by Davis Bunn
“Ms. Syrrell intends to take a pilgrimage,” Father Gregor said. “For herself. And for Raphael Danton. Is that not right?”
Storm pushed her plate away.
“I hope you will excuse Tanya for keeping us abreast of the young man’s progress.” Father Gregor slid the plate back in front of her. “You must be strong. And you must be rested. Start with this meal. Then we will pray. And then you will sleep.”
“I can’t.”
“My dear child,” the priest replied, “I was not making a suggestion.”
FORTY-FIVE
STORM WAS AWAKE LONG BEFORE the monastery bell sounded for matins. The ringing was gentle, almost apologetic. Storm heard footsteps in the corridor outside her door and rose from her bed.
When she had sat and talked with Father Gregor the previous evening, the chapel had been empty and lit by two flickering lamps. As she entered the chapel that early dawn, tall candles burned on stands to either side of the nave. The monks filled one side of the chapel. The group Storm was coming to think of as her team filled the other side. Antonin Tarka gestured for Storm to join him in the first pew.
Father Gregor led the morning service, assisted by two monks, wearing robes of red and white and gold. In place of his normal quiet dignity was an almost regal bearing. The candles, the incense, the deep-voiced chants, and the night-darkened windows all came together in a comforting embrace. Her fear did not vanish. Grim dangers still lay ahead. But here in this one brief moment, there was peace. Storm closed her eyes and breathed deeply, trying hard to believe that this momentary gift would see her through the coming trial.
They left the monastery at sunrise. Father Gregor remained in his formal robes. The monks gathered behind the priest and chanted in plainsong as the group passed through the doors. The monastery had an odd little gate facing the private valley and the mountains beyond. The waist-high wall surrounding the building rose into an arch, with a font set in the right-hand wall. A Latin inscription was carved into the stones overhead. For over six hundred years, the monastery had served as a way station for pilgrims traveling from the northern reaches to Rome. The carved words had almost been washed away by the seasons and weather. Father Gregor had translated them for Storm the previous night. They came from Acts and read, “You will be my witnesses to the ends of the earth.”
As the monks sang, Father Gregor sprinkled them with holy water and blessed them in Latin. Three of their Polish team carried the crate bearing the counterfeit Black Madonna. Each of the Poles dipped his or her fingers into the font and made the sign of the cross before passing through the arch. Up ahead rose the hills.
Their path lay alongside a tumbling river. They crossed the meadow, passing through herds of quietly bleating sheep, and entered a forest of alpine fir. The rise, when it began, was subtle, as though the mountains intended to lull them into complacency. Gradually the slope steepened, and the river shouted a warning as they climbed.
They rested when they reached the tree line. The padded straps of Storm’s pack bit into her shoulders. She leaned against a rock and stared at the blue-black sky. Too soon they were called back to the trail. They climbed. Each time the path steepened, the snow-swollen river became a waterfall. The backwash struck the climbers like liquid bullets.
They climbed until Storm’s lungs burned as fiercely as her legs. They entered a realm of rock and snow and ice. Everything green lay below them now. Here there was only winter.
She wore a pair of felt gloves with leather stitched around the fingers. The gloves were soft and flexible, yet the leather gave her purchase on the rocks even when wet. Storm did not mind the steep segments of the climb. It drew the boulders in close to her face, blocking the temptation to look back at the paralyzing distance below.
They arrived at a ledge perhaps fifty paces wide and twice as long. A waterfall plunged into a pool at the far end. The rest of the narrow plateau was covered in loose gravel and fresh snow. Immediately the outcropping became littered with exhausted bodies. Eric and Tanya set up paraffin stoves and began brewing tea. Emma filled a mug and brought it over to where Storm was seated on a rock. Emma pointed to the crate holding the Madonna. It had been carried the entire ascent by three people at a time, one in front holding guide ropes, two behind taking most of the weight.
Now that they had stopped, one Pole after another walked over to the crate. They stared down at it for a time, then touched the wood, crossed themselves, and walked away. Emma asked, “What are they doing?”
“It was a habit among medieval pilgrims. They started on the road carrying a prayer.” Storm drained the mug and set it in the snow beside her rock. “Most pilgrims traveled in groups because the roads weren’t safe. Someone in the group carried an icon, a cross, a prayer book, something that had been blessed by a priest and was meant to remind the pilgrims of their purpose. Every now and then, they repeated their prayer. Then they touched the object, sending the prayer off to God. This was how a lot of icons became known as sources of miracles.”
Emma crouched on the rock next to Storm. “But the icon is a fake.”
“Tradition has it that any true likeness carries the same power as the original icon.”
“How do you know all this?”
“Father Gregor told me last night. He said if I was going on a pilgrimage, I should understand the rules of the road.”
Emma watched as one military-hardened Pole after another walked forward, touched the crate, crossed himself, and walked away. “What kind of prayer?”
“Usually something acknowledging the hopelessness of their situation and affirming their faith that they are in God’s hands.”
“So, like a lost cause.”
“Think about it. You’re leaving comfort and safety behind. You’re walking for days. You do this as an act of sacrifice. It all adds to the intensity of a prayer.”
Emma rose slowly, testing each muscle in turn. “More tea?”
“My turn.”
“I got it.” Emma started toward Tanya, then veered over to where the crate leaned against the cliff. She stared at the crate for several seconds, then she reached forward and touched it. She rested her hand there for a long moment.
THEY ROPED UP FOR THE final ascent. The river that had guided them disappeared under a tongue of glacier ice, but the rocky pass remained clearly evident, framed by niches and hollows. Here and there they came upon images carved into the rocks. A cross, a Latin inscription, a crude font now holding ice and snow, a stone fish. Those climbing ahead of Storm often reached out and touched the images, then their lips. And they climbed.
Smuggler’s Pass was a saddle formed between two towering peaks. Eric identified them to Storm as he fitted on the mini-skis that would serve her as snowshoes. Monte Chaschauna to the southwest, Monte Saliente to the northeast. Both over ten thousand feet. The peaks were known as arete, where two glaciers had crawled up opposite sides of a mountain and formed a jagged, narrow ridge like the blade of a serrated knife.
Emma let Eric help her into a second pair of walking skis, then confessed, “I’m too tired to make it down.”
“Press your heel down hard. Good.” Eric rose and pointed across the expanse to where the ice saddle melded with a sky more black than blue. “We hold to the southern wall. The surface there is more stable. The distance is less than five kilometers. We overnight in a mountaineer’s hut.”
“Five kilometers,” Emma said.
“A bit less. And most of that is flat.”
“I can do that.”
The stark surroundings granted Eric’s half smile a semblance of normality. “I know you can.”
Storm walked across the snowpack to where Tanya and two others fitted themselves into the crate’s guide ropes. The skis were a welcome change, as they kept her from needing to actually lift her feet from the surface. She said, “I want to carry it.”
Emma stepped up beside her. “Me too.”
Tanya spoke to the two men, who helped each of them loop the
crate’s ropes around their neck and one shoulder. The lines were connected to hooks screwed into the crate’s corners. The lines were meant for balance and as last lines of safety. One of the young men motioned for Storm to take off her pack.
“I can carry it,” she replied.
Tanya said, “Let them help.”
The Pole was quite handsome in an intensely blond and hard-edged manner. He accepted Storm’s pack and said something softly, which Tanya translated as “We bear one another’s burdens.”
The crate was bulky but not heavy. As they entered the ice flow, Eric pushed a long, collapsible pole into the snow, testing the way ahead. The group followed in a slow line. The rope linking them was kept slack so as not to jerk anyone off balance. Storm and Emma and Tanya were at the line’s midpoint. Progress was slow enough for her to glance around. In the late-afternoon light it seemed as though they were connected by time’s own hand, linked to events and powers far beyond her ability to see.
A soft wind added a breath of urgency to the descending sun. Storm sensed that Eric was concerned, but he did not alter his pace.
Then the saddle ended, and the world simply dropped away.
Eric must have known they were all on the verge of collapse. He unsnapped himself from the line and remained in place, pointing ahead and murmuring the same mantra to each person who passed: “Food and water are less than a thousand meters ahead.”
The drop and the lengthening shadows robbed the valley of all color. The distant scene was merely a patchwork of shadows and grays. Storm was so exhausted she could look at the drop and not care. She felt nothing.
Her lungs continued to pump desperately for air, but her throat was numb. Her hands and shoulders ached from carrying the crate.
The alpine hut was so small she would have missed it entirely, taking it for just another rock outcropping that protruded from just another snowbank. But a Swiss flag was painted on its side. The hut did not look much bigger than a walk-in closet.
Emma muttered, “Are we supposed to sleep standing up?”
At that point, Storm did not care. All she had room for was the sight of one person after another stepping around the outer ledge and entering through the door. Off the path. Into a haven of safety.
FORTY-SIX
THE HUT FRONTED ON A cave, and the cave had been sectioned into bunk rooms and chemical toilets and a wide main room. The bunks and the benches were all carved from the stone and covered by lightweight pads. Eric slipped into the front room and lit the stone stove, which basically meant hitting the switch. There was no other control. The stove was run by solar-powered batteries and had one temperature, just hot enough to boil water at this altitude.
They dined on freeze-dried stew served in melted snow. They drank cup after cup of tepid tea. No one spoke. Eric assigned bunks. Everyone slept in his clothes.
Emma was the first to wake the next morning. She took the hut’s four pans outside, filled them with snow, and set two on the burner. By the time they came to a boil, the chamber was warming. A first slit of sunlight glimmered through the hut’s shutters. Emma made herself a cup of instant coffee, sweetened it liberally from the plastic sugar jar, and heard Storm ask, “What does a lady have to do to earn one of those?”
Emma made a second cup and said, “Why don’t we take it outside?”
They took their boots from the line by the door and carried the tin mugs out to the bench facing the rising sun. The air was both still and dry enough to ease the morning chill. Storm finished her mug and asked, “More?”
“Not just yet.”
Storm rose and went inside. Emma settled back, in no hurry to go anywhere. She heard people moving around and hoped they would stay indoors. The sun warmed as it rose, a brilliant orb in a blue-black sky.
Storm returned carrying Tanya’s satellite phone. She dialed a number, waited, then said, “Good morning, Muriel. How is Raphael?”
When Storm took a ragged breath, Emma reached over and took hold of her free hand. Storm asked, “Can I speak with him?”
Emma kept hold of her free hand as Storm said, “Good morning, Raphael. Eric is here, leading our team over Smuggler’s Pass. We’re carrying the duplicate Madonna into Switzerland. Before we left Italy, Father Gregor called this my pilgrimage. Now I know he was right. I’m doing this for you and for me and for us. I’m doing it for our love.” Her voice broke then. She tried twice to go on, then cut the connection. She handed the phone to Emma.
Storm’s breathing gradually eased. She swallowed hard. “I can’t tell you how much I wish I had your problem. At least you two have a chance to work things out.”
Emma said, “Do you believe in miracles?”
The cabin door opened. Tanya emerged, saw the two of them seated there, took the phone and their mugs, and retreated back indoors. Emma said, “I’m only asking on account of how I don’t see any other way out of this mess I’m in with Harry.”
Tanya returned bearing a single plate and one mug. “You’ll have to share. There aren’t enough plates to go around.”
They ate the freeze-dried stew and shared the mug in silence. Emma rose and took the plate and cup back inside. When she returned, the mug was steaming again. She seated herself, sipped, handed it to Storm, and said, “The past few days have revealed a fracture line in my life. The problem is not the other people who have failed at this marriage business. And it’s not my parents. It’s not my profession. And it’s not Harry. It’s me. Here and now. I’m terrified that I’m not able to do this, make it work, keep us together.” She planted her fists together. “I’ve got this tug-of-war inside me. One side desperately wants to be with Harry and nowhere else. The other side wants to hide away forever, using whatever excuse is nearest to keep me alone. Loving that man from six thousand miles away was ideal.”
“You can keep doing that.”
“No, we can’t. Either we grow or we die.”
Tanya emerged from the hut once more and announced, “We leave in five minutes.”
Storm rose slowly to her feet. “The only reason I have the strength to go on is the hope that miracles can touch even someone like me.”
ERIC WALKED ALONGSIDE STORM FOR a time, speaking of his highland world in almost reverential tones. There were many passes through the mountains. San Bernardino and San Gotthard were perhaps the best known. But in medieval times they were often preyed upon by bandit gangs. In such cases, pilgrims journeying to the Holy City sought lesser-known routes. Smuggler’s Pass had been a vital conduit for over four hundred years. The reason became clear in the morning light.
The glacier saddle descended in a series of treacherous drops. The recent snow was creased with lines tight as a woman’s frown. Eric pointed out how the drifts were shifting with the rising temperatures. This, he said, was an avalanche in the making.
But the path of their descent was utterly removed from this risk. To the west, the snowfield was rimmed by massive stones. They descended on these boulders like mice crawling down a giant’s staircase.
The sunlight was strong enough to melt where it touched. The water re-formed as ice in the shadows. Each of the granite blocks was between ten and fifteen feet high. Where the stones met the cliff, centuries of pilgrims and smugglers had carved a lattice of hand- and footholds. Now and then they came upon more carved messages. In many places the steps were worn down to dangerous slants. Storm found the going especially hard at first, because she could not find enough air to take a decent breath. Her lungs sucked and pumped, but the air refused to gather.
Eric pushed them hard. Every time they halted he watched the peaks overhead. As the day progressed, the wind picked up again from the south. The peaks started snagging clouds, drawing colossal shadows over their world. Their handholds became mired in shades of granite and mist.
They lost the ability to speak. They walked and rested and walked again. Eventually they left the stones and the tongue of ice behind and entered a chaotic, slanting field of boulders. In some places a
path became visible. In others, they picked their way around rocks the size of houses.
Each time they stopped, Storm used what precious breath she had to speak with Eric and Tanya. Their plans were simple enough. But her head felt parched from a raw mix of exhaustion and too little air. She made Tanya repeat each step before translating it to the people who crowded about them, listening, nodding, asking quiet questions for which Storm had to find yet more answers. One of the group used the satellite phone, then returned to their group and gave Storm a thumbs-up. Storm found it reassuring to see that others agreed with her direction.
The rocks diminished in size, and their descent became progressively easier, which was good, because Storm’s legs were on fire. Eric promised them a longer rest soon. Storm longed for stable earth that did not constantly slope downward. Where she did not have to keep constant watch for ice mixed with mud and rocks. Where she was not forced to lean back and balance her weight on her heels. Where breathing came easy. Where her pack did not constantly grow heavier. And her boots. And her shoulders. A world where she could just stop and rest until the next millennium.
The pine forest rose around them in stealthy stages. One tree fought through the rocks to form a Zen-like sculpture. Then two. Then a cluster high as her head. Then suddenly the rock was gone. The world became hushed by a blanket of needles, and the trees’ fragrance overpowered her senses.
As they followed a muddy trail, the clouds descended and blanketed the forest, bathing their world in a fine mist. Now and then the stillness was broken by the whump of snow falling off branches. Occasionally sunlight broke through the mist. Birds chirped and sang of a world where men were not aliens. Storm’s lungs stopped aching. Now the air felt thick as soup.
They halted. Storm released her pack’s chest strap, and then her legs simply gave way. She would have found it funny had she not been so tired. She managed to turn over so that she faced up and could see the branches carving delicate script from the white-gray mist. Once again the sun managed to break through, the light so blinding that Storm wanted to shield her eyes. But she could not raise her arm. As the world became shrouded again, she felt another body drop beside her own, but she could not find the energy to turn her head. Then Emma said, “Wake me in a thousand years.”