The Abominable

by Dan Simmons

  “I’m going as well,” said Jean-Claude. “I hate the goddamned boches. I’d like nothing better than to plant a thumb in their eye.”

  Before I could say anything, Reggie said, “I’m serious about you slipping away over the Serpo La and heading straight for Darjeeling, Jake. As an American, you’re neutral in all this.”

  “The hell we are!” I said. “‘Lafayette, we are here!’ The Battle of Belleau Wood. The Battle of Cantigny. The Second Battle of the Marne. The Battle of Château-Thierry. The Meuse-Argonne. The…the…” I was so tired that I’d run out of American battles. “Tippecanoe and Tyler, too,” I added irrelevantly. Well, it had sounded good in my buzzing head.

  “I’m going with you guys,” I said. “Just try to stop me.”

  No one said anything or patted me on the back. Perhaps we were all too tired.

  “One thing,” said Jean-Claude. “Do the rest of you think we have enough energy left to get up that thousand-foot snow wall and climb the rope ladder to the North Col, then cross the Col to Camp Four? Tonight?”

  “We’ll find out soon enough,” said the Deacon.

  Far below us and behind us, somewhere in the Trough forest of seracs and penitentes and 60-foot-high snow-shrouded ice pinnacles, came the echoing sound of three pistol shots. Then silence.

  9.

  A few years ago as I write this memoir in the winter of 1991–92, in this combination hotel-for-old-folks and assisted-living-home where I live here in Colorado, the manager—Mary Pfalzgraf, a wonderful woman—asked me to fill the Wednesday “guest speaker” role in the atrium by giving a little talk on mountain climbing. I did just that—gave a “little talk” (seven minutes by my watch)—to half a dozen other residents, mostly about night climbing in the Andes and Antarctica and about how beautiful the starry skies were in both places (with the aurora australis shimmering and dancing in curtains of light in the latter). There were only two questions from the tiny audience of my chronological peers: Howard “Herb” Herbert, my most faithful dominoes opponent, asked, “Where’d you lose those two fingers on your left hand, Jake?” (I had a hunch he’d wanted to ask that question for a long time but had been too polite to do so.) “Alaska,” I told him truthfully. (I didn’t go into the details of the nine days in a snow cave at 16,000 feet; nine days that had cost the lives of two of my fellow climbers.) Then Mrs. Haywood, rather far gone in Alzheimer’s, I’m afraid, asked, “Can you climb mountains in your sleep? While you’re sleeping, I mean?”

  “Yes,” I answered at once. I knew that because to this day I have no memory of the first forty-five minutes of our climb to the North Col that Wednesday morning in the wee hours of May 20, 1925. I was climbing in my sleep.

  What woke me on the ice cliff climb to the North Col was suddenly poking my head and shoulders above the solid blanket of thick cloud. It felt like coming up and out of the sea into the open air, and it awakened me at once.

  My God, it was beautiful. It was very late, so I was sure that the last fingernail crescent of waning moon had risen, but it was still hidden somewhere behind the looming North and North East ridges of Everest. The summit of our beloved/hated mountain and its omnipresent plume of spindrift, however, were beautifully backlit by intense starlight. Even when I’d gone out west in my Harvard climbing days, hundreds of miles from any city, I’d never seen stars this bright. Nor so many at once. Nor had they ever appeared this brilliant to me even from the depths of the Alps while bivouacking on a peak shielded from city lights or farm lanterns by countless other alpine peaks. This Himalayan sky was unprecedented. The Milky Way arched above the starlight-on-snow-lit summit of Everest like a solid highway bridging the night sky; there was no diminution of the number or brightness of stars near the horizons, merely an abrupt cutoff between thousands of stars and hundreds of starlit snowfields and glaciers and summits.

  The wind was gone. For the first time in days, the air—at least at this altitude of about 23,000 feet—was still. The nearby and distant peaks—Changtse, Cho Uyo, Makalu, Lhotse, Ama Dablam, Lho La, and ones I couldn’t identify in my exhausted state—appeared close enough to reach out and pluck, like white-tipped coneflowers.

  When we pulled ourselves off the swaying rope ladder and onto the narrow inset ice shelf of the North Col, I realized that the Deacon wasn’t with us. Had he fallen off when I’d been climbing in my sleep? Had he been shot?

  “He stayed below to tie loads on,” J.C. explained.

  “Tie loads on what?” I said.

  “Onto the continuous rope attached to the pulleys attached to the bicycle,” said Jean-Claude. “Remember? That’s how we’re going to get those dozen or more heavy loads from your foraging at Camp Three up here to the North Col.”

  It came back to me as I forced myself to be more awake. When the Deacon had said he’d stay below and tie on loads until they were all pedaled and cranked up, I’d thought it was nuts—any of the Krauts could hear the rope and pulley working, freeze him in the beam of a powerful searchlight or electric torch from Camp III, and easily shoot him with the rifles they had—but I hadn’t said anything at the bottom of the 1,000-foot face to the North Col. I’d been too intent upon remembering how to attach my jumar clamp to the fixed ropes, how to release the cam when I had to slide J.C.’s device upward, and how to haul my already too-heavy pack up the rope ladder for the final 100 feet or so without tumbling backward into the shifting ice mist.

  With our crampons and flashing ice chips kicked up by the crampons gleaming in the bright starlight, J.C., Reggie, Pasang, and I hurried along the slippery ledge to where Jean-Claude had secured his bicycle apparatus.

  It was like a dream. Because of the weight of the oversized loads that the Deacon was tying onto the rope down in the roiling clouds below, J.C., Pasang, Reggie, and I took turns pedaling the pulley-bicycle. It was exhausting. Two of the others who weren’t pedaling would signal the pedaling person to stop, lean out over the sheer drop or use their ice axes to hook onto the load, and pull it to the ice ledge, and the third person would untie the ungainly load from the continuous pulley rope and begin carrying or dragging it to the far end of the ledge.

  This extreme effort went on for almost thirty minutes, and then there came four fast tugs on both ropes—the prearranged signal from the Deacon that all the loads had come up and he was cutting the rope from below and coming up himself—so we pulled the long pulley rope up, tied it onto one of the rucksack loads, made sure the rucksacks and other loads were secure over where we had to climb up off the ledge onto the North Col proper, and then we went back to the top of the rope ladder to wait.

  After an endless wait, feeling the ladder and fixed ropes tugging and jiggling under our testing hands like a line with a big fish on it but never sure in the silence whether it was our friend or nine or ten Germans climbing toward us down there in the cloud, the Deacon emerged from the fog, climbed the last 30 feet or so to the ledge in the clear air, dumped the huge coil of fixed rope he’d brought up with him, and laboriously pulled himself up and over to where we were waiting with outstretched, ready-to-help arms.

  “Shall we pull the ladder up behind you?” asked Reggie.

  Too tired to speak for the moment, the Deacon shook his head. A moment later, and after we’d given him a brief snort of English air, he said, “Leave it in place. I brought a full-sized axe and two hatchets from Camp Three in one of those loads. When the Germans start climbing up that ladder in the morning, we’ll wait…wait…wait until they’re high enough on it, then cut it from here.”

  So that’s why he’d brought up the fixed rope that we had rigged as a handhold along the length of the vertical section, but especially alongside the caver’s rope ladder. Without that rope there’d be nothing to cling to if the ladder suddenly gave way.

  “We’ll have to post a guard here through the night,” said Jean-Claude. “Les boches may start climbing the ladder at any time. Or perhaps they will fool us by chopping steps on the slope and ice wall.”

 
; “No,” said the Deacon. He paused another minute to regulate his breathing and said, “I don’t think they’re coming tonight. It’s been so cloudy down there for the past two days, I’m not even sure they saw the ladder and fixed ropes.”

  “But they will follow our footsteps to them,” Pasang said.

  The Deacon managed a tired nod. “True. But in the daylight, I think. And Sigl will send someone up the rope ladder to test it.”

  “You are sure it’s Bruno Sigl down there, then?” said Reggie.

  The Deacon shrugged. “Sigl or someone just like Sigl. It doesn’t really matter. They’ll be climbers and right-wing German political fanatics and I can only hope that their political fanaticism overwhelms their climber’s common sense. But no guards for us tonight. We’re going to haul as much of that gear as we can across the Col to Camp Four, get as warm as we can get, and sleep for as long as we can. It’s a calculated risk—and there’ll be hell to pay if the Germans do come up that ice cliff in the dark—but we all need the rest.”

  “But if Sigl and his killers do come up that rope ladder tonight…,” I began. I was happy when the Deacon interrupted me; I really hated hearing my voice tremble the way it was.

  The Deacon put his hand on my shoulder. “We’re too tired already, Jake. We’ve had almost no sleep for three days and nights at altitude. And sometime in the morning we’ll all have to start climbing again, no matter what the weather’s like. I say we sleep now and deal with the Germans in the morning, when they try to make it up here to the North Col.”

  No one said anything for a moment, but then, one by one, each of us nodded. “Reggie, Dr. Pasang,” said the Deacon, “if you’d be so kind—drag one or two of those heavy loads across the Col top to Camp Four and please set out our sleeping bags there. We have extra bags in each load if you need them. The Unna cooker is in the load I chalk-marked Number One…we should get that out tonight and set it up in the vestibule of the tent, even if we wait till morning to use it. Pasang, perhaps you could coil and carry these hundreds of feet of rope from both the bicycle pulley and from the caver’s ladder railing. Just set it outside one of the tents at Camp Four, along with whatever load you can drag there.

  “Jake, Jean-Claude,” he continued, “why don’t you come with me over to the wonderful bicycle-pulley-lifting thing and we’ll cut all the tie-downs and pull up all the anchors and stakes and lug that metal monstrosity over to this part of the ledge.”

  “Why, Ree-shard? We have already cut and coiled the long rope that worked from the pulley. Why bring the bicycle machine here?”

  “Because we don’t have any boiling oil handy,” said the Deacon.

  10.

  We slept relatively well, despite everyone’s headaches and the return of my terrible coughing. My guess is that none of us dreamt of Germans machine-gunning our tent with their Schmeissers. We should have, probably, but I don’t think any of us did. We were just too damned tired.

  When I woke in the cold night, I would turn a valve, enjoy a little foot- and finger-warming oxygen, and drift back to sleep. The others were doing likewise, except for Pasang, who I believe slept straight through without any English air. I didn’t truly awaken until almost seven a.m. according to the watch my father had given me.

  Pasang and Reggie were heating coffee and a pot of something to eat on the Unna cooker just outside the tent vestibule. The day was sunny. The air was cold but still. The sky above the North and North East ridges was a heart-stopping blue.

  “Where are J.C. and the Deacon?” I asked, alarmed.

  “They went to stand guard near the top of the rope ladder around four thirty this morning,” said Reggie. “Before it started getting light.”

  “I’ll check in with them and then come back for coffee and breakfast,” I said between coughs. I was busy strapping my crampons on.

  “Oh, the Deacon asked me to tell you to wear your Finch duvet jacket on the outside of everything else,” said Reggie. “If you must use the Shackleton anorak, he said to put it under the goose down jacket. Oh, and keep the goose down trousers I made for you on the outside as well, and, he said, keep your goose down hood up at all times.”

  I noticed for the first time that both Reggie and Dr. Pasang were dressed that way, hoods up and tied tight. “Why?” I said.

  “The Deacon says that we’re within range of the three rifles,” answered Pasang. “Especially his own Lee-Enfield with the telescopic sight. The balloon fabric on the Finch jackets is a dull white—harder to see against the snow of the North Col and the first part of the North Ridge than our gray Shackleton jackets.”

  “Okay.” We were dressing in winter camouflage now. I wondered what other new wonders this day would bring.

  “Here,” said Reggie. “Two thermoses of moderately hot coffee. You can share them with J.C. and Richard.”

  The thermoses in the large pockets of my down jacket, long ice axe in hand, mini-Very pistol in my free hand, I hurried across the North Col to the ice ledge, remembering to keep my head down most of the time. It felt foolish to waddle along that way, but the idea of being a sniper’s target made my testicles want to crawl back up into my body.

  J.C. and the Deacon weren’t on the ice ledge but were lying prone against a wall of snow and ice on the North Col proper about 40 feet from the head of the ladder. I plopped down beside them and handed out the thermoses.

  “This is very welcome, thank you, Jake,” said the Deacon, accepting one thermos and setting it in the snow while his hand returned to steadying the large pair of binoculars. I’d forgotten to bring my own glasses from Camp IV. J.C. handed me his.

  “They’ve been moving around since dawn,” Jean-Claude said. “Burying the dead and scattering or burying the ashes of the tents.”

  “Burying the…,” I said and looked through the binoculars.

  Down at the remnants of Camp III, eight men, their faces mostly hidden behind white scarves or handkerchiefs, all wearing white overparkas, were indeed dragging away the last bodies of our murdered Sherpas. Others were shoveling ashes and detritus from the previous night’s destruction onto large flat tarps.

  “I would give a thousand pounds to have my ’scoped Lee-Enfield back right now,” whispered the Deacon.

  “Why are they…,” I began.

  “The Germans don’t know if another British Everest expedition might be coming next year or the year after that,” said the Deacon, finally putting his glasses down and unscrewing the lid on his thermos. Jean-Claude was already drinking his steaming coffee and had handed me the cup to share with him. “But they don’t want evidence of the slaughters,” continued the Deacon. “The Germans are usually very good about covering such things up.”

  “Where are they burying them?” I whispered. I was trying to think of the names of all our Sherpas.

  “Probably in that deep crevasse at the edge of the moraine on the west side, beyond the ice pinnacles there,” said the Deacon. “This coffee tastes good.”

  “So when they finish with burying and dispersing the…evidence,” I said, “they’ll come up to get us?”

  “Almost certainly,” said the Deacon.

  I craned my neck to look at the blue sky and clear, still air. The North Face of Mount Everest loomed over us like some impossible stage prop. “We’ve lost the advantage of the wind and clouds.” I’d inadvertently said what I was thinking.

  “Yes, we have,” said the Deacon. “But it’s a beautiful day for a summit attempt.”

  I wasn’t sure whether he was joking. But I wasn’t amused.

  “They have both of the hunting rifles we had at Base Camp plus your rifle,” I said. “And you said that your modified Lee-Enfield is effective up to five hundred and fifty yards, with a maximum range of more than a thousand yards.”

  “Yes,” said the Deacon.

  “Well, this North Col is only a thousand-some feet above them,” I said angrily. “Everything up here is well within the thousand-yard maximum range of the rifle. And so wi
ll we be if we try to climb up the North Ridge.”

  The Deacon nodded. “But they don’t have a good angle on us, Jake. I suspect that the German with my sniper’s rifle is up on the glacier below Camp Three right now—at the highest point on the glacier, actually—trying to get a clear shot. But the North Col is just high enough that they can’t see us up here—especially when we stay back away from this edge. Not while they’re anywhere close to being within firing range. As long as we don’t poke our heads up along this ridgeline, I don’t think they’ll try to take a shot.”

  “But aren’t we all doing that right now?” I asked with a little too much excitement in my voice. “Poking our goddamned heads up like ducks in a shooting gallery, I mean! Won’t they catch a sun glint on the lenses of the binoculars?”

  The Deacon pointed east. “Not anytime soon, Jake. The sun’s still climbing over the North East Ridge and the summit, all behind and to the right of us. In the evening, we’d have to be very careful about where and when to use the glasses. As for seeing our heads poking up…you may have noticed these little snow-and-ice tunnels that Jean-Claude and I have constructed. It restricts our width of vision but keeps us in the shadows here and more or less invisible to anyone not staring straight at us.”

  “You seem so sure of yourselves,” I snapped.

  “We’re not,” said J.C. “But I think the Deacon is right that the odds are in our favor in terms of being targets for their rifles—at least until we begin climbing up the snowfield on the North Ridge toward Camp Five.”

  “Why didn’t we do that during the night if showing ourselves in the daylight is going to be so dangerous?” I demanded of the Deacon.

  “Because,” he said in soft, deadly tones, “we want to kill some Germans before we abandon the North Col.”