The Rose of Tibet by Lionel Davidson Page A

open he grasped the upper rope, shaking it to demonstrate the hold, and then, feeling for the lower one with his feet, began edging sideways across. A few yards from the bank, he seemed to learn forward sharply on the upper rope, and turned to Houston, mouthing and grinning. His feet were lost in the white foam.
    Houston did not very much like the look of it, but he nodded and the boy continued across. Half-way, Houston lost him in the boiling spray; but he saw the outline emerging again at the other side, and presently the boy was on the bank, grinning and waving.
    Houston took a deep breath and picked up the bike and got moving. The roar of water battering against rock, and the flying spray, confused him. He felt for the lower rope with his feet and kicked both heels hard against it, and edged away.
    A few yards out the rope sagged with his weight and his feet were in the water. He hung grimly on to the slimy upper rope, feeling the current strong against his boots, and the next moment was clutching for his life as his legs were rushed from under him. He tilted sharply forward, jack-knifing so violently against the crossbar that the breath was knocked out of his body. He couldn’t feel his legs in the maelstrom. He thought he had lost the lower rope. He kicked frantically, and found it, and hung there for a moment, gasping, at an angle of forty-five degrees between the quivering ropes.
    He could see the bicycle wheels directly beneath him, and feel his legs numbing in the icy water. He thought he had better move quickly while he could still hold on to both, and inched his way sideways. A few moments later, he was utterly alone, both banks lost to sight in the white, rushing tumult. He saw then what Ringling had meant about his weight; he seemed to be entirely in the river. The solid wall of water blinded and half drowned him as he lay spreadeagled on the ropes. All his weight was on his arms, and he thought he had better let the bicycle go or he would go himself; but he managedto hang on and presently, in a mindless vacuum, to begin moving again.
    Ringling dragged him out at the other side, limp and exhausted, and he collapsed on the turf gasping like a spent fish.
    ‘I’m sorry, sahib. The river is swollen with snow.’
    ‘Are there any more of them to cross?’
    ‘Not today… . We should move on quickly, sahib. We can’t stay here.’
    Houston got back on his bicycle and they set off again. Having coasted down one side of the valley, they now had to ascend the other. The boy steered a diagonal path to keep the gradient gentle; even so by the time they reached the top Houston felt himself completely done in.
    They came out of the valley to an extraordinary spectacle. Beyond, the green hills rose in tiers; gigantic folds of land that dipped and fell as far as the eye could see like some petrified ocean. Houston’s heart sank. It was now five o’clock and they had been going, with only a short break, for six hours. He said, ‘How much farther are we riding today?’
    ‘A few miles more, sahib.’
    ‘Because I’m bloody tired. Do you think it’s a good idea to go so hard the first day?’
    ‘We are still near the frontier, sahib. There are people who could see us and tell the police.’
    ‘I haven’t seen any all day.’
    ‘Maybe they see us,’ the boy said, still grinning but shaking his head obstinately. ‘No sense in getting sent back now, sahib.’
    ‘All right,’ Houston said. There wasn’t much sense in it. He wished the boy would take the grin off his face all the same. He was sick of his continuous cheer and the sight of the small muscular legs pedalling so tirelessly in front of him all day.
    The few miles more took another three hours; it was eight o’clock, dark and chill, when they stopped for the night beside a small river. Houston practically fell off the bicycle. He sat sullenly on the turf, every bone in his body aching, while the boy went busily about his tasks. He fetched water for tea