practiced many times, Grant tilted his ear to his right shoulder, bent his torso to the same side, and then swiveled his hips forcefully. Nothing. He attempted his roll again, but the current was too strong.

His vision darkened. Grant knew he only had seconds before he blacked out. He recalled his final option—a wet exit. Reaching both hands to the top of his kayak, he grasped the neoprene loop where his spray skirt attached to the kayak’s opening and pulled toward his chest. It released. He gripped the sides of the opening and pushed himself out of boat. The moment he was clear, his PFD, the personal flotation device, shot him to the surface.

Air.

He gasped deeply, then choked on the spray permeating the air around him. A second later, he caught a clean breath. He was going to be okay.

After a few more cautious breaths, Grant’s head cleared. Dasho. His guide’s kayak still bobbed upside down a few feet away. Grant kicked hard, swimming toward the other boat. Just as he reached his goal, the whirlpool sucked him under.

Instinctively he grabbed his knees, tucked his chin, and curled into a ball. Grant remembered that somewhere underneath the cold water, large rocks created the hydraulic, and colliding into them would worsen his situation. He had no choice but to have faith in his PFD and the circulating current to regurgitate him back up. A few seconds later, he shot to the surface again. Breathing carefully but deeply, he surveyed the standing waves around him. Dasho’s boat had spun farther away to the other side of the waterfall, and his own kayak was nowhere to be seen.

With a tightness in his chest, Grant realized that he could never swim against the current and reach Dasho. His arms were losing sensation, and his legs were slowing. Adrenaline would keep him going for another minute, but then hypothermia would win. Grant realized that to save himself from drowning, he had to get out of the hydraulic. He’d have to find a way to reach Dasho from the other side.

To escape the whirlpool on his own, he would have to execute a technique he’d only read about: the elevator maneuver. He recalled that the hydraulic’s current was strongest on the surface; even the best swimmer was no match for its power. Underwater, however, once the initial undertow subsided, an opportunity existed to push through the whirlpool. The key to the maneuver lay in allowing the whirlpool to suck him under, like pressing the down button on an express elevator, and then at the deepest and weakest spot, to swim out of the water column. If successful, he would pop out ten or fifteen meters downstream.

Moments later the whirlpool jerked him under again. Rather than resisting, Grant curled into a fetal position as he shot downward. This time he felt no fear, his mind strangely clear but for the immediate task before him. The moment he felt his momentum slow, Grant kicked as hard as his numb legs would allow while pulling with his arms. He made progress, but tired quickly. Then, his foot struck something solid—the underwater boulder causing the hydraulic.

A thought occurred. Why not use the rock to push myself out?

It was the wrong idea.

Planting his right foot on the rock for leverage, he pushed with the last of his energy, but instead of launching himself downriver, his foot slipped on the polished surface of the rock and wedged itself deep between the boulder and another rock beside it. Grant didn’t have time to register what he’d done. A rush of current twisted his body. He couldn’t possibly hear the cracking of his shin over the muffled roar of the water in his ears, but he experienced the splitting of his lower leg as a white light that flashed through him, as if he’d been struck by lightning.

Grant realized he was going to drown.

A cold blackness closed in around him. After the initial flash of agony, he no longer felt the pain in his leg, nor did he experience the burning in his lungs. Even the roar of the water faded into the darkness. Grant’s body went limp. Enveloped in a cool cocoon, he slipped into peaceful dream. He dreamed of flowing like the river, as if he and the water had become part of the same substance.