Under Everest

by D. H. Dunn

  The hell with it, he thought. He fumbled with his feet for purchase and half-climbed, half-slid the rest of the way to the icy ledge where Wanda waited.

  She was on her side, chest heaving from exertion, peering down into the blackness of the fissure. Drew collapsed onto the cold ice next to her, grasping his biceps and trying to massage the pain into something less agonizing.

  His mouth began to fill with liquid, he was unsure if it was blood or vomit, or both. He spat, and then called into the fissure. “Nima!”

  Far above, Merin and Pasang would be descending with Kad and Perol. Below could lay the corpses of Pasang’s sister and the one man who could help them all get home.

  The chasm was hardly silent. The cold wind still bellowed up from the fissure, blowing Drew’s and Wanda’s hair as it threw snow and ice at them. Water dripped from any number of sources, the bats fluttered about. His heartbeat pounded in his head, even as his every muscle and joint cried with pain. Many sounds, but not the one he wanted to hear.

  “Nima!” he repeated, his mind flashing back to a dark night in a warm Indian Ocean. Floating with the night sky overhead, the flaming remains of his ship descending into the sea. Calling out Artie’s name over and over. Calls that were never answered.

  “We’re all right!” Finally, a response. Her voice even smaller and more exhausted than before, but still spiced with that happy lilt that was hers alone. Nima. “Both of us,” Nima added. “Had to get Kater down safely and catch my breath.”

  Drew allowed himself to roll onto his back, the air in his lungs escaping as if it were his soul fleeing. His heart still beat in his chest like it would explode, but it was over. Somehow, they were all still alive. His arms and shoulders would be sore, but they would heal.

  He felt a cool hand on his forehead, it may have been Wanda’s or Nima’s. It could have been his mother’s for all he knew. Maybe he wasn’t trapped in some strange hole inside Everest, maybe he was back on his bed in Oregon. Maybe Artie was just in the next room, drawing those pictures of mountains, as always.

  Maybe everything was all right again, or maybe it wasn’t. As his body shut down and his mind turned itself over to unconsciousness, Drew decided it didn’t matter at all.

  22

  “Admittedly, man is small and insignificant in nature’s scheme.”

  —Heinrich Harrer

  Jang Baradhur had a knack for surviving, even when death would have been preferable.

  He lay on his side on the cold stone of the ledge, his hair dangling into the dark void of the chasm. The pain had been great for a time, but it was slowly receding, pulling away from him like the tide going out. His last friend, leaving him. He knew his bones were still shattered, the blood was still pooling, he was just losing his ability to sense it.

  He was dying and the Jang dynasty would die with him. No rescue would come to him here. He had escaped death and destruction more times than he could count, as though chance wanted him to believe he was divinely protected, anointed by some unknowing god to restore order to Nepal.

  Jang didn’t believe in gods or chance. The only certainty for man was death, even if he were better than most at finding opportunities to delay it.

  He coughed. A small, pathetic sound that echoed softly off the dark walls. Off in the murky shadows of the other side of the ledge, dim eyes blinked back at him.

  At first Jang thought the eyes might be his own, reflecting back at him on a sheet of ice. But they blinked out of sequence with his own, a deep, steady breathing becoming audible over his own labored gulps of air.

  A foot emerged from the darkness, clawed and covered with crimson scales. A leg followed, and a second foot. The huge mass slowly emerged from the shadows, limbs and wings framing an enormous, translucent belly. The head came last, snaking out on a long neck, small flecks of fire dripping from the rat-like snout.

  It was Vihrut. But the beast had changed since Jang had last seen it. There was an intelligence in the eyes that looked at him, a questioning stare.

  “Food.”

  The beast could speak now, the voice low and full of stone, like the speech of a mountain. If Jang were religious, he supposed he might consider Vihrut the spirit of Everest.

  It took another step forward, bringing more of itself into the light. Jang could see shapes in its belly . . . faint, human shapes. Using his one good arm, he struggled to push himself backward as Vihrut inexorably advanced on him.

  “So much bigger,” Jang said under his breath. To his surprise, the creature stopped advancing and looked at him.

  “I hunger,” Vihrut said. “I eat. Food. I consume and grow.” The long neck twitched, moving Vihrut’s head from side to side. “Yet I hunger still.”

  One foot of the beast scraped the stone at its feet, the claws drawing three long gouges on the surface. Inside Vihrut’s translucent belly, Jang could see the floating parts of beasts and men. A cave bat, with tiny wings not unlike the large ones Vihrut sported. The head of one of the large worms, the worm’s scales echoed on Vihrut’s skin. Half the head of a man floated into view, some portions of brain still visible inside the amber fluid.

  “You speak now,” Jang said. Each word came with blood in his mouth, but his mind was racing faster than his pain. His thoughts focused on the belly of Vihrut, the possibilities there. “You think?” Jang asked.

  The creature lowered its head, the scales above its eyes compressing into an expression Jang thought might be anger or . . . frustration? Another drag of the clawed talons across the stone. Perhaps it was even . . . fear?

  “I . . . have grown,” Vihrut replied. “I am awake, but I hunger still. You are food, yet no food can satisfy me.”

  Still staring at the floating contents of the beast’s churning stomach, Jang fought to keep his mind away from the pain. There was so much inside the creature already, yet it wanted more. Perhaps it wanted something beyond food but lacked the intelligence to create it.

  Perhaps what Vihrut needed was purpose.

  He smiled back at Vihrut, the action agonizing to his damaged face. It mattered not, the pain mattered not. All that mattered was this beast and the idea that was forming in Jang’s mind.

  “I think I understand,” Jang said, keeping his voice low and soothing. “I think I can help you. I think I can . . . sate your hunger.”

  Slowly the beast moved its head from side to side, to Jang a parody of shaking its head. It took another step forward, the claws retracting more now. Mixed signals, a good sign.

  “I will consume you.” While still deep, its voice had a new tone to it, reminding Jang more of the sad growl of a hungry dog than a mountain speaking. “You are no different than other food. I will grow, but I will remain hungry.”

  “I think not.” With an effort that brought more pain than he could have imagined possible, Jang pulled himself toward Vihrut. He locked eyes with the creature, the beast having stopped in its advance.

  “As you are . . . different, so am I,” Jang said. He coughed, the pain racking his ribs as more of his blood fell from his mouth to the floor.

  Jang kept his gaze focused, his mind a razor.

  “I offer a new . . . food for your hunger that cannot be sated. Your hunger is not for meat, but for purpose. A goal for your life, a reason for your existence. Only then will your hunger end. And only I can offer it to you.”

  Jang tried to put pressure on his knee, to rise and stand before the creature. His leg cried out in pain, and he collapsed. For a moment, his vision became black and sound began to fade.

  No! Not now! Jang forced his eyes open. Vihrut had moved closer, the great distended belly now less than a meter from Jang’s face. He could feel the heat pulsing from the monster’s stomach, see the bubbles of digestion moving around inside it.

  Vihrut’s nose was at his back, smelling him. Looking for fear, Jang was sure. Yet the beast had shown its own fear as well.

  “I have eaten the meat of your kind before,” Vihrut said above him. “I still hu
ngered as before.”

  Jang bit his tongue, relishing the taste of his own blood in his mouth. He needed the focus, this was the moment. This was his moment.

  Jang placed his hand upon Vihrut’s belly, the warmth covering him. The surface was like ice after a thaw, forgiving slush. He felt confident if he pushed, it would give way for him.

  Still, he needed permission. If this was to work the way he expected, it had to be mutual.

  “You have eaten frightened men. Men whose minds were gone with panic and fear.” He felt the pulse of Vihrut’s heartbeat tremble through the stomach, passing the vibration on to his hand. “I would join you willingly,” Jang said.

  The creature’s clawed hand scraped across his back. Lightly, gently. “No more hunger?” The voice above him was both loud and quiet, the rumblings of a church mouse.

  “No more hunger, my friend,” Jang said, knowing these words would be the last he would utter that were truly his own. “I can help you. Think of what you could become―what we could become.”

  There was a deep breath from above him, and then Jang felt the resistance of the stomach membrane give way to his hand’s gentle probing. He passed into the opening up to his wrist, a slight pull now present upon his flesh.

  Jang allowed himself to be pulled forward by the tug of Vihrut’s internals, a gentle action that was painless. The creature’s interior was warm and luxurious, the hottest of baths in the most secluded of palaces.

  He took one last look at the world before the yellow substance began to cover his face, one last pull of air into his lungs. Then he passed inside the creature completely, tendrils of Vihrut already working their way into him.

  The lines blurred, his limbs felt both tiny and massive. His stomach both empty and full. His mind his own, and not his own.

  The doors were opening and he ran through them with abandon. He could feel the creature’s will around him, its small thoughts and desires like little trinkets on a table. They were easily brushed aside to be replaced with maps and plans, designs and retributions. His body may have failed him, but his will would not.

  Jang Baradhur had a knack for surviving.

  23

  “I walked to the mountains and defeated them. That’s all.”

  —Jerzy Kukucza

  Wanda listened as Kater slowly eased himself down the fissure, the rope connecting the old man to her waist vibrating with his movements. The cold stone closed in on either side of her as she made her slow progression through this crack in the Under, what lay below them still a mystery.

  A second line ran from her back to Nima, who was anchored above her. Merin acted as a second point to secure them, both women far above.

  Following his team’s near death in the fissure, Kater had instructed Drew to move to the second team. His reasoning had been that he wanted to split the expertise better, but Wanda suspected Kater just didn’t want to be reminded that the American had again saved his life.

  They were all been exhausted following the incident, Drew especially. Unfortunately, the cold and wind had allowed no time to set camp. Having left the gear and supplies of the previous camp behind them, they now carried only two small tents in Pasang’s and Nima’s packs. Pushing on to unknown ground, there was no way of knowing when the next good campsite would present itself.

  The cold was everywhere now, reminding Wanda of Everest’s surface. The chill wind blew constantly from below, from some source they had not yet seen, ice and snow carried along with it from deeper in the fissure.

  While they inched down the cramped space at what felt like a brisk pace, with no sun or watch to tell time, the passage of her own breath was all she had to mark the progress. Each moment seemed like another, in a repeating loop.

  Kater made his way downward, Wanda following in turn. He had insisted on taking point on the descent through the fissure, brooking no argument. Wanda found herself pushing to be the one to follow him, hoping to get the answers she needed.

  Now with Nima and Merin far above her and the howl of the wind covering her voice, the time had come. She descended a bit lower, coming as close to Kater as the tight space would allow.

  “Tell me the truth, Kater.” She heard acknowledging his grunt below her. “My father―the Yeti brought you an old man. A dying man. Why would you care for him, given your limited resources?”

  She heard his boots continue to crunch against the rock as he descended further in the fissure. She cursed the narrow confines which made it impossible for her to see past her own footwear. She needed to see his eyes, but all that was available to her vision was stone. Stone split by glowing veins of color, broken up by patches of ice, and the occasional patch of small mushrooms.

  “Perol asked me the same question,” he said, after a pause long enough for her to worry he had not heard her. “She said we could not afford to spare the supplies. Before the Under I am sure I would not have given him a second thought.”

  Wanda gripped the handle of the prybar she was using to help keep her hold on the rock, her hands shaking slightly. She thought of her Papa, alone and dying in the snow like some animal, only to spend the last few days of his life seeing wonders beyond anyone’s imagining.

  “I looked at him there in the Yeti’s arms,” Kater continued, “old and weak. A feeble man with gray hair and frail limbs. Yet I also saw myself, saw what I might be becoming thanks to this infernal place, so I spared him.”

  Wanda felt fresh heat build inside her and pounded her feet into the stone as she descended.

  “Even in that moment, Kater? Your act of compassion was about yourself?”

  “You told me to be honest.”

  Was there a catch in his voice? Wanda uncertain if she had heard remorse or not. Perhaps it was just wishful thinking.

  “And his death?” Her question was scarcely more than a whisper and again she worried Kater might not have heard it over the wind blowing up from below them.

  “He spoke of you, right to the end. His very last words were a request for me to find you, just as I said. He spoke of you each day, Wanda, as he did of your Poland. His devotion to both was as pure as I have ever seen.”

  She was forced to halt her progress. The tears in her eyes had left the stone in front of her a wavering blur.

  All those years after the war, all the time we spent together. Yet still she wanted more. Her mouth hung open, her grief removing her ability to speak.

  “You do not ask after his body, but I will tell you all the same,” Kater continued. Did she want to know what had been done with her father’s body. His corpse? “I burned it with my own hands, though with my reduced power it took time. You may not believe me, but I did it to honor him. I did not wish the worms to feast upon poor Henryk. I have known the death of thousands of quicklifes, but never before did I mourn until your father.”

  She heard him below her, his boots striking the icy rock again. He had stopped along with her, perhaps to stay close enough that she could hear him.

  “It was one last lesson he taught me.” Kater’s words were almost too quiet for Wanda to hear over the wind, as if he had said them for himself alone.

  The narrow confines assisted their progress as they descended further in wordless silence. It was easier to brace themselves and simply descend with their backs against one side and their legs braced against the other.

  With each hand on the stone wall in front of her, with each press of her back against the hard, icy rock, the same facts bounced back and forth in her mind.

  Her father had spent his last days here seeing wonders that must have enchanted his mind. He had spent them with Kater, the man who was responsible for all their misery, and the two had forged some kind of partnership.

  That arrangement had delivered Wanda possible access to all the knowledge her father had sought, and it seemed to have changed Kater as well. Or was that merely what Kater wanted her to think? Was he manipulating her still?

  Lost in a blizzard of lies and possibilities, she want
ed to cry out in frustration. The truth seemed an obscure shape, barely visible in the blinding snow of Kater’s past deceptions and her own doubt.

  A glint by her boots caught her attention. Peering below her, Wanda could see light shining through the mists and snow-etched winds. A pulse of blue and white, coming at regular intervals that matched the intensity of the gales. A dying portal, perhaps. It was possible it was the source of the chilling weather.

  The cold bit into Wanda’s fingers as she inched lower. Above her, Nima’s progress was slow, the Sherpa waiting for Merin to catch up with her. Another gust of air blew past her, ripping through her clothes as if she were naked.

  Kater’s voice came from below her, cutting into her as efficiently as any bitter wind she had felt on Everest.

  “It comes time to make my proposal to you clear, Miss Dobrowolski. I offer you answers to questions, the opportunity to study, to learn. And, when the time comes, the chance to bring these gifts back to your own world. That is what you want, correct? What your father wanted?”

  The blue and white pulses were increasing in intensity through the mists below, the energetic throb of the portal’s energy now palpable on the wind. Kater’s words hung in her ears amidst the gale. He offered options, opportunities.

  “And what must I do in return?” she asked. She wanted another look at him, needed to see his eyes and try to gauge the honesty or deceit in them. Yet her vision was filled with the white of snow and ice, Kater reduced to a mere shadow in the mist.

  “No different than your father. Teach and be taught. Have you never had a student? Having knowledge of something, did you not learn and grow from the mere act of sharing it?”