wiLLi am morrow
An Imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers
Little Princes
One Man’s Promise to Bring Home
the Lost Children of Nepal
C o n o r Gre n n a n
Prologue
December 20, 2006
I
T WAS WELL AFTEr nightfall when I realized we had gone the wrong
way. The village I had been looking for was somewhere up the mountain.
In my condition, it would be several hours’ walk up a rocky trail, if we could
even find the trail in the pitch-dark. My two porters and I had been walking
for thirteen hours straight. Winter at night in the mountains of northwestern
Nepal is bitterly cold, and we had no shelter. Two of our three flashlights
had burned out. Worse, we were deep in a Maoist rebel stronghold, not far
from where a colleague had been kidnapped almost exactly one year before.
I would have shared this fact with my porters, but we were unable to communicate; I spoke only a few words of the local dialect.
Exhausted, I slumped down beside them. I zipped up my jacket and
knotted my arms tightly around my chest to keep out the cold. Six days had
passed since I split from my team. I had sent them home, back to their villages, promising them that I would be okay. My guide, rinjin, tried to stay
with me. Just to make sure the helicopter comes, he had said. I assured him
everything would be fine and pushed him to leave with the others. The trek
back to their villages would take the men several days, and they had been
LI T T L E PrI NCE S 2
away from their families for almost three weeks. rinjin had taken a last look
at the empty sky, shaken his head at my stubbornness, and clasped my hand
in farewell. Then he hurried to catch up with the others already descending
the trail.
I reached into my bag, looking for food. I pushed aside the weatherbeaten folder, crammed with my handwritten notes and photos of young
children, children who had been taken from these mountains years before.
The notes had been my only clues to finding their families in remote villages
accessible only by foot.
Behind a crumpled, rain-stained map, my hand touched two tangerines—the last of our food. I passed them to the two porters.
I wondered how things would have been different if I hadn’t gotten hurt.
or if I hadn’t split from my team, or if I hadn’t decided to wait on that mountain for a helicopter that never came. It didn’t matter now. What did matter
was figuring out how we would get through the night.
An Imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers
Little Princes
One Man’s Promise to Bring Home
the Lost Children of Nepal
C o n o r Gre n n a n
Prologue
December 20, 2006
I
T WAS WELL AFTEr nightfall when I realized we had gone the wrong
way. The village I had been looking for was somewhere up the mountain.
In my condition, it would be several hours’ walk up a rocky trail, if we could
even find the trail in the pitch-dark. My two porters and I had been walking
for thirteen hours straight. Winter at night in the mountains of northwestern
Nepal is bitterly cold, and we had no shelter. Two of our three flashlights
had burned out. Worse, we were deep in a Maoist rebel stronghold, not far
from where a colleague had been kidnapped almost exactly one year before.
I would have shared this fact with my porters, but we were unable to communicate; I spoke only a few words of the local dialect.
Exhausted, I slumped down beside them. I zipped up my jacket and
knotted my arms tightly around my chest to keep out the cold. Six days had
passed since I split from my team. I had sent them home, back to their villages, promising them that I would be okay. My guide, rinjin, tried to stay
with me. Just to make sure the helicopter comes, he had said. I assured him
everything would be fine and pushed him to leave with the others. The trek
back to their villages would take the men several days, and they had been
LI T T L E PrI NCE S 2
away from their families for almost three weeks. rinjin had taken a last look
at the empty sky, shaken his head at my stubbornness, and clasped my hand
in farewell. Then he hurried to catch up with the others already descending
the trail.
I reached into my bag, looking for food. I pushed aside the weatherbeaten folder, crammed with my handwritten notes and photos of young
children, children who had been taken from these mountains years before.
The notes had been my only clues to finding their families in remote villages
accessible only by foot.
Behind a crumpled, rain-stained map, my hand touched two tangerines—the last of our food. I passed them to the two porters.
I wondered how things would have been different if I hadn’t gotten hurt.
or if I hadn’t split from my team, or if I hadn’t decided to wait on that mountain for a helicopter that never came. It didn’t matter now. What did matter
was figuring out how we would get through the night.
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