by Adam Sidwell
The air was thin up here, thinner than anything Guster had breathed, and as they climbed the short steep path into the village, Guster was surprised how light-headed he felt. No matter how deeply he breathed he just couldn’t get his lungs full enough.
Pancho de Pistachero stopped in a small gray building built of cinderblock. The front of the shop was open, with racks of jackets, ropes, and packs hanging from hooks. Pistachero grabbed three coils of rope and a pair of tents, strapping them furiously to the backpacks, while Caramelo collected sleeping bags from the shelves. When Pistachero was done, Caramelo stuffed them into the packs one after another.
Caramelo paid the shopkeeper, his back to Guster, hunching over his payment so that no one could see. Guster thought he glimpsed a stack of golden brown chocolate chip cookies pass between them. The shopkeeper smiled a toothless grin.
The two conquistadors went around the back of the shop, and when they returned they were leading a line of four shaggy brown yaks around onto the stone pathway. The yaks looked a lot like the cows that grazed near the farmhouse back home, but their necks met their torsos in a high hump, their horns curved upward, and their fur hung so low, it dragged in the dirt around their knees.
Several men from the village arrived hauling cargo sacks from the plane on their heads. They harnessed them onto the yaks’ backs with coils of coarse, braided rope.
Caramelo and Pistachero directed the work efficiently—they were obviously eager to begin their journey—and in just a few minutes their caravan was ready to leave.
Two women from the shop brought out steaming plates of rice slathered in a bland lentil sauce. Zeke wolfed it down, but it was too plain for Guster’s liking, so he only picked at it.
Mariah didn’t eat at all. She just leaned back on a bench and covered her eyes from the sun. Her face looked pale.
Caramelo handed Guster a puffy red parka and a large backpack from the shop. “You will need these. The journey is a cold one.” He gave parkas and packs to Mariah and Zeke as well.
They stuffed their parkas into their packs—the sun was still too warm for such a big jacket—and shouldered their backpacks.
“We go,” said Caramelo. He led the yaks under the strings of brightly colored red, blue, and yellow flags that crisscrossed over the stone path. Guster, Zeke, Mariah, and Gaucho followed, and as they walked the stone gave way to a muddy path, the buildings thinned, and the people were less frequent. It wasn’t long before they passed a gate on the edge of the village and stepped foot into the rugged Himalayan wilderness.
Chapter 10—The Mountaineers
Everything in the vast Himalayan mountain range was, by nature, far away. However colossal the mountains seemed looming overhead, they remained forever out of reach no matter how many hours upon hours Guster, Mariah, Zeke, Gaucho, and their strange conquistador captors hiked toward them.
Whenever they seemed to get close to one mountain range, another would grow up out of the ground, blocking their path and hiding the first from view. It was a twisted maze of ice and cliffs, and of all the places they’d been since last summer, Guster began to see it for what it was: the most impossible and forbidding place on Earth.
On the second day of their trek they crossed yet another swinging suspension bridge that spanned a wide, deep ravine. Guster tried not to look down through the metal grating that was the bridge’s narrow floor. Far below was a churning, roiling river of ice-blue water that tumbled over the rocks, charging its way downhill.
The first two nights they slept on foam mattresses in wooden houses that were little more than shacks built on the side of the trail. They ate more lentils, beans, and rice. Some were spiced; some were bland. They were served a sugary, orange, powdered drink with every meal. Guster mostly picked at his food, forcing a spoonful to his lips before spitting it back out again. Zeke and Mariah didn’t seem to mind it. He, on the other hand, was going to have to get to the Delicious City soon or he might starve.
He could only imagine the things that the people ate there. If it was anything like what he’d tasted in Bubalatti’s it would be more than worth their journey.
The trails were always uphill, and the higher they hiked the harder and harder it got for Guster to breathe. It was like the air wasn’t there, no matter how far his lungs reached for it—he just wasn’t getting enough. For the first time in his life his lungs started to understand how his stomach felt.
Mariah was even worse off. She needed more rest than Zeke or Guster, and would often stop on the side of the trail, leaning her head forward with her hands on her knees, gasping for breath. At night she complained quietly that her headache pounded against the back of her eyes. Other than the occasional groan, she rarely spoke. Her appetite was very thin, and she seemed to get worse with every mile they climbed.
At one point, they saw a faded map tacked to the wall of one of the wooden shacks. It showed that they were nearly 20,000 feet above sea level. “That’s almost as high as airplanes fly,” Mariah managed to mutter between breaths.
Caramelo and Pistachero did not make much effort to guard them. They would sleep in shifts, so one was always awake and watching, but they didn’t chain Guster and his siblings to anything. It was apparent that escape was even less likely now than it had been in the village. What could Guster do? Try to climb over one of the mountain ranges? That was impossible.
Each night, when everyone but Caramelo or Pistachero was asleep, Guster would hold his backpack close and sneak a peek into the pocket that held the jelly doughnut. Some nights it blinked rapidly. Others, it was a slow, faint pulse.
It made no sense. Was it thinking for itself? He couldn’t throw it away, but it made him nervous, like he was carrying a ticking time bomb on his back.
On the fourth day there were no more bridges, just ice and snow with mountains bigger than the world itself towering over them, so enormous they bent over in the sky. The trail had only been a faint impression in the snow for miles now, and Guster couldn’t remember the last time they’d seen another human being. Was it yesterday? Or maybe it had been the day before that.
It was getting harder and harder for Guster to drag his legs with each step. It was like invisible stones had been tied to his ankles.
Mariah was struggling too. Caramelo and Pistachero had transferred her pack to the yaks to make things easier for her, but her headaches were getting worse.
Only Zeke seemed unaffected by the altitude. He was slower, that was certain, and probably couldn’t run at a full sprint like he could back home, but he didn’t complain or show any signs of lethargy or pain.
Guster kept his head down, staring at the backs of Mariah’s feet as they crunched along the trail. He wanted to keep an eye on her so he could make sure she didn’t stumble or fall behind.
“Here,” said Pancho de Pistachero, swerving off the trail. “There is a storm tonight. We wait until the snow comes to cover our tracks.”
“Please,” said Gaucho, hoisting his pack. “You do not think that we have been followed.” The yak in front of him stopped and stomped his foot in the snow.
“We cannot take the risk,” said Camilo de Caramelo. “You know the rules of the Sacred City. Just because you have turned your back on it, it does not mean that we will.”
Gaucho frowned. These men were from such a strange place with so many different customs, that Guster could not begin to understand why they did what they did.
They pitched tents in the snow right next to the fading trail as a thick, gray cloud rolled over the mountains and swirled around them. They were so high they were actually inside the cloud, and it left Guster with the sick feeling that something very bad was coming soon.
Guster huddled down in his sleeping bag and Zeke buttoned the old canvas tent shut just as snowflakes began to flurry across the snow-covered plains.
“What are we doing up here?” Guster asked in a whisper.<
br />
“Whatever they want us to,” Zeke said glumly. “We are in the realm of Bigfoot’s distant cousin, the Abominable Snowman, who likes nothing better than to crunch the bones of tender boys and their feeble sister!”
Guster found himself wishing Mom were there. She always knew what to do. Or Dad, with his wise sayings. Or even Felicity. She would have her small army of mercenaries. Pistachero and Caramelo would be no match for them.
“I wish we had a heater,” said Mariah, her teeth chattering. She looked pale. She was getting sicker all the time.
The wind began to howl, blowing the left side of the tent inward like a sail. Gaucho had helped them anchor the ropes deep into the snow. Guster hoped they held. He huddled down into his sleeping bag.
He awoke to something shaking his shoulder. It was Zeke.
“Get up,” Caramelo said. “We go. Now!” His pointed face was peering into the tent door. It was dark outside. The snow was still blowing furiously outside.
How much time had passed? Guster hadn’t slept particularly well; it was too cold out for that.
He forced himself out of the sleeping bag, reluctantly crawling out like a snake shedding its skin. “What time is it?” he asked. He tried to wipe the sleep from his eyes.
Zeke shrugged. “I don’t know, but it’s too early for even football practice.” He was sitting up, his legs still inside his sleeping bag. Mariah was still huddled in her bag, asleep, her face hidden.
“Give her a minute,” said Guster, zipping up his puffy parka. He stood and dressed, packing his things as best as he could into brown canvas bags.
“Now!” Caramelo barked. He pulled on Mariah’s sleeping bag until she tumbled out in a heap onto the cold canvas they used as a ground covering. Guster helped her get to her feet.
They dressed as quickly as they could. Caramelo and Pistachero packed the yaks with their tents and most of the gear then swatted the yaks from behind. They ran off into the snow the way they’d come from the night before.
“Those are our tents!” cried Zeke.
Gaucho was already dressed and waiting. “We will not need them any longer. From here it is too treacherous, and tents will be of no help to us,” he said.
The yaks bellowed and disappeared into the snowstorm. With them went a piece of security.
“This way,” said Pistachero. He shouldered a very large pack that was higher than his head. It was so tall it looked like it would topple him over as it swayed with each step. A black cauldron hung from it, swinging in the wind.
Caramelo’s pack looked just as heavy and was at least as tall. A few coils of rope hung from it. Next to it were two axes, each one with a narrow, pointed head, the same kind Guster had seen mountain climbers use in pictures.
Guster steadied Mariah and they set out, doing their best to keep pace with Pistachero and Caramelo. Zeke took up the rear, carrying what little they still had with them.
The snow was not deep, not yet anyway, but the wind was biting, and flurries of cold, icy flakes pelted the exposed skin on Guster’s face. They hiked on for what seemed like hours, the cloud and blustering snow swirling around them, blocking their view of the mountains.
It was hard to tell if they were ascending or descending. All Guster could do was concentrate on a single step at a time, picking his way along carefully in the storm.
Suddenly, Pistachero stopped short. “Not a step further,” he said, “if you ever want to taste sweetness again.”
Guster, Mariah, and Zeke halted in their tracks.
Between waves of blustering snow, Guster could make out an icy chasm at their feet, too wide to jump, and so deep that he could not see the bottom. He stepped back from the edge.
Caramelo took one of the ice axes from the backpack and pounded it into the ground. He dug a small ring in the snow, and looped the middle of the rope around the knob of snow left in the center. He packed it down, anchoring the rope, then threw both ends into the chasm where they uncoiled, disappearing from view. Guster did not hear them hit bottom.
“You first,” he said, pointing to Guster.
“First what?” said Guster. He was afraid he knew the answer.
“You must go into the crevasse,” said Caramelo. Before Guster could object, Caramelo looped an old tattered length of rope around Guster’s waist and between his legs, cinching it off in a knot at Guster’s waist, so it formed a makeshift harness. Caramelo hooked the harness to a metal carabiner. He grabbed the rope he had dropped into the chasm and clipped the carabiner to both lengths, wrapping them twice around the metal ring, then pushed Guster toward the edge.
“I’ve never done this,” said Guster, digging his feet into the snow.
“You will learn,” growled Caramelo. He gave Guster one last shove, sending him backward into the chasm.
Guster felt his stomach lurch and his arms flail as he fell.
The rope caught him.
He was dangling from the edge, the soles of his boots pressed up against the vertical ice wall in front of him. His head was only a few inches below the lip. Zeke’s white face was staring down at him.
“You okay, P?” he said, sounding exasperated.
Guster patted himself with his gloves. He wasn’t sure why. Was he checking for damage? He couldn’t feel any broken bits. “Yeah, I’m okay,” he said, out of breath.
Gaucho knelt down and leaned his face toward the edge. “Pull the back of the rope upward, and you will go down easy,” he said.
He was glad Gaucho was there to help. Guster pulled the loose end of the rope upwards with his right hand like Gaucho said. The rope slipped through the carabiner. Guster began to drop, so he let go of the rope and the carabiner caught him, stopping his fall. His stomach lurched.
He shuffled his feet along the cliff face, careful to maintain what footing he could.
The truth was, when he thought about it, he had done this before. In the well at Chateau de Dîner in France. The Lieutenant had hooked him to a cable and dropped him into the well so he could escape. Only this time there was no one to lower Guster, which frightened him.
Guster breathed. Maybe if he only swung the rope halfway, he could slide slowly, and keep himself under control.
He tried it, swinging the rope up just a little. It worked, and he slid foot by foot down the rope until he could not see the top of the cliff any longer.
“Do you see the bottom?” cried Zeke, his voice echoing between the cliff walls and ringing in Guster’s ears. Somewhere behind him, the ice creaked and groaned like an old house waiting to collapse on itself.
“Quiet, fool!” hissed Caramelo. “Do you want to bring an avalanche crashing down on him?”
“Sorry!” Zeke squeaked.
Guster felt his heart squeeze in his chest. The ice wall bulged outward just below him, the rope dangling over the edge so that he couldn’t see the bottom.
He carefully lowered himself past the ice bulge, which left him dangling in midair. There was nowhere to plant his feet and they kicked wildly into empty space. Luckily, he could now see the bottom of the chasm below him.
He was eager to settle onto solid ground once more, so he slid down the rope the rest of the way without braking at all. His feet hit the snow with a wump, and his knees buckled under him. Luckily, the snow was soft enough to cushion his fall.
He almost shouted to the top, but then decided against it. He did not trust Caramelo, but he didn’t want to risk an avalanche either. He tugged on the rope instead.
Gaucho came next, sliding easily down the rope. Clearly he had done this before. How many times had he been here? It had been so difficult to get this far into the mountains. Surely it was a once in a lifetime journey.
They sent Mariah next. Mariah was shivering when she hit the bottom, her face huddled into her hood. Zeke slid down so fast, he nearly knocked her over. The grin on his face ma
de him look like he was actually enjoying himself.
Something tugged on the rope from above. Caramelo or Pistachero were on their way next.
“Listen to me, Señors.” Gaucho reached over to grab Guster and Zeke by the shoulders. “You are about to do a very hard thing. One that will take all of your courage to do.” His eyes were serious and his mustache curved down with the frown on his lips.
“We are about to enter the Delicious City,” he said. “Whatever you do, you must not panic. You must trust me, yes?”
A very hard thing? What could possibly be harder than what they’d already done? Whether they trusted Gaucho Del Pantaloon or not wouldn’t make much of a difference. Pistachero and Caramelo were in charge now. Even if they were to escape, where would Guster and his siblings go?
That set Guster on edge. He was helpless, and he didn’t like being helpless. He also hated not knowing what was to come.
Pistachero and Caramelo hit the chasm bottom one after the other. Pistachero yanked one end of the rope toward the ground. The other end flew upward. Pistachero pulled several more times, until he’d pulled the end up and over the ice knob above and the entire rope came tumbling down in a tangled heap. He coiled the rope and hooked it onto his pack.
“This way,” said Caramelo pointing toward a crooked, narrow end of the crevasse. The walls on either side were icy blue, bending jaggedly around corners so you couldn’t see what was ahead.
They followed Caramelo, hiking carefully over blocks of fallen ice and snow. The cold blue walls formed a shelter from the storm, making the crevasse eerily silent.
They scrambled around one final corner and came to a flat spot where the snow was piled up in soft, white drifts between the walls.
Caramelo held up his hands. “Stop,” he whispered. “Here is where we make something delicious to the city. If it accepts our offering, we will enter. If you are brave of heart and worthy, it will accept you. If you are not . . . well, then . . .”