I only drank coffee in the morning—I wasn't hungry. I packed up the tent, stowed everything in my backpack, and headed back to the trail. I went down along the old caravan route. By evening, I was in the village, found a guesthouse—there turned out to be several here. I chose the one on the eastern side. Later, I would need to head east anyway, to the abandoned settlement—rumors were circulating about strange happenings there. But all that could wait; for now, I needed to recover. And that meant meat and alcohol.
The guesthouse owner was slightly taken aback but didn't show it. Only his eyes betrayed his surprise when I asked him to fry five kilograms of meat and inquired if he could find five bottles of vodka. He answered in the affirmative and asked how many more people were coming. I replied, "We'll see," and went to wash up from the journey in the makeshift shower in the yard. After cleaning up, I settled onto the *kurpachas* in the guest room and asked the owner to serve the meat.
As I consumed the meat and vodka, the owner's eyes grew wider and wider. After the third bottle, I realized it was better to stop for the day—otherwise, there'd be no explaining what was happening—and went to sleep. Frankly, the bear could have eaten much more—it was all for him, after all—but I needed to avoid attracting too much attention, so I had to hold back. Even with these limitations, in the owner's eyes, I was practically a superman. Although, had there been less vodka, things might have turned out very differently.
I came to that conclusion the moment I opened my eyes. I knew immediately that someone had been in the room, and that someone was clearly not human, despite wearing a human guise. I left the room and, after greeting him, asked the owner:
"Good sir, will there be coffee?"
"The very best," he replied, pulling out a jar of instant coffee of rather dubious quality.
"Excellent, make it strong," I didn't question his assessment. Maybe for him, it really was the best.
"Tell me, do you have any other guests?"
"There were. They left this morning."
"Where were they from? Locals?"
"No, foreigners, Englishmen. They left quite unexpectedly—were supposed to stay another three or four days. But they came down from Kanchoch last night and immediately started packing."
"From Kanchoch?"
"Well, you might have heard of the abandoned settlement up in the mountains, where the old processing plant was."
"Of course, I've heard of it. How long were they up there?"
"Not long, a couple of days. They set up a kind of base here and did some scouting around. Said they'd stay for ten days, and then they just left..." The owner seemed to be lamenting the lost profit. "One of them even went to take a look at you. My apologies, I couldn't help myself and told them how much meat you'd eaten and vodka you'd drunk. They decided you must be a giant, and one of them went to see for himself. He didn't disturb you, did he?"
"No, it's fine. Tell me, good sir, did their behavior change at all after their last foray?"
He stared at me, puzzled.
"You know, I thought it was strange, but until you asked, I didn't pay it much mind. Well, you know, foreigners, who knows what's on their minds."
"So, what was strange about it?"
"Before they went to the geologists' settlement, they didn't seem to have a leader; they acted as equals, like friends. But when they came back, this red-haired fellow started bossing everyone around. He's the one, by the way, who went into your room."
"You don't happen to know that redhead's name, do you?"
"No. He might have said it, but I don't remember."
"Where did they go? Or the names of the others? Can you tell me anything at all?"
"No, I can't. But I can suggest you talk to Nursultan—he's the driver who took them to the city. He might say where exactly he dropped them off. But not until evening or tomorrow, when he gets back. If you need to go to the city, he can take you too."
"That's good. Please tell him to find me or wait for me when he returns. In the meantime, I'll go up to Kanchoch and see what those Englishmen were doing there."
"Ah, I wouldn't go if I were you. Lately, it's become a very bad place."
"Don't worry, I'll just take a quick look."
I didn't tell the owner that, by all appearances, the abandoned settlement had ceased to be a bad place. Whatever had been dwelling there was currently on its way to the city. But that was still just a hypothesis that needed checking. For that very purpose, I headed to the abandoned settlement.
Thanks to my bear essence, the alcohol had already worn off, and the meat and the witch's spirit had given me a significant energy boost, so I made it up to the settlement fairly quickly. I quickly found the lair by its scent—abandoned, as I had suspected. I found it quickly because I had a good idea of what to look for.
Specifically, what kind of spirit had made its refuge here wasn't yet clear. The locals call such creatures by various names: dev, almasty, ajina, jondor, balo, lashkar. Not wanting to multiply entities beyond necessity, I'll call this spirit a 'jondor' for convenience. Be that as it may, some of these spirits can possess people, causing obsession. And judging by the fact that such possession is known in all world religions, these creatures live practically everywhere, not just in the local mountains. They're just probably called something else.
The possessed person isn't aware of this presence. It's just that some of their ideas, especially those that go against accepted norms, become, as it were, amplified. The person becomes literally obsessed with these ideas, which inevitably leads to conflicts with others. And that is the goal of such entities—they feed on the energy of conflict, all the while being sure to protect their host. You get the feeling the host emerges unscathed from any conflict. But it often brings a lot of trouble to those around them, so eventually it becomes noticeable that something is wrong with the person.
Well then—time to go back down to the guesthouse, wait for Nursultan, and then head to the city to find the red-haired Englishman possessed by the jondor.
I still haven't said who I am or why I do this. But I think the time for revelations hasn't come yet. First, the jondor needs to be caught. I've become a bit superstitious, guilty as charged, so business first, stories later.
I returned to the guesthouse in the evening and had dinner with the leftover meat from the day before. The hunting fervor that was gradually taking hold of me sped up the assimilation of the ice witch's energy, so there was no need to force down more meat and vodka.
Sitting and waiting for the driver who had taken the Englishmen to the city, I pondered how my hike had transformed from one thing into another. Initially, I hadn't set out on this trek to hunt—or rather, not so much for hunting as out of curiosity. I'd come across an old newspaper clipping with an article titled "Phantoms of the Gorge of Fear." The article was old, from around the eighties of the last century. I'd wondered: where is this gorge? It turned out to be the well-known Siama Gorge, where I'd been myself more than once.
The article was full of all sorts of nonsense. It crammed into one gorge the Yeti, ghosts, aliens, poltergeists—in short, everything mystical you could think of, with all sorts of testimonies and opinions from so-called experts. They'd naturally labeled the place an anomalous zone and so on. When I'd been there before, it never occurred to me that anyone saw it as an anomalous zone. A gorge is a gorge, just fifty kilometers from the capital. You can get there simply by taking a suburban minibus.
You could call it a high-mountain gorge: it starts at eighteen hundred meters above sea level at the entrance and reaches up to three thousand at its head, if you don't climb the passes. The gorge is interesting both for tourism and for foraging, for example, for herbs. So, I decided to hike through this gorge to see what exactly had inspired the authors of those articles. Take the Yeti, for instance—lots of rumors, but no real evidence of its existence, and what little there is seems unconvincing.
Incidentally, almost everywhere in Tajikistan, locals mention a certain creature they call Gul or Odami yavoi (wild man), which fits the description of the Yeti. Folklore endows this creature with telepathic abilities, like clouding men's minds or hypnotic suggestion. But the most amazing thing is how this being manages to live without leaving any traces of its existence, any at all? It is a biological organism, after all. Or maybe I'm missing something.
Anyway, no sooner said than done. I set off for this gorge. I also decided to cross through it to Lake Payron, about which there is an interesting legend. From there, I could follow the old caravan trail where people had occasionally disappeared in the past near the Mura Pass. I'd long wanted to check that place out; it had never worked out before, but now it was more or less on the way. Especially since I most likely wouldn't encounter any Yeti in the gorge.
I took a suburban minibus to the bridge leading into the gorge and headed deep inside, to the left of the road. I hoped to traverse the entire gorge in a day and camp below the pass. The familiar route held no surprises. Along the way, I met shepherds with their flock and a few foragers. Although they could have been poachers, judging by their shifty eyes.
Without any incidents, I reached the clearing from which several passes were accessible and began setting up my tent. On the way, the keeper of the meteorological station, located a bit lower down, had offered to let me stay at the station, but I preferred to go further. After all, it was precisely these places the articles had written about. Perhaps here, at the junction of the green zone and the snow zone, I could discover something.
That day, due to the long trek, I was a bit tired, so I turned in early, without even eating properly, as is usual on the first day. I had no appetite at all, only drank some tea, forcing myself to eat a cheese and sausage sandwich.
The night passed quietly. No one scattered or damaged my things, as described in the articles. I got up before dawn, lit the stove to boil water for breakfast. Pulling the foam pad out from under the sleeping bag, I did my warm-up and stretching routine—a cross between yoga and calisthenics. Just then, the water boiled. I poured powdered milk and muesli into a cup, added boiling water. The remaining water went into a thermos mug with instant coffee already in it. Actually, I prefer brewed coffee, but on a trek that's an unnecessary luxury; instant is perfectly fine.
While I was packing the tent and rolling up the sleeping bag, the muesli softened—I ate, drank the coffee, shouldered my pack, and headed for the pass. The altitude was significant here, snow was everywhere, not melting even in summer.
A leisurely hike over the compacted snow brought me to the pass saddle a few hours later. If I'm not mistaken, this is the Pass of the Four. Not far away, literally the next pass on the left side, is called the Pass of the Three. I wonder who they had in mind when naming these passes? By the way, if you turn right from the main road, towards the Sangi Navishta mountain massif, there are passes called the Pass of the Five and the Pass of the Two. It's unclear what happened to the Pass of the One. Although in those same mountains, there is a pass called Yakum, which translates to "first"—maybe that's it.
Here, on the side where I now stood, the gorge of the Kadamtash River opened up before me from the pass. Although, aside from snow and mountain peaks, nothing of the gorge itself was visible yet.
But regardless, the views were magnificent. After admiring them—both ahead and behind—I took a few souvenir photos. Overall, I tried to act like an ordinary tourist, hoping to lull the vigilance of anyone who might be watching me. You know, like, I'm just here looking for the Yeti. But I didn't feel anything suspicious. Everything was as it should be: snow, ice, and rock, nothing more.
I had plenty of time, so I left my backpack on the pass and climbed the nearest peak. If my bearings were correct, this should be the Peak of the Siama Crown from the north side. After reaching the top, I sat there for a while, gazed around, took more photos, and went back to my backpack.
Retrieving my pack, I began descending from the pass. Almost directly below it was a small lake, or rather a moraine, unnamed because it was too small. On its shore, I found a good, level spot and decided to make camp here. Of course, I could have hurried and descended lower, but I wasn't in a rush to leave the snow zone, still hoping to detect something or at least get a feeling.
The whole situation was somewhat amusing. After all, I'd passed through here many times before and never seen or encountered anything unusual, and now, after reading some article, I was actively trying to track someone down. Ridiculous. I wasn't rushing also because the ascent to the pass, plus the climb to the summit, and then the descent—all of it had taken its toll. Not too badly, but it's still unwise to push too hard in the first days of a trek. Besides, the more time you spend at altitude, the more your body adapts, meaning it will be much easier going further down.
The remainder of the day, like the night, brought no changes. For good measure, I descended a bit lower and camped again, still not leaving the snow zone. But the next day and night also yielded nothing. A lack of results is also a result. I was perfectly fine with that. I could continue with a clear conscience. It turned out it wasn't scary at all, this Gorge of Fear.
