Colt’s Coda: Vultures Don’t Fly This Far
Mount Everest:
“What do you say about it? Where do you start? You’re having a normal day. You’re drinking coffee. Then you get a message like that, and everything changes.”
“No, I didn’t have any premonitions. I didn’t see any signs. Like I said, I wasn’t close with my dad. I didn’t know him well. He was a quiet man. But he was a good man, at least to me. I know that’s not a wonderful thing to say, considering what he did, saying that he was a ‘good man,’ but to me, he was.
“He took care of us. He wasn’t some deadbeat, or some wifebeater. He was there. He loved my mom. He loved us. He didn’t know how to express it, I think. His dad, my grandfather, was a military man. You know the type. Stone-faced. And my dad was the same way. As was my younger brother.”
“My younger brother was a withdrawn and difficult person to communicate with. I had very little contact with him, aside from occasional messages online, related to family gatherings. I have no idea what darkness lurked inside him. I wish I had known. But, as I said, I had no premonitions. There were no warning signs.”
“I don’t believe my brother and father acted together. I think both had their reasons. But I don’t know. I have authorized my father’s brain to be examined. Perhaps that will provide answers.”
“My sister and mother, I wasn’t close with either. My sister and I never saw eye to eye on anything. But she was a kind soul. My mother was too. They were both nice people. And I can’t imagine they knew of or had anything to do with any crime, whatsoever. Period.”
“There’s been rumors online that my sister purposely caused the pileup. I don’t believe one bit of that. It’s a horrible, terrible, tragic coincidence that the accident happened as it did, when it did. I grieve for everyone affected.”
“The police questioned me for hours on end. They ransacked my apartment. They handcuffed me. When they took me in for questioning, one of the police officers purposely banged my head into the roof of his squad car.
“Yes, they found a gram of cocaine, but that was the only crime I committed. Again, I reiterate that I knew nothing of my brother’s or father’s crimes. I knew nothing of any plans. I called the police and sent them the messages I got from my brother, immediately after I received them. I was mortified and shocked beyond belief.”
“It’s been a nightmare. I want to send my condolences to the victims of this tragedy. Words cannot express the horror and sadness I feel.”
“It’s been a nightmare, also, for myself, losing my immediate family. And it’s been worsened by the anger and death threats I’ve received, particularly on social media. I no longer feel safe in America. I’ve left the country, and am in Asia, but I will not disclose where, at this time.”
“I close this email, asking for peace, asking for privacy, and again expressing my sorrow for the events that have transpired.”
Logging off the desktop in the lobby of his shabby hostel, Colt exhales loudly and slips into his thick sheepskin coat. He rubs his eyes, his forlorn face flushed red. He then salutes the Bob Marley poster above the computer and ambles toward the creaky front door, heads out for a stiff drink and a hearty dumpling dinner.
Driving through the Himalayas, he listens to calming harp music as he rides his rented SUV up to the monastery.
Arriving at the monastery’s gates is intimidating yet freeing. The red and white temple, built into the mountain, is imposing. It’s unreal. It has upcurved eaves on its sharply slanted roof and a tremendous portico with pillars painted gold.
First laying his weary eyes on it, he can’t believe people actually live there. But his trepidation and disbelief yield to elation. To him, the monastery is the most serene, most beautiful place on Earth.
He parks and exits the vehicle. He struggles to shut the driver’s side door as damn near hurricane-force winds batter him. The winds are sharply cold, a polar blast, piercing the puffy fabric of his triple-layered clothes. It’s like a wave of ice water has crashed over him.
And he loves it.
He snorts. His eyes water in the chill. He grunts.
And he loves every painful sensation. He’s never felt so human.
He fixes his eyes up at the golden spires of the monastery. He then shifts his gaze, sees a steady trail of black smoke billowing from its charnel house.
A cremation is taking place. It’s probably too cold here for a sky burial. It’s hard for him to imagine any vultures flying up this far.
He realizes the frigid air is carrying ashes, particles of the dead. The dead fill his lungs, cycling their journey. To him, it’s sad, evil, and beautiful.
With vigor, with pure intent, he moves against the power of the wind. The valley, the gorge between the heavenly high Himalayan mountains is like a wind tunnel. The wind whipping and lashing his red face. The wind is a surging force, having a mysterious, magical, surreal push that is healing, a balm for his battered soul.
He trudges up the frozen ground. The hard dirt and rocks crackle and crunch beneath his heavy black boots. He spots his guide, waving to him from atop the hill. The guide is a small brown man, bundled in a cocoon of sheepskin robes fringed with fur. The guide is wearing a bushy black fur hat that’s nearly the size of a bear cub. The hat has a gold and emerald-green brocade at its tip, like a Tibetan yarmulke.
The guide is animated, an earnest map of smiles, and is probably the happiest man Colt has ever seen.
