by Ronald Malfi
“Well,” Curtis said, “my daughter told me not to come.”
“Oh yeah?” Shotsky said. “How old is she?”
Curtis took a worn leather wallet from his BDUs and fished out what appeared to be a school photograph of a young girl with frizzy braids and two missing front teeth. “There’s my baby girl,” he said, passing the photograph to the rest of the crew.
“Adorable,” Petras said, nodding.
“Her mother still in the picture?” Chad wanted to know.
“She is but not with me. Lucinda lives with her mother in Utah most of the year. I get her every other holiday and two weeks in the summer.”
“Bummer, man,” said Shotsky. “She’s a cutie.”
“And a handful.” The picture returned to Curtis. He held it close to his face, smiling warmly at his daughter who was currently on the other side of the world. Then he kissed the photograph and slid it back into his wallet. “G’night, baby girl.”
Lightning once again blossomed beyond the veil of clouds overhead, followed by a peal of thunder so close I could feel it in my bones. A second later, we were caught in a thunderous downpour. The rain hammered down in sheets, striking like icy spears. We scrambled to our feet and quickly grabbed what gear remained scattered around the drowning bonfire and tossed it into the tent in assembly-line fashion.
I heaved a backpack toward Petras and glanced behind me over the craggy hillock. The Sherpas pulled hoods over their heads and vanished like ghosts into their own shelter.
“Where’s Andrew?” I shouted. The rain plastered my hair over my eyes and pooled into my mouth. “Petras! Petras!”
Another whip crack of thunder and the entire mountain illuminated like a pillar of fire. The storm had snuck up on us out of nowhere. I glanced up, shielding my eyes from the needling rain. The clouds above were black as roofing tar and slowly drifting counterclockwise in a vague circular shape.
I turned and cupped my mouth with both hands. “Andrew! Andrew!”
A shape darted across the campsite: Chad. I could make out his bright neon parka even in the dark. He trampled the steaming, blackened heap that had moments ago been the bonfire and sprinted toward the hillock. I followed, cognizant of Petras shouting my name as I ran.
“Where is he?” I huffed, skidding to a muddy halt beside Chad.
“Don’t see him.” Chad was farther up a gradual incline, peering over the ridge to the cupped pool of rocks below.
I waited for the next lightning strike, hoping it would reveal Andrew below, unharmed.
“I don’t think—no, wait. Wait—” Chad took a step forward, and the crest of the ridge broke apart. His arms pinwheeled, and he bowed backward. Then he pitched forward as his feet fell away beneath him.
I grabbed a fistful of his parka just as a mudslide broke across the ground quick as a serpent. “Chad!”
He went over the edge, dragging me forward. My chest slammed against the rock as the cascade of mud pooled into the cuffs of my cargo pants and washed over my body. My arm seesawed over the broken crest of the ridge, the sharp rock slicing my flesh. I groaned and sat up, mud splattered and freezing, and grabbed a second handful of Chad’s parka. He was heavy as hell; I could feel the tendons straining in my arms.
“Tim! Tim!” It was Petras, his voice nearly in my ear. I felt his hands slide beneath my armpits and wrap around my chest, his hands coming together in a death grip. My breath was squeezed out of me as Petras pulled me against his chest.
“Don’t let go,” I moaned, not sure if I’d actually managed to speak the words or not.
In a flash of lightning, I caught a glimpse of Chad’s terrified eyes staring at me from over the ridge. He seized my arms with both hands, but the rainwater made it impossible for him to get a secure grip. His cheeks were quivering. For one horrifying second, as another bolt of lightning lashed out overhead, I thought I could see his skull through his skin.
“Come on!” I cried, trying to pull him up. “Come on, Chad!”
“Don’t fucking drop me, Shakes,” he said, his voice quavering.
“Don’t you fucking drop me.”
“Won’t happen,” I promised. “Get one of your feet up.”
The pain ratcheted in my arms and shoulders as he swung toward the face of the cliff and tried to dig his boots into the rock. But like a cartoon character, his legs only cycled wildly in the air, pushing him farther from the face of the cliff and back out over the abyss.
Hollinger and Curtis were suddenly at my side, feeding a length of rope down to Chad over the jagged ridge.
“Watch your footing, guys,” I cautioned them, my breath coming in gasps and wheezes. “The ground’s turned to mud.”
Hollinger pointed to the rope and shouted to Curtis, “Don’t let the rope floss the rock, mate! It’ll rupture.”
Curtis dived forward and grasped the rope in gloved hands, his head two inches away from my own. I could see the deep trenches in the mud that his knees had made as he slid across the incline. The trenches quickly filled with water.
“Grab the rope!” Curtis shouted to Chad.
“He’s slipping,” I said through clenched teeth. I couldn’t tell if anyone had heard me. “I’m losing him …”
“Come on, Chad!” Curtis continued. “There! There! It’s in front of your face, man!”
“Use your feet,” Hollinger yelled.
My hands were numb; I could no longer tell if I was still holding on to Chad’s parka. I closed my eyes, my teeth chattering, my arms quaking. My chest was going to burst at any second. The breath whistling up my throat was the breath of a volcano.
The rope went taut.
“Here—here—” Curtis pitched forward as the top of Chad’s sopping head appeared over the crest of the ridge. “Gimme your hand—”
One of Chad’s hands swung around and clamped down on Curtis’s elbow.
Curtis grabbed Chad by the seat of his pants.
How the hell is Curtis not falling? How is he not toppling right over the ridge?
“Heave!” Curtis hollered.
A moment later, Chad sprawled on top of him, both of them covered from head to toe in black mud. There was a second rope tied around Curtis’s waist. I trailed it with my eyes toward a forked tree where Donald Shotsky still held the other end of the rope, both his feet planted against the bifurcated tree trunk.
Petras loosened his grip but didn’t let go. He yanked me away from the edge of the cliff, as if to simply release me would send me shooting like a rocket out of the abyss … and given the adrenaline burning through my body, I might have done just that.
“I’m okay. I’m okay,” I huffed.
Petras released me fully as Hollinger patted the top of my head like I was a child.
“Me, too,” Chad wheezed, pulling himself off Curtis. His pale face was streaked with mud, his eyes blinking away the rainwater. Somewhat unsteadily he got up on his knees and gripped his hips with jittery hands. “Saved my life, Shakes.”
I nodded like a fool. I didn’t know what I wanted to say.
“Come on,” Petras said, clapping me on the back. He caught one of my elbows and helped me to my feet. “Before the whole lot of us catch pneumonia.”
Soaking wet and freezing, I wiped the hair out of my eyes. Lightning struck again, followed by the locomotive clang of thunder, but it was creeping over the valley and away from the mountain. The rain was beginning to let up now, too.
Andrew appeared in the lightning flash. He was perched on the crest of the ridge no more than twenty feet away, his eyes like hollowed black pits, his mouth a lipless slash. I could tell he was looking straight at me. I thought about going over and shoving him and asking where the hell he’d been when Chad nearly plummeted off the side of the
mountain, but something in the way he just sat there staring in the darkness stopped me.
Petras shook my arm. “Come on. Let’s get in the goddamn tent.” I followed him, feeling Andrew’s eyes on my back the entire time.
Chapter 10
1
–OPEN YOUR EYES.
The acrid stench of burning fuel, of melting rubber … —Tim, she said. Open your eyes.
2
MY EYES OPEN TO A RAGING INFERNO. I CAN FEEL
the fire ravaging my flesh, charring me alive. I glance down and see that my hands are on fire. Through the flames I discern the suggestion of my bones, blackened and like tree limbs bound together by string. —Tim… The rasping voice—hardly a voice at all—summoning me. My eyelids disintegrate, and my skin sloughs like melting wax off my skull.
—Tim… Hannah’s body, twisted like a corkscrew, matted with dirt and blood, so much blood. She raises a mangled hand in my direction. Her legs are on fire.
I grab her hand, then her other hand, and pull her away from the burning vehicle. Her legs leave streaks of fire in the dry earth. Don’t die, I beg her. Don’t die on me, Hannah. Please.
She smiles. Her face is a black pit, a coconut smashed with a hammer and streaked with crimson gore. That mangled hand comes up again and touches my face. My skin slides off into her bloodied palm. Something hard and spiny rolls over in the pit of my stomach.
No, I plead. No, Hannah.
—Tim, she says. Open your eyes.
No—
—Open your eyes.
3
MY EYES OPENED TO INFINITE BLACKNESS. I WAS
on my back, my hands folded across my bare chest, breathing hard. I blinked. It took several seconds for me to realize where I was.
I eased up on my elbows, the sounds of collective snoring amplified in the canvas tent. Sweat matted my hair to my head; I could almost feel heat rising off my flesh. It was difficult to breathe, the air in the tent stale and motionless. I peeled the flap of my sleeping bag off my nude, sweaty body and pulled on a pair of clean sweatpants. I negotiated through the dark to the zippered tent flaps, which I opened as quietly as possible, and crept outside.
The air was bitterly cold. My nipples hardened instantly, and my sweat froze on my body. I shivered and rubbed my hands along my forearms while I felt my testicles retreat into the cavity of my abdomen. The rain had moved on across the valley, taking with it the angry-looking thunderheads that had hovered over our camp just hours ago.
Something moved in the darkness ahead of me: a flitting shape, large and alive, hardly visible through the trees.
“Hannah.” My voice was no louder than a harsh whisper.
The shape continued on through the trees.
Barefoot, I walked across the camp through freezing puddlesof mud and frost-stiffened reeds. My left eyelid began twitching. “Hannah …”
The shape crossed the veil of trees. It paused as the sound of my voice reached it. Then it proceeded up the gradual incline that was the ridge’s pinnacle. I watched the figure slip out into the open, lighted now by the soft glow of the moon. It wasn’t a human figure at all.
It was a wolf. Its pelt shimmered silver blue in the night. As its eyes turned toward me, curious of my presence, they glowed like floating, pearl-colored orbs. I watched it, my breath caught in my throat. I could feel its eyes boring into me. Then, with casual disinterest, it turned away from me and padded silently up the incline. I watched it until it disappeared over the ridge like a ghost.
“Tim.” It was a man’s voice.
I jerked my head around quick enough to crimp the tendons. A liquid hot pain spread across the side of my neck. Andrew stood behind me in a pair of faded chinos and a wiaafebeater. Half his face glowed with the light of a full moon.
Andrew raised both hands, palms facing me. “You okay, man?”
“You scared the shit out of me,” I uttered, finding my breath.
“You out here looking for someone?”
“Just collecting my thoughts.” Had he heard me calling Hannah’s name? “Did I wake you?”
“Wasn’t asleep.”
“Where were you?”
“The tent stinks like sweaty men,” he said with a smirk. “Just needed some fresh air.”
“No,” I said. “I meant, where were you earlier tonight when Chad almost bought the farm? We could have used the extra pair of hands.”
After the incident, we’d all gathered in the tent where we collectively stripped our clothes and washed the mud and filth off us with fresh rainwater. Andrew had appeared during the process, and
I’d fumed as he crossed into the tent and peeled off his own sopping clothes. I’d thought some of the others might start attacking him, bombarding him with questions, but that didn’t happen.
Chad had talked a mile a minute about how he’d almost died, grinning and clapping us on the back. He recounted what had happened to Andrew without seeming to realize Andrew had been missing. Only Petras noticed my unease with Andrew, but he didn’t say anything. Apparently I had been the only one to see Andrew watching all that had transpired from his perch on the ridge. I considered mentioning this to Petras but decided against it.
“I was taking a leak,” Andrew said now. “I didn’t even realize anything had happened.”
“Okay,” I said, my fists clenching. “Cut it the fuck out. Chad was on that ledge because he was looking for you. If I hadn’t followed him and grabbed his coat as he went over the side, we’d be scooping him up off the rocks down there and carrying him home in our canteens.”
One of Andrew’s shoulders rolled. “What would you like me to say? It’s a scary thing, but this isn’t exactly a trip to the zoo. We’re all grown men. We know what we’ve got ourselves into.”
“I saw you.” I took a step toward him. “I saw you sitting on that fucking ridge, watching the whole thing.”
“You’re wrong. Calm down.”
“Don’t fucking tell me to calm down. I saw you sitting there.”
Andrew sighed and raked a hand through his hair. He looked caught between a laugh and a sob. “I was taking a piss on the other side of the hill. When the rain hit and the mud started pouring down the side of the hill, it became too slippery to climb up. And when I did climb up, you guys had already pulled Chad over the ridge. It was all over before I could do anything.”
“So you just sat the fuck down and watched us?”
“I was exhausted from climbing through the mud.”
I glanced away from him in the direction the wolf had gone only moments before. “You were gone for a long goddamn time just to take a piss.”
“I told you. The rain and the mud—”
“Before that,” I said, glaring at him and taking another step closer. “You’d disappeared long before that. The rest of us were bullshitting by the fire, and you were off gallivanting.” My fists were shaking, and my vision began to blur. “What the fuck’s going on here?”
“Go to bed, Tim.”
“Answer me.”
“I said—”
“Who do you think you are?” I growled. “Don’t tell me what to do. I swear to God I’ll flatten you right here.”
“This was a mistake.” Andrew threw his hands up. “I thought you were ready for this. It’s my fault. The whole goddamn thing was a mistake. When the rest of us take off for the first pinnacle, you can go back to the valley with the Sherpas. They’ll take you to the roads that lead back into town. You can get a bus from—”
I hit him in the face. It was a poor, clumsy punch, but it hit with solidity, and I could feel Andrew’s jawbone through his cheek and against my knuckles.
Andrew stumbled backward seemingly more shocked than hurt, a hand up to his jaw. His eyebrows knitted together, creating a vertical divot between them, and he didn’t take his eyes off me.
“I told you not to tell me what to do,” I said quietly.
Andrew’s gaze shifted to the fist that had struck him, which was still balled at my side. His face was expressionless. “Okay, Tim. Okay. Maybe I deserve it. Maybe I’ve been distant and aloof and removed from the whole damn thing, keeping all you guys in the dark. So, yeah, maybe I deserve it. I’m sorry.”
I kept my eyes locked on Andrew for fear that if I looked away he might vanish into the night.
“You said you’d left us in the dark,” I said finally. “What haven’t you told us? And no more games.”
Andrew took a deep breath and sat down beside me. “That maybe we shouldn’t be here.” He chuckled. “All right, you caught me. I wasn’t just taking a piss tonight.”
I stared at him.
“I was praying,” he said. “Meditating. Trying to lock into the power of the land. The power of the gods.”
“Meditating,” I repeated. “You don’t believe in that stuff.”
“That doesn’t matter here.”
“Why shouldn’t we be here?”
“Because there are a lot of people who think no one should climb the Godesh Ridge,” he said. “You can forget about the folklore, the campy stories, or even the facts—the men who’ve died trying. You can’t deny those things, but that’s not all of it. Fact is, we’re some big-time violators for coming here. The Godesh Ridge is sacred, a holy land, a temple not to be pursued, not even by the monks, the Yogis. No one. And the same holds true for the Canyon of Souls.”
I thought about Shomas, the hulking man who’d been waiting for me that night outside my cabin and whom I’d chased—or imagined I’d chased—through the streets of a rural village days later.
“A beyul,” I said, which seemed to catch Andrew’s interest.
“Where’d you hear that?”
“Petras. You’re familiar with the term?”
“Sure.”
“Is that what this canyon is? A beyul? A hidden land not meant to be found?”
“I suppose.”
“That’s why the guides turned back after the bridge,” I said. “That’s why they wouldn’t lead us into the Valley of Walls.”
“The Valley of Walls is considered a gateway to the ridge and the first in many stops along the way to the Canyon of Souls. There are others, too—the Sanctuary of the Gods, the Hall of Mirrors—and many of the indigenous people of this area will not corrupt the land with their presence. Simultaneously they believe we’re corrupting it by being here. To them, we’re no different than a band of grave robbers.”