Soot

by Dan Vyleta

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  NEW REGULATIONS (1/1/1908): Smoke Masks are to be considered mandatory standard issue for Company soldiers & security guards. Their cost (Company rates) is to be deducted in increments from their wages during their first year of service. Regular practice of martial drills while wearing the Smoke Masks is mandatory and to be performed twice a year. Experience shows that only a small minority of men can get sufficiently used to the mask to wear it for much longer than an hour, and that strenuous exercise while wearing the mask is physically challenging due to insufficient airflow.

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  MANUFACTURE: Below, please find detailed technical drawings based on the model of Smoke Mask produced in our Calcutta factories (the so-called Indian Cut). Note the innovations of the buckle system (figs. 7A and B). A lighter, more elegant but less efficient version is manufactured in our Paris factory for export to Britain (“French Cut,” figs. 11–13).

   CATHEDRAL

  [ 1 ]

  First they turn into thieves, taking what they need from out the explorers’ equipment tent and distributing it across two bags.

  Then they start climbing.

  Singh takes the lead. His backpack is by far the heavier; two brackets studded with iron prongs are tied to its top. These are designed to be strapped to one’s boots and provide grip on the ice. For now, they lend a hedgehog’s prickliness to Singh’s dark outline. The moon is long gone, clouds are gathering above the valley. Even so, there is a glow to the glacial ice that makes it navigable.

  The expedition porters have hewn steps into the ice wall marking the beginning of the glacier; the first few yards of climbing are as easy as climbing a flight of uneven stairs. Then they belong to the mountain, their world reduced to the visible yard or two ahead. Their path is made obvious by the trampled-down snow. When they reach a first vertical wall, they find fixed ropes and footholds that have been screwed into the ice. Time passes to the sound of their breathing, the squeak of compacted snow. Thomas finds it a thoughtless time, literally so. All of his focus is poured into setting foot before foot. At difficult sections, he follows Singh’s gestures of instruction without question or hesitation. They do not speak. There is no need to. Life is breathing; is placing one’s toes; is keeping up with the shadow walking in front of you.

  It is easy to see why you might fall in love with climbing.

  [ 2 ]

  At dawn, they stop in the lee of a giant lump of ice. So focussed was Thomas on the sheer mechanics of movement that he did not register the gradual change of light. Now he blinks and stands in daylight. Singh reaches into his backpack and fishes out two pairs of tinted eyeglasses. They have leather blinkers attached to their sides.

  “Here, put this on. We mustn’t grow snow-blind.”

  He offers Thomas some dried meat and makes sure he drinks. “Not too much. Water is precious up here.”

  “What about all the snow?”

  “You cannot drink snow, not in quantity. And it takes a lot of effort to melt it.”

  “We should push on.”

  “Let’s rest a few minutes. They can’t see us here. It’s the last peace we might have.”

  As it turns out they cannot see much of the camp either. Fog sits down in the valley, though above them the sky remains clear. Looking carefully, one can make out the outlines of the tents. A fire is burning—a glow in the mist—but it’s hard to tell rocks from people.

  “The weather is helping us,” he observes to Singh. “It’ll hide us from pursuit.”

  “For now. It might decide to kill us later on.”

  “You have a sour disposition, Jagat.”

  They sit and try to spot movement in the camp. Thomas is waiting for a shout to go up as Ajeeba’s body is found or Dr. Miller relates the story of his encounter. But there is no sign of alarm. Did one of the snow leopards Singh has scared him with climb down off the mountain to make off with the corpse? Has Miller held his peace, unsure whether the apparition visiting his tent had been real? Or has Watts simply decided to keep quiet about the news so as not to alarm the porters?

  Within half an hour the fog has thickened to such a degree that the camp becomes entirely invisible.

  “Let’s push on,” says Singh, then grows concerned when he sees Thomas wobble on his feet.

  “It’s nothing,” Thomas reassures him. “Dead leg. Or rather, dead foot.”

  “You must move your toes when you rest. Make fists of them. Same with your fingers. And keep your nose covered, Sahib! Or it’ll simply freeze off.”

  [ 3 ]

  They carry on climbing. Gradually, Thomas becomes aware of how thin the air has already become. His heart is pounding in his ears. At steeper sections, each step takes four, five, six breaths. Soon it is ten breaths, twelve. Singh notices his struggling and works one of the metal cannisters out of his backpack. Thomas tries to open the valve but cannot manage either with his gloves on or with them off: his fingers are clumsy with cold and the cannister sucks out all the sensation left in them. Singh has to do it for him; he feeds Thomas air, like a babe from a bottle. It’s an odd taste, metallic, but a dozen breaths help calm him sufficiently that Thomas nods for Singh to carry on.

  Whatever strength was lent him dissipates fast. Stubbornness takes its place. Singh has roped them together, and Thomas’s only goal becomes to maintain some little slack between their moving bodies. The condensation between his mouth and his scarf has long frozen, gluing wool to beard. He cannot remember when he last shaved. Livia hated him with a beard, Charlie less so. For the stretch of an hour, he becomes convinced they are climbing behind him, tied to him by the same rope.

  “Stop tarrying, goddammit,” he grumbles at them, and hears Livia’s snort, Charlie’s bright laughter. “Bloody slackers.”

  But when he looks behind him, there is nothing but ice.

  [ 4 ]

  They reach the first of the expedition’s upper camps. It consists of two tents, their sides billowing in the breeze; a petroleum burner and some saucepans; and a small stash of food. Thomas tries to estimate what time it is but finds it difficult. There are clouds above them too now, hiding the sun, and dark spots dance before his eyes.

  “We will rest,” Singh decides. “You are done in.” He, too, sounds weary.

  Thomas does not object. He shelters in one of the tents and crawls into his sleeping bag. He tries to sleep, but his head is pounding and his lungs cannot get enough air. It is like drowning very slowly; a whistle sounding deep inside him. Livia is lying right behind him, whispering something he cannot hear. Even here her hair smells good, like tinned peaches.

  Singh shakes Thomas out of his unsleeping trance with a cup of hot, sweetened tea. He has melted a saucepan of snow on top of the burner and melts some more when Thomas bolts the hot drink, scalding his gums. After three cups, some strength returns to him and he eats the food that Singh offers, then finally falls asleep.

  Later—impossible to tell how much later, other than there remains some evening light—Thomas rolls out of his tent to answer a call of nature. The wind whips at him, relentless, and as he turns and buttons himself he nearly collides with Singh. Like Thomas he has not undressed even inside the tent. For some reason, fresh frost rims the scarf that is pulled across Singh’s face.

  Thomas is about to push past, when the figure reaches up to free his mouth. The lips and teeth that are revealed are not Singh’s. The shock of it makes Thomas stumble, lays him flat out on his rump. Now, seated, other details strike his air-starved brain. The man is shorter; the hat he wears a different shape. His tinted glasses make it impossible to read the man’s eyes. The stranger reaches down to grab him. Thomas bats away the hands with desperate force.

  “Sahib…what wrong?”

  Again the hands reach down. This time Thomas lets them;
feels the stranger haul him to his feet. Standing close once more, Thomas stares at the man, his mind reeling, spooked.

  “Sahib—how you get ahead?”

  Can it be that the man confuses him for someone down below? We all look the same to him, it flashes in Thomas. A white, bearded face, half hidden in hat and scarf. He recalls Ramsbottom, the Bombay horse vet, telling him that some Company Moghuls struggled to tell apart their own servants. “We fingerprint them when they enter the Company’s service. It’s what it was invented for—to tell one darkie from another. Now I hear in Europe they use it for crooks.”

  “Sahib…?”

  Thomas starts to speak, breaks off, coughs; he is looking for the tones of Empire. “Never mind how I got ahead. I set off early. In the night.”

  The man accepts that, ungloves a hand and takes off his tinted glasses. The eyes behind are deep-set slits, the cheeks burned black by sun and frost.

  “Weather bad,” the stranger says now, and points into the cloud and wind. “Soon more bad.”

  “Yes, I know.” Thomas stares past the man, down the mountain. The visibility is poor now. He cannot see anyone else.

  “Are others coming?”

  “Five more. Long way behind. I fast climbing.” His face beams with pride. “I bring air, Sahib.” He shakes his backpack and produces the clink of metal on metal. “Air. Petroleum. Sugar.”

  “Well done. Leave the provisions here and go back down. Tell the others to turn around and wait until the weather clears. Do you understand?”

  The porter nods, puts his backpack down, unpacks much of its contents, then shoulders it again.

  “Good. Go back. Wait.”

  The man’s manner has something both pleased and avuncular. The white men are fools and do not respect the weather. This one has more sense than most. Or does he? “You come, Sahib?”

  “Soon. I will return very soon. Look, I have a porter here to help me.” Thomas points at the sleeping shape of Singh, back in the tent. Through the half-open flap, one can make out the bottom of his sleeping bag. “Go ahead now, don’t worry. You have done well.”

  Once the man is gone, Thomas wakes Singh and tells him about their visitor. The Sikh listens with his eyes to the sky, studying the weather.

  “If a storm is coming—”

  “We can’t turn back. We won’t have another chance.”

  Singh grimaces. “You don’t know how many dead mountaineers have spoken those words.” He hesitates, weighing their options. “Let us sleep some more. It will be dark soon. We will see what the weather does overnight.”

  [ 5 ]

  They return to the tent, roll close to each other, for warmth. There is no real sleep at this altitude, just dreams. Each breath a slow dying. And they will climb higher yet. Thomas listens to the wind and Singh’s breathing and knows that behind him, at the end of the tent, Livia is brushing her hair.

  “I wish we had chocolate,” he says to her once, very quietly, and: “Your mother wrote. She says she must see us.”

  “You go see her. The truth is that you want to leave. Just like Charlie.”

  He turns to protest and in his dream she is there, her eyes hidden behind tinted glasses, her face so close they nearly touch.

  Her kiss heaps Soot into the pocket between lips and teeth.

  Thomas leaves it there till morning, sucking on it like on a gone-off sweet.

  [ 6 ]

  It is still dark when Singh shakes him conscious. The Sikh is already in his boots and is repacking the two backpacks, finding space for the porter’s provisions. Snow is melting in a saucepan.

  “The wind has dropped off a little. If we want to risk it, we better go now.”

  Thomas at once starts lacing up his boots, then accepts a cup of very sweet tea.

  “How many hours to the third camp?”

  But Singh does not know.

  They return to climbing. There is a moment, when dawn breaks, that Thomas is struck afresh by the majesty of the mountain face above them, by the purity of this world of rock and ice. But soon his vision shrinks once more to that narrow tunnel straight ahead. Each step has to be placed, each movement fought for, his body heavy and, increasingly, cold. He does not notice the passage of time or the gradual change of weather; is surprised to look up and see snowflakes fly at him sideways with the malice of hail. Soon the storm cocoons them, two men tied together by a rope. The rest of the world has ceased to exist. In the shelter of a ledge, they drink some sweetened water while the wind screams around them like a living thing. Singh’s left side is covered in frozen snow; his scarf, hat, and glasses have fused.

  “Can we make it?” Thomas shouts into his ear.

  “Better to go up now than down,” Singh returns. “We must be close.”

  In the endless hours that follow, however, it becomes increasingly clear that this is a dangerous misjudgement. The terrain is steep now, their strength waning. Fixed ropes and footholds still guide them along but often have to be worked free from the fresh snow. The ropes are frozen hard. Every step is pain.

  When the accident comes, it unfolds with the slow inevitability of nightmares. They have just negotiated a desperately steep ledge and Thomas lies panting on a comparatively flat section some ten or twelve steps past its rim, trying to regain his strength. Singh yells at him to keep on going. Cursing the man, Thomas rises, slips, and—unworried yet—tries to catch his weight on his arms, the ice axe dangling useless from its wrist strap. The ground betrays him, gives no purchase, and suddenly he is sliding, shooting ever faster towards the edge. A moment later he goes across: the sickening weightlessness of free fall. The world is white around him. He sees no bottom to the drop.

  The rope breaks his fall harshly, the straps of his harness cutting into his hips. Thomas flips upside down and hangs dangling over the blank abyss, the storm tearing at him and turning his body into a pendulum. Thomas screams then—sound and Smoke—and in response he falls some two or three more yards, before the rope interrupts his fall once more. For a split second of dark suspicion, he pictures Singh above with his knife’s edge to the cord that ties them. Then Thomas realises what strain his body must be putting on the man above.

  He tries to still himself against the wind, puts his hands to the rope and slowly pulls himself upright. The rock face is a yard or so away; he reaches for it with a foot, then with the ice axe whose grip he regains; hooks the guide rope and draws himself closer. Soon he can rest some of his weight on an iron spoke driven deep into the ice here; feels Singh above respond and pull in the slack. Step by step he works himself back into the world of the living: the ledge above is his horizon line, the pain in his fingers, his legs, a welcome spur. Up at the top, a hand reaches for him and hauls him over. They collapse on top of each other.

  “Rum luck,” it pours out of Singh, echoing the poor dead Hounslow, “splendid,” and he drenches Thomas in his Smoke. It’s first Smoke, this, crude and unmodulated, full of triumph, resentment, fear. Thomas’s body responds. It, too, lacks subtlety. There is a comfort to the very coarseness of the exchange. Thomas has never grown comfortable with the ease with which those raised upon the Second Smoke communicate their moods and wants. He, the tales’ great Smoker, the revolution’s angry man, continues to make his home in self-repression and the sudden eruptions of emotion fed by the simplest, deepest sources of the self. They speak, body to body, high up on the mountain: the wind making a flag from out their Smoke, snowflakes laden with dark Soot. It lasts but a moment. Then Singh remembers himself. He has let a sahib creep into his heart, his skin, before.

  It is his duty not to let it happen again.

  “Get up, you fool!” he insists, though he himself is still sitting. “We will freeze if we don’t move.”

  A little later, he exchanges the rope that ties them for a different one, in case i
t has been damaged by the fall.

  [ 7 ]

  It’s dark by the time they find the last of the camps, a single tent, somewhat larger in its dimensions and very carefully tied down. Snow has blown into a wall on one side and threatens to flatten it. The tentpoles bend; the canvas billows in the wind. They crawl inside without speaking. Fatigue has long turned into something else, simpler in its outlines. The body’s slow dying. Thomas walked on only from stubbornness, from spite; half accepting the inevitable, clinging hard to the “not yet.” His feet have no sensation, and they lie head to sole, massaging each other’s toes because it hurts too much to touch one’s own. When sensation returns, the pain is unspeakable, and yet their bodies are too tired to convert it into Smoke.

  There is food in the tent, saucepans and a burner; tea, sugar, additional sleeping bags. The exhaustion is total but it proves hard to eat, to sleep. The body craves and won’t be satisfied. Air helps them, pours breathfuls of strength into their limbs, their thoughts. At some point in the night, they sit up shoulder to shoulder and pass a cannister back and forth as one would a cigarette, or a bottle of liquor: Singh on Thomas’s right, Charlie on his left.

  “Why did you come here?” the latter asks, in his kind, frank manner. “Is it from guilt? Are you trying to die?”

  Thomas does not answer; he accepts the cannister and sucks on air.

  “And you, Charlie? Why did you go? You did not even leave a note.”

  “I told Livia I’d be going. I don’t like writing notes.”