Great grandfather, the patriarch, was simply called Jēṭhō (pronounced Yay-Tow and meaning The Eldest)
“Jēṭhō, what is it? What do you see?”
It wasn’t what he was seeing, but what he was hearing.
The family, about 20 of them varying in age from 1 to 97, awoke to find Jēṭhō standing and steadying himself in the hut opening. He didn’t seem to hear his family's questions.
He was staring straight up at the first light of this day, his last, gleaming off of the snow on the ridge, serac and upper mountain above.
They lived half way up Ama Dablam in The Himalayas.
(Ama Dablam means "Mother's necklace"; the long ridges on each side like the arms of a mother (ama) protecting her child, and the hanging glacier thought of as the dablam, the traditional double-pendant containing pictures of the gods, worn by Sherpa women)
Just outside their hut, the mountain soared over three miles.
This time of year, it was pure white with snow.
Jēṭhō listened intently to something with his eyes closed.
He then talked in a very low voice, as if answering someone, so low that the others could not understand him, but nonetheless he seemed to be engaged in a serious conversation.
Jēṭhō whispered.
“Mahāna āmā dablama, mailē hi'um̐bāṭa timrō cētāvanī sunēkō chu. Mērō parivāralā'ī dayā dēkhā'unu bha'ēkōmā dhan'yavāda.”
(Great Ama Dablam, I have heard your warning through the snow. Thank you for showing mercy to my family.}
At 97, it was rare when Jēṭhō was able to stand. He spent most of his days lying flat on his sleeping skins.
On warmer days his family members would slide him out of the hut opening, and sit him up so he could enjoy the sunlight.
It was high winter now and the days were very short.
“Jēṭhō, what is it?” They kept asking.
Finally he spoke.
“The snow sounds different today. You all must leave the mountain now.”
With that he slid down the hut opening, half inside and half outside the hut, suddenly exhausted.
Never questioning Jēṭhō, they packed only the necessities and gathered outside the hut.
They attempted to assist Jēṭhō in standing but he told them.
“I will be too much of a burden and will delay your escape. Leave me outside, on my back, so I can enjoy my last moments viewing our mother, Ama Dablam.”
They obeyed and started their descent.
Three hours later they heard a rumbling and all turned to look in the direction from which they had come.
The massive avalanche started slowly but then it seemed like half of the mountain fell onto the place where their hut, and Jēṭhō, was just moments ago.
The avalanche stopped just behind them.
If they had taken Jēṭhō, they all would have perished.
