Northern Lights

by Nora Roberts

  "John. Doesn't it bother you?"

  John contemplated his beer. "Having it bother me doesn't change the way things are. The way she is.

  The romantics like to say you don't have a choice who you love. I disagree. People pick and they choose. This is my choice."

  Charlene brought out the stew, a basket with chunks of fresh bread, and a thick wedge of apple pie.

  "Man works out in this weather, he needs to eat. You do justice by that now, Nate."

  "I will. You hear from Meg?"

  Charlene blinked as if translating the name from a foreign language. "No. why?"

  "Just thought you two might've gotten in touch with each other." To let the stew cool a little, he started with the bread. "Seeing as she's out there on her own in this."

  "Nobody knows how to handle herself better than Meg. She doesn't need anyone. Not a man or a mother."

  She walked away, letting the kitchen door slap shut behind her.

  "Sore spot," Nate commented.

  "Tender as they come. Bigger bruise yet if she thinks you're more interested in her daughter than in her."

  "I'm sorry to be the cause of that, but I am." He sampled the stew. It was loaded with potatoes, carrots, beans and onions, and a strong, gamey meat that couldn't have come from cow.

  It slid warm into his belly and made him forget about the cold.

  "What's this meat in here?"

  "That'd be moose."

  Nate spooned up more, studied it. "Okay," he said, and ate.

  * * *

  It snowed all night, and he slept like a stone through it. The view out his window when he woke was like the static on a television screen. He could hear the wind howling, feel it pressing against the windowpane.

  The lights didn't work, so he lit candles, and they made him think of Meg.

  He dressed, studying the phone. It was probably out, too. Besides, you didn't call a woman at six-thirty in the morning just because you'd had sex with her. There was no need to worry about her. She'd lived up here her entire life. She was tucked inside her house with her two dogs and plenty of firewood.

  He worried anyway as he used his flashlight to guide himself downstairs.

  It was the first time he'd seen the place empty. Tables were cleaned off, the bar was wiped down.

  There was no smell of coffee brewing, bacon frying. No morning clatter or conversation. No little boy sitting at a table looking up at him with a quick smile.

  There was nothing but dark, the howl of the wind and . . . snoring. He followed the sound and shined his light over the Mackie brothers. They lay, toe to nose, on the pool table, snoring away under layers of blanket.

  He worked his way into the kitchen and, after a hunt, found a muffin. Taking it with him, he pulled on his gear. With the muffin stuffed in his pocket, he pulled open the door.

  The wind nearly knocked him over. The force of it, the shock of it, the bitter snow that flew into his eyes, his mouth, his nose as he fought his way through the door.

  His flashlight was next to useless, but he aimed it out, followed the line of the rope in its beam. Then he stuffed the light in his pocket, gripped the rope with both hands and began to pull himself along.

  On the sidewalk, the snow was up to his thighs. He thought a man could drown in it, soundlessly, even before he died of exposure.

  He managed to fight his way to the street, where thanks to Bing's plow, and horse-turd whiskey, the snow was no more than ankle deep, unless you ran into a drift.

  He'd have to cross the street damn near blind, and without the guide, to get to the station. He closed his eyes, brought the image of the street, the location of the buildings into his head. Then lowering his shoulders to the wind, he let go of the rope, grabbed the flashlight again and started across.

  He might as well have been in the wilderness instead of in a town with paved streets and sidewalks, with people sleeping behind board and brick. The wind was like a storm surf in his ears, one that kept trying to shove him back as he bulled his way through it.

  People died crossing the street all the time, he reminded himself. Life was full of nasty risks, nastier surprises. A couple of guys could walk out of a bar and grill, and one of them could end up dead in an alley.

  An idiot could walk into a blizzard, try to cross the street and end up wandering aimlessly for hours until he dropped dead of exposure three feet from shelter.

  He was cursing when his boots bumped something solid. Picturing the curb, Nate waved his arms out like a blind man, and found the guide.

  "For our next amazing feat," he muttered, hauling himself onto the buried sidewalk. He dragged himself along until he found the cross rope, then changed angles and plowed his way to the outer door of the station.

  Wondering why he'd bothered to lock up, he fished out his keys, used his flashlight to help him find the locks. In the entry, he shook himself off, but kept his gear on. As he'd suspected, the station was frigid. Frigid enough, he noted, that the windows were frosted on the inside.

  Someone with more forethought than he had stacked wood by the stove. He fired it up, stood holding his hands, still gloved, to the flame. When he had his breath back, he closed the stove door.

  He got candles, a battery-operated lamp, and considered himself in business.

  He found the battery radio, tuned in to the local station. As promised, they were on the air, and someone with a twisted sense of humor was spinning the Beach Boys.

  Seated at his desk, he kept one ear on KLUN, the other on Peach's call radio and, mourning the lack of coffee, ate his muffin.

  By eight-thirty, he was still on his own. A reasonable hour, he decided, and settled down at the ham radio. He'd gotten a basic lesson from Peach on operation and decided to take his first flight.

  "This is KLPD calling KUNA. Come in, KUNA. Meg, you there? Pick up or sign on or whatever you call it." He got static, buzzing, a couple of squeals. "This is KLPD calling KUNA. Come on, Galloway."

  "This is KUNA responding. You got a license to operate that radio, Burke? Over."

  He knew it was ridiculous, but relief simply blew through him at the sound of her voice. Right on its heels was pleasure. "I'm C of P. Comes with the badge." bay over.

  "Right, over. No, you okay out there? Over."

  "That's affirmative. We're nice and cozy. Tucked up here listening to the taku. You? Over."

  "I survived a hike across the street. What's taku? A rock group? Over."

  "It's a mean bastard wind, Burke. The one shaking your windows right now. What the hell are you doing in the station? Over."

  "I'm on duty." He glanced around the room, noted he could see his own breath. "Your power out?"

  She waited a beat. "I'll say 'over' for you. In this, sure it's out. Generator's up. We're fine, chief. You don't have to worry. Over."

  "Check in once in a while, and I won't. Hey, you know what I had yesterday? Over."

  "Besides me? Over."

  "Ha." God, this felt good, he thought. He didn't care if it was cold as the ice of hell. "Yeah, besides.

  I had horse turd whiskey and moose stew. Over."

  She laughed, long and loud. "We'll make a sourdough out of you, Burke. Gotta go feed my dogs and my fire. See you around. Over and out."

  "Over and out," he murmured.

  It was warm enough now to shed the parka, though he kept on his hat and thermal vest. He was poking through the files, looking for busy work when Peach pushed through the door.

  "Wondered if anyone was crazy enough to come in today," she said.

  "Just me. How the hell did you get here?"

  "Oh, Bing brought me in on the plow." She dusted one hand over the baby-blue fleece of her sweater.

  "Snowplow as taxicab. Here, let me get that." He hurried over to take the big sack she carried.

  "You didn't have to come in."

  "Job's a job."

  "Yeah, but. . . coffee? Is this coffee?" He dug the thermos out of the sack.

  "Wasn't
sure you'd have the generator up yet."

  "Not only don't I have it up, I don't know if I can find it. And since mechanics aren't my strong point, I wasn't sure I'd know what to do with it if I did find it. This is coffee. Marry me, have many, many children with me."

  She giggled like a girl, slapped at him with her hand. "You be careful, throwing out offers like that.

  Just because I've been married three times already doesn't mean I won't go for four. You go ahead and have some coffee and a cinnamon bun."

  "Maybe we could just live together in sin." He set the sack on the counter, and immediately poured coffee into a mug. The scent hit him like a beautiful fist. "Forever."

  "You smile like that more often, I might just take you up on it. Well, look what the taku blew in,"

  she added when Peter stumbled in.

  "Holy cow. That's a whopper out there. Talked to Otto. He's on his way."

  "Bing bring you in, too?"

  "No, me and my dad mushed it."

  "Mushed." Another world, Nate thought. But Peach was right, a job was a job. "All right then. Peter, let's get the generator going. Peach, get ahold of the fire department. Let's get a crew together and clear off the sidewalks as soon as it's light enough, so people can get around if they need to. Priorities are around the clinic and the station. When Otto gets here, tell him the Mackies are passed out on the pool table at The Lodge. Let's make sure they get home in one piece."

  He pulled on his parka as he worked down his mental checklist. "Let's see if we can get an ETA on when power's going to be back on. People are going to want to know. Phones, too. When I get back in, we'll work up an announcement, have the radio run it, about what we know when we know it. I want people to know we're here if they need help."

  And that, too, Nate discovered, felt good.

  "Peter?"

  "Right behind you, chief."

  JOURNAL ENTRY • February 18, 1988

  Nearly lost Han in a crevice today. It happened so fast. We're climbing, pumped up, a few hours from the summit. Cold, hungry, edgy, but pumped. Only a climber understands the juice of that combination. Darth's in the lead, the only way to keep him from pitching another shitfit, then Han, and I'm bringing up the flank.

  But I forgot yesterday. The days are starting to blur now, one cold, white door opening to the next cold, white door.

  I was lost in the rhythm of my own pounding head, in the spell of the climb, in the rise of white. We crawled and grunted our way up a rock pitch, moving well, aiming for heaven.

  I heard Darth shout, Rock! And the cannonball of the boulder he'd dislodged spat out from that long chimney, whizzing by Han's head. I had an instant to think, no, I don't want to go this way, smashed by some fist of God, sucker punched off the mountain. It missed me, as it had Han, by inches, flying by in a finger snap of time, and crashing, bringing a quick and jagged rain of other rocks with it.

  We cursed Darth, but then we curse one another over anything and everything now. Most of it in companionable good humor. It helps surge the adrenaline as we get higher, and the air's so thin that breathing is an exercise in pain and frustration.

  I knew Han was flagging, but we pushed on. Pushed on, driven by obsession and Darth's relentless insults.

  His eyes look mad behind his goggles. Mad and possessed. While I think of the mountain as a bitch when I'm driving into her belly with ax and frozen fingers, she's a bitch I love. I think for Darth she's a demon, and one he's hell-bent to conquer.

  We bedded down that night by tying ourselves into pitons with the black world beneath us and the black sky above.

  I watched the lights, a dazzle of liquid jade across that mirror of black.

  Again today Darth took the lead. Being first seems to be another obsession, and arguing wastes time.

  In any case, I was concerned enough about Han to see the value of taking the flank, keeping the weakest of us in the middle.

  So it was Darth's need to be first, and my position in the rear, that saved the life of one of our trio.

  We'd packed the rope away. I'd said already that it was too cold for rope, didn't I? Again, we were moving well, moving up in the bright sparkle of the short day with even our curses whipped away by the roar of the wind.

  Then I see Han stumble and start to slide. It was like the ground disappeared under him.

  A moment's carelessness, a patch of windslab snow, and he was tumbling toward me. I don't know, I swear, if I caught him or if he sprouted wings and flew. But our hands locked, and I slapped my ax into the ice, praying it would hold, praying the bitch wouldn't belch us both into the void. For eternity I was on my belly, holding his hands while he dangled over the edge of nothing. We're screaming, both of us, and I'm trying to dig in with my toes, but we're slipping, sliding. Another few seconds and it would've been let him go or both of us are gone.

  Then Darth's ice ax cleaved into the ground beside me—an inch from my shoulder, and the pistoning of my heart cranked up to jack-hammer. He used it for purchase, and reached down to grab Han's arm. Some of the weight lifted from my screaming muscles, and I was able to dig in, belly back. Bellying back, the two of us, pulling Han up with the blood boiling in our ears and our hearts slamming in our chests.

  We rolled back from the edge, lay there on the snow, shaking under that cold, yellow sun. Shaking for what seemed hours, feet away from death and disaster.

  We can't laugh about it. Even later none of us have the energy to make that short nightmare into a joke. We're too shaken up to climb, and Han's ankle is messed up. He'll never make the summit, and we all know it.

  We have no choice but to chop out a platform and camp, divvy up food from our dwindling supplies while Han pops painkillers. He's weak, but not so weak his eyes don't roll with fear as the wind slams its killing fists at the thin walls of our tent.

  We should go back.

  We should go back. But when I floated that trial balloon, Darth went off, berating Han, shrieking at me in a voice shrill as a woman's. He looks half mad—maybe more than half—hulking in the dark, ice clinging to his stubbly beard and eyebrows, bitter lights in his eyes. Han's accident has cost us a day, and he'll be damned if it'll cost him the summit.

  He has a point, I can't deny it. We are within striking distance of the goal. Han may be able to make it after a night's rest.

  We'll climb tomorrow, and if Han can't manage, we'll leave him, do what we came to do, and pick him up on the way back.

  It's insanity of course, and even with the drugs, Han looks wrecked and scared. But I'm caught in it.

  Past the point of no return.

  The wind's howling like a hundred rabid dogs. That alone could drive a man mad.

  Eight