A Death in the Mountains (F)

In horror of death, I took to the mountains— Jetsun Milarepa

That morning—that morning we were two hours out from Skiu when Tate dropped to his knees, head bowed, hands palm down on the gravel path. Dorje reached him first, a hand on Tate’s shoulder.

“Mr. Thomas, Mr. Thomas, he is not good.”

I slipped off my pack and kneeled in front of Tate. A thin gruel of spit and blood ran from his lips to his chin. “Damn, Tate. Tate, try not to speak. Just breathe.”

We were above 11,000’, the sky sullen with low clouds.

Tate’s shoulders heaved, his lungs drawing deep, searching for relief. I remembered Janice imploring him “Come back, Tate. Come back home.” Again, “Come back home. You must come back home.” He kissed her on the mouth and smiled. “Always do,” he said.

“Tate, we want you sitting up, so Dorje is going to put our packs behind you.”

“Water, Tommy,” he whispered.

“Not yet. Let your breathing settle.”

“I’m no good, Tommy. Never make Nimaling.”

“Quiet. Lean back into the packs. Lift your chin up.”

“No good this time.”

“Dammit, Tate. Shut the hell up. Save your breath.”

His body heaved, a groan, a harder rasping, a spray of blood. I dabbed at his chin with a glove. 

“Maybe we should stretch him out on his back.” Dorje nodded. Gently, we lowered his head onto my pack. We stretched out his legs.

“Better?”

Tate coughed. “Uh-huh. Hurts bad. No good this time, Tommy.”

“Stop saying that.”

A little breeze came up, snow flurries. Dorje caught my eye. He shook his head.

“Tate, what do you want me to tell Janice, if—“

He gestured for me to lean closer. More of the bloody drool leaked from his mouth. 

“Tell her.” His nose was bleeding now. “She’s here with me.” He touched his chest.

“Dammit, Tate. I’m sorry.”

“On me. Brother?”

“Yes? Yes? Dammit, Tate.”

His last breath, so shallow, released. And he was gone.

Dorje closed Tate’s eyes. “Through the triumph of his death, may he be able to benefit all other beings, living or dead.”

I stayed on my knees. “Janice” I muttered.

“We must move his body, Mr. Thomas.”

“What? What. Yes, I know. I know.”

“There is a ledge just above. There will be good.”

“No. I just can’t leave him out in the open.”

“Then beneath the ledge. We will make a mound of stones over his body.”

We took Tate’s sleeping bag from his pack, unrolled it, and put half over his body, and turned him so he was wrapped completely. Dorje zipped it closed.

I reached under his head and chest, Dorje took him just below his knees. We in halting fashion carried Tate to the base of the rock wall. Without a word, we went about collecting stones, some a few pounds, some maybe 15 or so.

And we were done, his final place in this world looked as if a small rockslide came down. Dorje cut some rope and tied Tate’s scarf in the middle. I cut up several pieces of his t-shirts, which Dorje tied on as well, and we draped them over the mound and anchored the line with some of the heavier rocks.

Dorje kneeled and closed his eyes. “May longevity and vitality be unhindered by illness, accidents, and suffering. Please bestow the blessing to fulfill our sterling wishes and aspirations. One with all Awakened Ones through time and space.”

I added an “Amen”. I looked at his stony grave, my brother at rest, and at his mountains and Dorje, but I couldn’t think of anything more to say.

“We must go now, Mr. Thomas. Snow is coming.”