For several days, John and Lewis had been exploring the Tibetan Mountains. The journalist from the local branch of the newspaper, where Lewis worked, Anders, personally drove them in his off-road vehicle to the edge of the plateau, beyond which began wild, untouched territory.
Parting with the friends, Anders handed them a package with paper maps of the area.
"Anders, you'd better head home, or soon you'll go as wild as the locals," John said with a smile, waving a GPS navigator connected to a small solar battery in front of his face.
"Thomas is right, John. You, with your NASA, have completely forgotten that there are still plenty of places in this world where these toys are useless."
Warmly bidding farewell to Anders, the friends set off on their journey. After a few days, they crossed the foothills and were already approaching the base of the mountains. It was a mountain range no higher than a thousand meters, but extremely steep, whose snowy peaks sparkled in the sunlight. The friends long searched for a pass, behind which their journey's destination was supposed to be. An ancient settlement, which, despite new technologies changing the world daily, was almost untouched by civilization.
The next day, from the top of a hill, they saw the settlement. It lay in a lowland on the eastern shore of a large blue lake. Wooden huts were drowning in greenery, but here and there, above the green cover, several ancient towers still rose. According to Lewis, in ancient times, this was a thriving city that, for an unknown reason, fell into desolation. At some point, the residents stopped developing the city, and the once majestic, beautiful buildings began to crumble over time, and in their place appeared these unremarkable huts standing before them.
"By all standards," John thought, "this city could once have housed from a few thousand to tens of thousands of residents, but now it's obvious there aren't even two hundred people."
They descended into the lowland and, entering the village, headed toward its center, where the elder's house and the guest house were located. In the center, near the lake itself, the pavement was made so perfectly that even after centuries, plants couldn't break through the masonry anywhere.
About a dozen streets converged on a semicircular square leading to the waterfront, from which a fishing pier stretched into the lake.
"Let's skip the guest house and stay in the tower," Lewis said. "I often stayed there. There are dry rooms, and the ceilings are still sturdy. The ancient residents of this settlement knew how to build…"
And indeed, the stones in the walls of the old abandoned houses were so precisely fitted that sometimes it was impossible to discern the joints.
"Is it known, even approximately, how old this city is?"
"When I last stayed here, I managed to secretly take a few pieces of wood from the masonry of abandoned buildings. My friend in New York did an analysis for me. The city isn't that ancient—it's two to three thousand years old."
While they were talking like this, walking toward the center of the settlement, hunters emerged from the huts, silently greeting them. When they approached the elder's house, a few dozen hunters were hesitantly joined by women, and then, from all sides, tiny children poured out, swift and nimble like little lizards. One of the kids stood in front of John, blocking his path, looked him up and down, spun in place, laughed with strangely carefree laughter, and then shouted in a piercing voice something that made everyone around burst into laughter.
"What did he say?" John asked.
"I didn't quite understand. But it seems he said you're the gloomiest person he's ever seen in his life!"
John smiled at the kid, and the adults laughed in response, and they headed as a cheerful crowd toward the house where the elder was already waiting for them on the doorstep.
A month in the Tibetan village turned John and Lewis's life into a measured rhythm, as if time here flowed slower, obeying the whisper of the wind in the mountains. They spent their days wandering along winding trails, where sharp stones crunched under their boots, and the air smelled of pine needles and cold earth.
They explored valleys where grass swayed under gusts of wind, and rocks, whose rough surfaces bore traces of ancient winds. But each time, returning to the village, the friends felt a slight chill of unease. Something here was off. The silence was broken only by rare sounds—the ringing of bells on yaks' necks, the rustle of leaves, and the distant roar of a waterfall hidden behind the mountains.
The village seemed frozen in an idyll: small houses with darkened wooden walls nestled in the greenery of fields, and ancient stone buildings held centuries-old dust in their cracks. But behind this beauty hid a strangeness that Lewis had noticed during his previous visits but could never unravel. There were almost no old people among the residents. Young, with sturdy bodies and clear eyes, they moved through the village with energy, filling the air with carefree laughter and snippets of conversation, as if nothing in this world troubled them. But the elderly—only one or two, and they appeared rarely, like shadows. In the mornings, the elder, hunched and silent, came out to the square, where locals surrounded him. His steps were accompanied by the creak of a wooden cane, and his voice, low and hoarse, carried over the crowd, but the words dissolved in the morning fog.
Lewis, whose mind was accustomed to spotting inconsistencies in the chaos of war reports, this time firmly decided to unravel this mystery.
One morning, he sat on a bench by one of the towers where they were staying, watching a group of locals carrying baskets of vegetables. Their skin glistened with morning dew, and their clothes, simple but bright, fluttered in the wind.
"Have you noticed that there are no elderly people here at all?" Lewis asked, turning to John. His voice was quiet, but it carried wariness. He ran his hand over his weathered face, feeling the roughness of old battle scars.
John, studying an old paper map from the package Anders had given them at parting, sitting on a creaky chair nearby, leaned back, and the wood creaked in protest. His gaze slid over the village, where the morning light reflected off wet roofs.
"Yes, I've noticed," he replied, rubbing his fingers over his grown stubble. "And it bothers me a bit too. But maybe it's just their lifestyle? Everyone here seems to live long and healthy, and the old just don't make it to deep old age?"
"To me, that's too simple an explanation," Lewis objected, his eyes narrowing, as if trying to see something beyond the horizon.
"No, there's definitely something off here. I talked to the locals, but they all, as one, are convinced that old age never comes to this village. I think the Elder is the only person who could shed light on this."
John pondered, his fingers tapping on the edge of the chair, betraying his habit of thinking through every detail. The Elder was an enigma—a keeper of traditions, whose knowledge seemed rooted in the very earth of this village.
But over the month, he remained a shadow to them: he appeared in the square, spoke with the locals, but avoided long conversations with outsiders. His figure, wrapped in a faded cloak, seemed part of the landscape, but his eyes betrayed wariness. Lewis and John tried to approach him, but each time they hit a wall of silence.
"If you want to find out something specific, we need to talk to him," John said, standing up. His voice was firm, but it carried a slight uncertainty. He adjusted his jacket and looked at Lewis.
"Maybe he'll tell us something important."
Lewis nodded, his face lit by a faint smile. He felt anticipation rising in his chest. As a true journalist, he always sensed where hidden secrets lay. The wind brought the smell of wet grass and distant campfire smoke, reminding them that the village lived its own hidden life.
In the evening, the village sank into silence, broken only by the chirping of cicadas and the occasional barking of dogs. The moon, pale and cold, hung over the mountains, casting silvery light on the path leading to the elder's house.
The friends walked along a narrow trail, where stones crunched under their boots, and the air was saturated with the smell of pines and earth. The elder's house stood at the edge of the village, its dark walls blending with the shadows, and a single window glowed with a dim orange light, like a candle struggling against the darkness. Lewis felt his heart beat a little faster, and John, walking beside him, was anxious, as if preparing for something more than just a conversation.
They stopped at the door, wooden and cracked, with carved patterns barely discernible in the moonlight.
John knocked on the door, and the sound echoed in the silence, as if breaching an invisible boundary.
"Elder," he said, trying to keep his voice calm, though a slight tremor betrayed him. "We'd like to talk to you."
Silence lasted long seconds, only the wind rustled in the branches, and somewhere in the distance, water gurgled. Finally, the door slowly opened, creaking on rusty hinges. In the doorway appeared an old man, his face, etched with wrinkles, seemed carved from stone. His eyes, deep and dark, looked at them with weary insight, as if he saw not only them but the entire world beyond the village. His clothes smelled of old wool and smoke, and his hands, gripping a staff, were covered with knotted veins.
"What's the matter?" he asked, his voice low, almost a whisper, and it carried the weight of lived years. He didn't hurry to invite them inside, standing in the doorway like a guardian.
John and Lewis exchanged glances and asked permission to enter.