Three’s a Crowd

By Robert Walton

Copyright © 1999

Scene: Dusk, a small tent on the North Ridge of Everest, well above the North Col. High winds are battering the tent as the temperature drops. Two climbers are within the tent.

Mortimer: Blast! (He smacks a small radio with his hand.)

Sylvia: Won’t it work?

Mortimer (Ignoring her query): We’ll have to go down tomorrow.

Sylvia: Will we?

Mortimer (glaring at her): That’s a damn-fool question. Of course, we will.

Sylvia: Who put you in charge?

Mortimer (ignoring her once again, staring at the useless radio): Why do these things always fail when you need them?

(Wind flails at the tent and a noise of rocks shifting, clicking together, sounds beneath the snapping of nylon.)

Sylvia: Listen!

Mortimer (still ignoring her): We paid good money for these radios.

Sylvia: Listen, Mort! I think there’s someone out there!

Mortimer (looking up): Don’t be silly. Everyone else is down at Advanced Base.

(something scratches the tent’s vestibule -- once, twice, three times.)

Sylvia (Sylvia’s eyes lock with Mortimer’s. Then she turns to the tent’s entrance.): Come in.

(The tent’s zipper slides down. A broad-shouldered figure in a fur parka, face averted, pushes into the tent. The figure clumsily pulls its legs through the tent opening and at last raises its head. Sylvia and Mortimer gasp and recoil in shocked surprise. The eyes which meet theirs are luminous, intelligent. The face these eyes brighten, however, is not human. The forehead is high and wide. The nose is flattened. The jaw is heavy and low. Yellow fangs protrude from between black lips. The fur parka is actually a thick mat of reddish fur. The figure speaks.)

Yeti: Be assured, I mean you no harm. I know my appearance here must be quite a shock to you, but deteriorating conditions (he raises his eyes to the increasing moan of the wind) forced me to intrude. Please excuse me.

Mortimer: You’re . . . it.

Yeti: Excuse me? It?

Sylvia: The abominable snowman, the Yeti . . . It.

Yeti (chuckling): I suppose I am. It, that is.

Mortimer: You speak English?

Yeti: Why not? My people are students of all languages and we have had seventy-five years to learn English. It’s a rich and useful tongue, by the by.

Mortimer (glancing at the Yeti’s conspicuous fangs and long black claws): Ah, you said you mean us no harm. There have been problems in the past, attacks.

Yeti: Our exiles -- the rare rogue in our midst, either criminal or untreatably insane -- have committed transgressions after suffering banishment from our society. They wander the world and eventually find a lonely end. Regrettably, they have on occasion vented their pain and anger upon humans.

Sylvia Shipton’s find -- the footprints weren’t a joke!

Yeti (chuckling again): Ah, Eric, Eric, he was a trickster. That photo was a jibe, but at us, not you. Eric was a longtime friend of my people. What wonderful conversations we had! That photo caused initial consternation amongst some of our elders, as he knew and intended it would, but he understood that nothing conceals truth better than the fog of controversy. That photo has afforded us great protection over the years.

Sylvia: You keep mentioning your society. Are there many of you?

Yeti: Never many, possibly enough.

Mortimer: Where do you live?

Yeti: We have hidden outposts, residences. And we have a city.

Sylvia: Where?

Yeti: Within an unnamed mountain a short distance from here.

Mortimer: A city? A city of mythical hairy beasts in a cave? Bosh!

Sylvia: Don’t be rude, Mort.

Yeti: Our city is not so great as Lhasa, but it is more than a village.

Mortimer (incredulous and sarcastic): What about heat, light? What about food?

Yeti (mildly): Mine is an ancient race. Your race is young, very young. There are many secrets of which you are unaware, though hints are all about you.

Mortimer: What are you talking about?

Yeti: Our world had ancient visitors. We knew them and served them. They left us certain gifts when they departed. Among those was a source of power which is virtually eternal. Our fuel is snow.

Mortimer (interrupting): Snow! Bah!

Yeti (continuing): While the secret of this power is not completely beyond our understanding, replication of its generating device is. This has imposed limitations on both the size and scope of our community. We are, of needs, reflective and conservative. Music is greatly loved, as is literature.

Sylvia: What of your children?

Yeti: My race is long-lived, but there are too few children. Children are greatly revered by us. Each birth is cause for a holiday. And I I fear we are over-protective and indulge our young overmuch.

Sylvia: Isn’t life in these mountains harsh?

Yeti: Not at all. We have had long years to perfect our city. There are minor problems now and then, but our lives are mostly comfortable and we have much leisure time.

Sylvia: Your city sounds like Shan-gri-la.

Yeti (smiling): Shan-gri-la, if you will. That particular flight of fantasy was greatly enjoyed by my people.

Mortimer: You still haven’t said a thing about what you eat. Snow?

Yeti (patiently): Hardly. With unlimited power, intensive agriculture beneath artificial light is not too great a stretch for us. It requires minimal labor to feed both my people and our guests.

Mortimer: Guests?

Yeti (dissembling): We have a small community of humans in our city.

Mortimer: Are they guests, or prisoners?

Yeti: Guests.

Sylvia (speaking as if thinking aloud): You said that your people have used English for seventy-five years, since 1924. (she looks up, stares straight into the Yeti’s glowing eyes.) Mallory and Irvine!

Yeti (nodding): Unfortunately, we were too late to help poor Mallory. His body lies where it came to rest after his final fall. Sandy, however, lives with us still.

Mortimer: Lives with you? That would make him ninety-six years old!

Yeti: Nearly ninety-seven, I believe, and in fine health. His injuries were most grave. It took him some years to fully recover. He lost hands and feet to frostbite. Regenerating limbs is one of our accomplishments. Yet, even for us, it is a year long and grueling process.

Mortimer: You say you re-grew his hands and feet?

Yeti: Yes, he’s quite whole now. And much beloved. His courage and endurance inspired our admiration and, I admit, puzzled us greatly. You climbers, all of you, are a great mystery to us. Why must you expose yourselves to pain, cold and misery? Why must you seek the highest heights? We understand and join in your reverence for mountain beauty. Mountains are more important than you can possibly imagine. Your yearning for them indicates the approaching maturity of your race. However, any pass or alp will afford one a tremendous entrance to mountain beauty. One must hold still; one must meditate upon such scenes for months or years before comprehension comes. Each of us spends years engaged in such communion.

Mortimer: You spend years looking at the mountains?

Yeti: Indeed. I mentioned our outposts. Each is designed as a site where solitary meditation and enlightenment may be pursued without interruption. There are hundreds of such outposts. You passed several on your march to Chomolungma.

Sylvia (thoughtfully): There are some fools who believe they’ve proved something about themselves, conquered something when they reach a summit. Many climbers, perhaps most, climb for the joy of it. The act of climbing joins one to a far greater reality for at least a few hours or few days.

Yeti: Yes, you put that very succinctly. I begin to see that there may be something to climbing after all. Still, the unmitigated danger . . . the appalling risks . . .

Sylvia: Your people travel the heights. Shipton’s photos, remember? Are there not dangers?

Yeti: We do travel through high places. Such travel is sometimes hazardous. (The Yeti smiles, extends his claws, indicates his fur-covered torso.) We, however, are better equipped than you humans. Also, we do not seek out the farthest peaks, the greatest difficulties.

Mortimer: Then why are you here?

Yeti (glancing at him): A fair question. (a gust of wind nearly flattens the tent. The Yeti’s eyes widen.) Your race is achieving a masterful knowledge of the world’s weather which far exceeds our small expertise. Our climatic knowledge is localized and pecialized; however, it is precise. Conditions are deteriorating here. The winds will increase. There will be a days-long storm which will commence within twelve hours. You two will be pinned here and killed, unless you move down at dawn. Perhaps even then will be too late. I have come to offer you a safer means of escape.

Sylvia: There is another way down from here?

Yeti: There is. An ancient and secret passage penetrates much of this mountain. It connects several of our outposts. An adit, the highest one of all, allows access to this passage. It is several hundred yards below here.

Sylvia (interrupting): Are there many such passages?

Yeti (smiling, eyes twinkling): Yes, many. How do you suppose the Abominable Snowman has remained so elusive over the years?

Mortimer: You want us to go down some secret passage with you?

Yeti: That and more. I wish to invite you to be guests at our city. We have room and need for more human visitors. Do you care to visit Shan-gri-la?

Sylvia: Visit? Or remain forever?

Yeti (Looking directly into her eyes): Visit, just visit. For as long as you choose to remain.

Mortimer: That’s rich! You want us to toddle off to your mythical city down an undiscovered secret passage! On Everest! Not on your bloody life!

Yeti: There’s no need to decide now. We must remain in your tent until dawn. I cannot find the adit in the dark.

Mortimer: You’ll find it by yourself when you do. We’ll take our chances with the storm and the ridge.

Yeti: I ask only that you consider my offer. Also, adapted as I am, I cannot survive this night in the open. This wind and cold is too much for me. I must impose upon your hospitality.

Sylvia (smiling): You are welcome.

Yeti: I thank you. And I suggest that we huddle together, share our warmth, sleep if we can. The temperature is dropping quickly now.

(Suiting action to words, the three arrange themselves as comfortably as possible. Sylvia is in the middle. Mortimer and the Yeti are on opposite sides. The wind’s howl and the explosive working of the tent preclude further conversation. Hours pass, cold, restless hours. The wind dies down before dawn and they manage to sleep.)

Mortimer (Groggy, waking to the eerie silence of the wind, he speaks.): Sylvia, time to get going. No telling how long this lull will last. (He raises up, peers through the early dawn gloom.) Sylvia, are you awake?

(The sleeping bag next to him is empty. He glances about in puzzlement. He is alone in the tent. In growing alarm, he shouts.) Sylvia? Sylvia?

(The only answer is the silence of the wind.)

END

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