At the Mountain's Edge

by Genevieve Graham

  Ben had been fifteen and working at the far end of the field when he’d heard screaming in the distance. So much like the screaming in his dream. He’d sprinted towards the house, knowing he wasn’t fast enough but also knowing he couldn’t stop. He had to get to the house and to his mother. He had to stop what he knew was coming. What was probably already happening. But the house was so far away, and without a gun the best he could do was distract his father away from her, but maybe, he’d thought, his lungs screaming for want of oxygen, his heart twisting with the awful sounds of her cries, maybe he could do something this time. Maybe he could finally be the man his father said he would never be.

  He yanked open the door and stumbled inside, but before he took another step his father’s thick fist crashed against his cheek and drove him to the floor. Ben staggered to his feet, managing to shove his mother out of his father’s reach, but a second blow snapped his head sideways, launching him across the room. Everything went black.

  He awoke to a hot, solid ring of metal pressing against his forehead and the sight of his mother lying dead on the floor. His father was clutching a gun, and he was crying. The gun was shaking.

  “Don’t kill me, Pa,” he pleaded, wondering if the old man could even hear him. “Please don’t kill me.”

  All of a sudden the door slammed open, and a man in a red coat barged inside. Without hesitation, the Mountie pointed a revolver at Ben’s father.

  “Put the gun down,” the Mountie said.

  The gun pushed harder against Ben’s head. Whisky made his father more than mean; it made him stupid. And now it had made him a murderer. When the Mountie’s warning went unheeded, he strode over and pressed the muzzle of his revolver against Ben’s father’s greasy skull. Ben was trembling so hard he could barely see, but then his father’s familiar, bloodshot eyes slid into focus, and—at last—the pistol’s barrel left Ben’s head. He scuttled to the corner of the room, gagging at the sight of his mother’s bloody, sprawled body. The metallic sound of cuffs closing over his father’s wrists caught his attention, and he looked up as the Mountie paused in the doorway.

  “I heard screams from the road,” the policeman said. His eyes drifted to Ben’s mother. “I’m sorry I couldn’t get here sooner.”

  “Yeah,” Ben grunted.

  “I’ll take him in, then come back to help with the burial.”

  “No,” Ben replied. “I’ll do it myself.”

  He was the man of the house now. The only man. The only one left.

  A week later, the Mountie came back to the farm to tell Ben that his father was going to be hanged.

  “Good,” Ben replied.

  That was seven years ago. Now Ben sat on the edge of his cot, rubbing his brow, trying to erase the last echoes of his father’s laugh. All his life, he had done everything in his power to become the opposite of his father. To help people, not hurt them. But how many people had died under his watch? How many had he let die?

  Those screams in his nightmare, he knew, weren’t from his mother. They had belonged to Miss Peterson, and they would haunt him forever. Because today, when her whole world was crumbling and she needed saving, Ben had been the man in red. And he had failed her.

  Liza

  THIRTEEN

  Liza awoke in an unfamiliar building, alone and confused. As consciousness seeped back into her mind, a vague memory came to her of strong arms lifting her out of the snow, carrying her through the black night to a cot where she had cried herself to sleep. Now daylight glowed through the filthy window, and she slowly sat up, wishing she could stay in the empty room forever. But she had made Stan a promise.

  Beyond the cabin, men were still digging, chopping through the frozen ground and uncovering what they could of the dead. Some bodies had been entombed beneath thirty feet of snow, and when they were brought to the surface their limbs were frozen into whatever position the avalanche had forced them into. When Stan was lifted out, Liza hadn’t known what to do. She wanted to hold him, to somehow warm him back into existence, but she was too afraid to even touch his hand. She was haunted by his placid grey face, almost unrecognizable as that of the man who had pleaded with her to stop wasting time.

  Stan was wrong—she had done this. She had killed him. And she would never forgive herself.

  Blue was gone as well. Her heart twisted at the memory of the trust sparkling in those bright eyes and the feel of Blue’s downy fur against her fingertips. Hadn’t she promised Blanche that she’d keep her puppy safe? She couldn’t even find the body. She did ask, but as far as she knew, no one had found her.

  After four days, over sixty bodies were uncovered, including Stan’s. The Mounties arranged for them to be taken to Dyea, where they would be properly buried, and for Liza there was no question of whether or not she would accompany the procession. She’d watched with horror as the vultures of Sheep Camp descended upon unclaimed corpses, rifling through frozen pockets for personal items before the Mounties could chase them away, and she’d sworn that would never happen to Stan.

  Neither of the Mounties travelling to Dyea was Constable Turner, and she was glad about that. Over the last couple of days, she’d seen Turner in the distance, but she’d had to look away. She accepted that none of it was his fault, but she couldn’t forgive him for abandoning her and Stan. She hoped she never saw him again.

  After the Dyea burial service was over, Liza knelt by Stan’s grave to say goodbye one last time, but she had no more tears left. For months she had hiked, climbed, and crawled through hundreds of miles of wilderness, always moving towards uncertain rewards. She had torn her legs and hands on rocks and ice so many times she’d given up on ever healing, and she’d wrapped the blisters on her feet until she’d run out of rags. Hunger had twisted her cramping stomach, and she’d retied the rope around her trousers’ waistband a dozen times. Her body begged for sleep and food and some kind of solace, but the only thing she could acknowledge was that she couldn’t stop yet. She’d made a promise, and she would not break it. There was nothing for her in Dyea, so she began the trek back up to Sheep Camp, where she’d left her packs, having paid for their guaranteed safety in advance. They were all she had left—both sleds had been lost in the avalanche.

  The next morning in Sheep Camp she sat on her packs and scooped the last bite of cold beans from her dented tin cup, watching the activity around the camp and wondering about her next move. After all these trips, she recognized some of the people in the crowd, but she didn’t know any by name. Most were getting organized, preparing to continue their climb, and she should be doing the same. She chewed the tasteless beans and forced herself to think hard, because right now she was stuck.

  There was no way she could carry both packs up the trail by herself without a sled. If her parents were here, they’d know what to do, but Liza had never had to figure out something this important by herself. Maybe her father had been right to keep her from the store’s finances.

  After a moment’s reflection, Liza decided the smartest thing she could do right now with her limited money was spend it. A cluster of Tlingit packers stood at the base of the trail, talking among themselves and eyeing the exhausted travellers, and Liza pulled a few folded bills from her coat pocket and counted what she had. There wasn’t much, but if she could get the last of the family’s belongings to the summit she wouldn’t have to worry about any of it again. Her father would take the reins after that, and once his new shop opened in Dawson City there would be plenty of money. He always said that no one could guarantee a gold strike, but one could always bet on both need and greed. As long as their shop had what the miners wanted, the Petersons would be just fine. But if she couldn’t get these packs to her father, none of that would happen. Taking a breath for courage, she started towards the packers.

  “Good afternoon,” she said, approaching a group of three men who stood apart from the others.

  “Pack-er?” one asked. His voice was deep but soft, the syllables stretched out.

 
; “Yes, please. Those are my bags there.”

  She presented the extraordinary sum of fifty dollars—a dollar a pound was the going rate, she understood—but two of the packers abruptly turned away. The third said, “Silver. No paper.”

  At least he spoke a little English, Liza thought, digging out the equivalent amount in silver. She held out the coins, but she could tell from his stance that it still wasn’t enough. With no other choice, she fished more coins from her dwindling supply. Even then, the packer seemed a little reluctant, but in the end he took the money. Then, to her surprise, he bound the bags together with a rope, then hoisted both onto his back. To better distribute the weight, he passed a wide leather strap under the bags, then across his forehead like a sling.

  “Thank you,” Liza said, hardly believing her good fortune. No wonder he had wanted more money! “When do we go?”

  In response, the packer strode silently towards the path, his walking stick in hand. He was a short, solid fellow, and he moved with an unexpected speed. Liza dug in, determined to keep pace. Without the weight of her pack, she felt as nimble as a goat even as they climbed. When it got steep enough that she had to crawl on all fours, the lack of baggage made a world of difference.

  At The Scales, just like every other packer, Liza’s companion raised his rates. She had no choice but to pay, but this time she knew it was well worth the price.

  “What’s your name?” she asked as he counted her coins.

  “Káh,” he replied.

  “Nice to meet you, Káh. I’m Liza. Does ‘Káh’ mean something in English?”

  He looked up slowly. “ ‘La-sa’ mean something?”

  “Uh, no,” she said, realizing how silly her question sounded.

  He crouched and tightened the rope around her packs. “ ‘Káh’ is Man. Is all.”

  Perhaps Man was his name, she thought. Then again, perhaps he was saying he had no interest in talking with her, and she should mind her own business. If Stan were here, he’d most likely know. Then again, if Stan were here, she’d have no need to hire a packer.

  She left Káh with the bags and went for a little privacy behind a nearby shack. On her way back, she crossed paths with a young man.

  “Beg your pardon,” she said absently, moving past him, but he blocked her way.

  “Good afternoon, miss. I consider this an opportune time to introduce myself.” The man stuck out a grimy hand, which she made no move to touch. “Name’s Ezekiel Booth.”

  She thought she recognized him from Sheep Camp, but he looked like any other traveller, gaunt faced and dreary eyed.

  “Nice to meet you,” she said. “If you’ll excuse me—”

  He slid his black cap off and pressed it against his chest. “I’d like to offer my sincere condolences on your recent loss.”

  She felt her cheeks grow hot. How did he know about Stan? There she was, thinking she knew no one and no one knew her, and now this? Her whole body tensed at the thought that he’d been watching her, like the man on the boat.

  “Thank you,” she said curtly. “Excuse me, please.”

  “Your grief is a terrible thing to witness,” he said sombrely, reaching out to touch her arm, but she shifted away. “It is a terrible thing when a lovely young woman such as yourself is left without a protector, and so I thought I’d be a gentleman and offer my services. Free of charge, of course.” When she didn’t respond, he explained by saying, “I’d like to personally accompany you the rest of the way.”

  She gestured towards her things. “I have a man already helping me.”

  His face slid closer to hers, and she almost gagged at the tang of rum on his breath. “He hardly seems like good company on such a lonely path.”

  Her impulse was to shove him out of the way and run, but where could she go? She was alone now, and she’d become very aware that this wasn’t going to be the last time this happened.

  “That’s enough, Mr. Booth,” she said, standing her ground.

  “I am only suggesting—”

  “No, thank you.”

  “—that a little warm companionship can do wonders for a person.”

  “I said no.” How many times would she have to say it?

  He winked as he set his cap back on his head. “Think about it. If you should find yourself in need of such comfort, I am at your beck and call.”

  When the horrible toad was out of sight, her whole body started shaking as if someone had thrown ice water over her. All along the trail, she’d made fun of the idea that Stan was any kind of protection, but the truth had become alarmingly clear: without him, she was vulnerable. When two men wandered close by, she observed them closely, despising the necessary wariness that had taken root in her.

  Káh called from near the line, and she hurried over.

  “Ready,” she told him.

  In truth she felt far from it, and Mr. Booth wasn’t the only reason why. It had been two weeks since she’d seen her parents, but it felt like a lifetime. Now Liza was mere hours away from their waiting arms, and as much as she craved their embraces, she knew she was going to break their hearts as soon as she told them about Stan.

  She glanced back down the mountain one more time, her heart heavy with grief. Her brother was there, and there he would stay.

  Then, from somewhere in the dusty corners of her mind, a memory rose, as clear as could be. She and Stan had been sitting by the fire in their living room months before her father had even considered moving to the Klondike. Liza had been absently knitting a sweater while her brother went on and on about his latest interest: the different theories about death.

  “I’m convinced that even after people die, they’re never really gone,” he’d said. “In fact, I’m sure of it.”

  She set her knitting in her lap. “That’s ridiculous. We are born, then we die. That’s all there is.”

  “But what comes after that physical death?” he asked. “Everything I read says the soul is immortal, and a soul is what makes us human. So think about it, Liza. If a human soul is immortal, we can never be truly gone.”

  But he was gone—at least from her side.

  “If you’re there,” she said, her gaze lifting to the endless grey sky, “I could really use your help today.”

  She didn’t expect to feel or hear any kind of response, but the idea that he might be watching was a comfort. When a space eventually opened in the line of prospectors, Liza set her worn boot on the first step of the Golden Staircase with a little more certainty.

  This section of the trail was the steepest by far, but thanks to the recent work of a couple of energetic prospectors it had become much easier, relatively speaking. Three trips ago Liza and Stan had arrived at The Scales to discover that two men had taken their axes to the top 150 feet of the icy path, carving out three-foot-wide stairs which the travellers had named the Golden Staircase. The men had also put in place a brand new toll, but Stan had proclaimed that was just “smart business,” and it was worth every penny. Over time, other climbers constructed more stairs, and someone even installed a rope for the prospectors to grip as they climbed.

  Despite the stairs and the rope, the climb was still achingly slow, since every traveller had to wait for the one ahead to take another step. Like now. Liza wasn’t sure why they’d stopped, but they had been halted for a few minutes, and the men behind her were starting to yell. She peered around Káh to see a gentleman in a heavy fur coat, on his knees and blocking the trail up ahead. His head was bowed over his pack, and his shoulders shook with sobs that tore at Liza’s heart.

  “Clear the way!” someone yelled.

  “Keep moving!” shouted another.

  Before Liza knew what she was doing, she was squeezing past Káh towards the weeping man.

  “Sir.” She touched his shoulder, and when he raised his sad eyes to hers she recognized him as the tall man whose hat she’d followed for so many days. “I’d like to help you. I haven’t been carrying my own pack this trip, so I’m free to ca
rry yours.”

  “What? No, no!” he protested. “You’re a woman. I can’t give my load to you! How could I—”

  “Only for a little while,” she coaxed. “I’m plenty strong enough. And to be honest, I’ve relied on your own tall figure to be my guide through many of my previous trips, so consider my help as payment of sorts.”

  “Get a move on!” someone called from behind, and his shout was echoed by an impatient chorus.

  The man kneeling on the icy path regarded Liza with disbelief, but he swiftly rose when she reached for his pack. Up close she saw he was even taller than she’d first thought, and slender as a sapling. How did he manage to stand up when the wind thundered past?

  “How can I let you do this?” he asked, closing his eyes with shame. “Oh, what would my beloved Olivia say? My dear children would think less of me, I’m certain. No, no. If I could only rest a few minutes. It’s my back, you see. It’s—”

  “Get moving!”

  Liza spun around. “You can wait a civil moment, please.”

  “That’s what happens when a woman’s on the trail,” she heard someone mutter.

  She rolled her eyes and turned back to the tall man. “Your family will think nothing of it. You came all this way to ensure their lives would be enriched, and I’m certain they will always love and respect you for that.” She held out her hand. “I’m Liza Peterson. Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. . . .?”

  “Dexter. George Dexter.” He shook her hand. “As much as the very idea horrifies me, at this juncture it appears I have no choice but to surrender to the weaknesses of the body and spirit and gratefully accept your offer, Miss Peterson.”

  “Think nothing of it,” she said. “We can all use a little help once in a while.”

  She moved in front of him and shouldered his pack, startled by its weight. “Mr. Dexter, have you a strap of some kind? I’d like to . . .” She swept her finger across her brow, indicating the way Káh carried her bags.

  His eyes widened with understanding, then he dug through his pack for a strap. After studying Káh for a moment, he wrapped it around the bag and Liza’s forehead. The flat leather pressed hard against her brow, but it immediately displaced much of the weight of the bag.