The Kingdom

18

LO MONTHANG,

MUSTANG, NEPAL

Twenty hours after Sam and Remi climbed over the cliff top and left the Toyota to the waters of the Kali Gandaki, the pickup truck in whose bed they were riding coasted to a stop at a fork in the dirt road.

The driver, Mukti, a gap-toothed Nepali with a crew cut, called through the back window, “Lo Monthang,” and pointed at the road heading north.

Sam gently shook Remi awake from her curled position against a bag of goat feed and said, “Home sweet home.”

She groaned, pushed aside the coarse cotton, and sat up, yawning. “I was having the weirdest dream,” she said. “Something similar to The Poseidon Adventure, but we were trapped inside a Toyota Land Cruiser.”

“Truth is stranger than fiction.”

“Are we there?”

“More or less.”

Sam and Remi thanked the driver, climbed out, and watched as the truck turned onto the south fork and disappeared around the bend. “Too bad about the language barrier,” Remi said.

With only a smattering of Nepali words and phrases between them, neither Sam nor Remi had been able to tell their driver that he had possibly saved their lives. For all he knew, he’d simply picked up a pair of wayward foreigners who’d somehow lost their tour group. His indulgent smile suggested this was not a rare event in these parts.

Now, exhausted but thankfully warm and dry, they stood on the outskirts of their destination.

Surrounded by a tall wall of patchwork rock, brick, and mud-thatch mortar, the ancient capital of the once-great Kingdom of Mustang was small, occupying a half mile square in a shallow valley surrounded by low rolling hills. Inside Lo Monthang’s walls, most of the structures were also constructed from a mishmash of mud and brick, all of it painted in shades of white ranging from grayish to brownish and bordered with layered thatch roofing. Four structures rose above the rest: the Royal Palace and the red-roofed Chyodi, Champa, and Tugchen temples.

“Civilization,” Remi said.

“Everything is relative,” Sam agreed.

After they had wandered the wilds of Mustang for what seemed like days, the otherwise medieval Lo Monthang seemed positively metropolitan.

They started walking up the dirt road toward the main gate. Halfway there, a boy of eight or ten appeared and sprinted toward them, calling, “Fargos? Fargos?”

Sam raised his hand in greeting and called in Nepali, “Namaste. Hoina.” Hello. Yes.

The boy, now beaming, skidded to a stop before them and said, “Follow, yes? Follow?”

“Hoina,” Remi replied.

After leading them through the winding alleys of Lo Monthang under the curious gaze of hundreds of villagers, the boy stopped before a thick wooden door set in a whitewashed wall. He lifted the tarnished brass knocker, rapped twice, then said to Sam and Remi, “Pheri bhetaunla,” then scampered off down a side alley.

They heard footsteps clicking on wood from inside the building, and a few seconds later the door swung open, revealing a frail mid-sixties man with long gray hair and a matching beard. His face was heavily lined and brown. To their surprise, he greeted them with an upper-crust British accent:

“Good morning. Sam and Remi Fargo, I presume?”

After a moment’s hesitation, Sam said, “Yes. Good morning. We’re looking for a Mr. Karna. Sushant Dharel from Kathmandu University arranged a meeting.”

“Indeed he did. And indeed you have.”

“Pardon?” Remi replied.

“I am Jack Karna. Well, where are my manners? Please come in.”

He stood aside, and Sam and Remi stepped inside. Similar to the exterior of the building, the interior walls were whitewashed, and the floor was constructed with old but well-scrubbed wooden planks. Several Tibetan-style rugs covered the floor, and the walls were dotted with tapestries and framed bits of parchment. Along the west wall, beneath thick casement windows, was a seating area with cushions and pillows and a low coffee table. Against the east wall was a potbellied stove. A small hallway led out of the room and into what looked like a sleeping area.

Karna said, “I was about to send out a search party for you. You look a bit travel worn. Are you quite all right?”

“We had a bit of a hiccup in our travel plans,” Sam offered.

“Indeed you did. News reached me a few hours ago. Some trekkers found a guide vehicle destroyed in one of the chokes south of here. Two bodies washed ashore near Kagbeni. I feared the worst.” Before they could answer, Karna ushered them toward the pillows, where they sat down. “The tea is ready. Give me just a moment.”

A few minutes later he placed a silver tea service on the table, along with a plate piled high with scones and crustless cucumber sandwiches. Karna poured tea and then sat down across from them.

“Now. Do tell me your tale,” Mr. Karna prompted.

Sam recounted their journey, beginning with their arrival in Jomsom and ending with their arrival at Lo Monthang. He left out any mention of King’s involvement in the assassination attempt. Through it all, Karna asked no questions, and, aside from a few arches of his eyebrow, gave no reaction.

“Extraordinary,” he said at last. “And you have no idea of this impostor’s name?”

“No,” said Remi. “He was in a bit of a hurry.”

“I can imagine. Your escape is the stuff of Hollywood.”

“Par for the course, unfortunately,” Sam said.

Karna chuckled. “Before we go on, I should make the local brahmins-the council-aware of what happened.”

“Is that necessary?” Sam asked.

“Necessary, and of benefit to you. You are in Lo Monthang now, Mr. and Mrs. Fargo. We may be a part of Nepal, but we are quite autonomous. Have no fear, you will not be held responsible for what happened, and unless the council considers it absolutely necessary, the Nepalese government will not be involved. You are safe here.”

Sam and Remi considered what he had said, then gave their assent.

Karna picked up a brass bell from the floor beside his cushion and rang it once. Ten seconds later the boy who greeted them on the approach road appeared from the side hallway. He stopped before Karna and bowed sharply.

In what sounded like rapid-fire Lowa, Karna spoke to the boy for thirty seconds. The boy asked a single question, then bowed again, walked to the front door, and stepped out.

Karna said, “Fear not. All will be well.”

“Forgive us,” Remi said, “but the curiosity is killing us: your accent is-”

“Oxford through and through, yes. I am in fact British, though I haven’t been home for . . . fifteen years, I suppose. I have lived in Mustang for thirty-eight years this summer. Most of that time, in this very house.”

“How did you come to be here?” Sam asked.

“I came as a student, actually. Anthropology, mainly, with a few side interests. I spent three months here in 1973, then went home. I wasn’t there for two weeks before I realized Mustang had gotten under my skin, as they say, so I returned and never left. The local priests believe I am one of them-reincarnated, of course.” Mr. Karna smiled, shrugged. “Who can say? Without doubt, though, I have never felt more at home anywhere else.”

“Fascinating,” Sam replied. “What do you do?”

“I suppose I am an archivist of sorts. And an historian. My main focus is documenting Mustang’s history. Not the history you read on Wikipedia, though.” He saw Remi’s confused expression and said with a smile, “Yes, I know about Wikipedia. I have satellite Internet here. Quite extraordinary, given the remoteness of the place.”

“Quite,” Remi agreed.

“I am-and have been for nearly twelve years-writing a book that will, with any luck, serve as a comprehensive history of Mustang and Lo Monthang. A hidden history, if you will.”

“Which explains why Sushant thought you were the person we should see,” said Sam.

“Indeed. He told me you were particularly interested in the legend of the Theurang. The Golden Man.”

“Yes,” replied Remi.

“He did not, however, tell me why.” Karna was now serious, his eyes peering hard at Sam and Remi. Before they could answer, he went on: “Please understand. I mean no offense, but your reputation has preceded you. You are professional treasure hunters, are you not?”

“It’s not the term we prefer,” Sam replied, “but it’s technically accurate.”

Remi added, “We keep none of what we find for ourselves. Any financial compensation goes to our foundation.”

“Yes, I read that. Your reputation is in fact quite good. The trouble is, you see, I have had visitors before. People after the Theurang for what I fear were nefarious reasons.”

“Did these people happen to be a young man and woman?” Sam asked. “Caucasian twins with Asian features.”

Karna’s left eyebrow arched. “Spot-on. They were here a few months ago.”

Sam and Remi shared a glance. Silently, they agreed they could and should trust Karna. They were in as remote a location as they’d ever been, and the attempt on their lives the day before told them Charles King had taken the gloves off. Not only did they need Karna’s knowledge but they needed a trustworthy ally.

“Their names are Russell and Marjorie King. Their father is Charles King-”

“King Charlie,” Karna interrupted. “I read an article about him in the Wall Street Journal last year. Bit of a cowboy, I gather. A bumpkin, yes?”

“A very powerful bumpkin,” Remi replied.

“Why on earth does he want you dead?”

“Why, precisely, we’re not sure,” Sam replied, “but we’re convinced he’s after the Theurang.”

Sam went on to recount their affiliation with Charles King. He left nothing out. He told Karna what they knew, what they suspected, and what remained a mystery.

“Well, one mystery I can address immediately,” Karna said.

“These evil twins, the King children, clearly gave me a bogus name. But during their visit, they did mention the name Lewis ‘Bully’ King. When I told them what I’m about to tell you, they reacted with no apparent shock. Strange, given who they are.”

“What did you tell them?”

“That Lewis King is dead. He died in 1982.”