by Mike Miller
But where the bridge connected to the mountain, the massive barrels of twine expanded into a wide webbing of interwoven connections, as if the bridge itself were an arm while the tethering anchors were the outstretched fingers of a hand grasping for safe purchase upon solid land. Two tall poles on each side of the path served as the nexus for the bridge and the grounding restraints. From the wide totems, a series of lines spiralled out and down into various rotted iron bolts sunk into the stone. Though the lines were largely intact, wispy strands of fibre floated from the bridge aimlessly in the breeze like the phantasmal tatters of a ghost.
Baxter ran his hand along one of the fortifying braces that tethered the bridge from the support column into the ground. Despite its aged appearance and even its sour smell, it was a sturdy length of rope that was bound over upon itself several times. Each end was fastened into a thick knot almost as large as his head.
But despite the line’s thick girth, the ubiquitous patches of frayed string still alarmed him.
Baxter stooped to study the first of the wooden boards that composed the bridge’s surface. They were approximately the width of three men standing shoulder to shoulder, but each was spaced almost a full foot apart from the next. Besides the ominous intervals of each step in the bridge, many of the boards were grossly weathered to the point of warping in strange curves while the weaker contingents had suffered outright splintering from the ravages of weather and time. With many of the pieces broken and some even altogether missing, the path afforded ample empty intervals for missteps into the chasm below.
While the bridge’s mere existence was evidence that it had withstood the ravages of time and climate, it’s dilapidated condition foretold it was doomed to an inevitable collapse.
When Baxter looked down into the wide ravine beneath the bridge, his eyes could only see a few dozen feet before the walls vanished in a haze of mist and fog.
“Here we are,” announced Sek enthusiastically.
As they all dismounted their steeds to study the bridge, two of the men began to gather up the reins of the animals. One of their apathetic servants boldly plucked the reins of Conrad’s horse right from his hands. The corporal had been in a mystified trance, but then asked with angry confusion, “Hey, now, what’s all this?”
“It’s part of the deal,” explained Douglas, holding his friend back. “The mares can’t help us no more.”
“When did this happen?” countered Baxter. “Conrad and I had been through the briefings. The original convoy travelled by horseback, and at no point was our plan ever to abandon the horses.”
Douglas sneered at the challenge, but saw a similar response of doubt coming from Conrad too. “Exactly. If you want to stubbornly follow that first route, you can continue wandering along the road here. But my map knows how to get us there quickly, over the bridge without the horses.” Douglas waved his hand at their path’s branching continuation, which travelled parallel to the chasm to disappear over a distant hill. “We can thank her Majesty’s bureaucracy and stupidity for devising the absolute slowest route. Retracing theirs, you’d eventually be able to cross around and double back to meet us at the bounty after, say, two days’ time. That’s provided we wait two days for you too, which we bloody won’t.”
Conrad motioned Baxter aside for a private discussion. “You know Snider and company will eventually pursue us despite our best efforts. But as everyone had agreed, I don’t believe there’s any way they would dare trespass across this rickety old thing. I think Douglas and his local insiders have provided an invaluable edge in our race to the gold.”
Baxter considered the logic. The decision sat heavily with both soldiers, but they offered no pointless protest as their goods were removed from the steeds while their animals were escorted away from them. Feeling victorious, Douglas said, “It’s why people build bridges, you savage,” as he proceeded to unload his gear from his ride.
Once all their munitions, equipment and supplies were unloaded and collected into a large pile, the men watched sullenly as their trusted mounts and carriage departed back along the path they had traversed. One of the nags whinnied as if bidding the expedition farewell. Gregory wondered if the animal was perhaps taunting them for being fortunate enough to escape before things took a true turn for the worse, perhaps as soon as this next obstacle.
With their steeds now removed from the party, a sullen realisation then entered Gregory’s mind that any retreat or return would be near impossible. As the animals started their trot home to the village, the focus returned to the ominous bridge leading into the true heart of the treacherous mountain.
“Are we certain there are not any structural deficiencies in this historic landmark?” Baxter mused aloud to the group.
“Oh, there may well be,” Douglas chortled, “but there’s only one method to discern that solution.”
“After you,” said Conrad with cavalier etiquette, flourishing his hand invitingly towards the abused contraption.
“Look I the fool?” asked Douglas while spitting on the ground. “Why do you think I the coolies? Sek, send a man on through to test this passage’s integrity for blackie.”
“Oh, it’s very safe, sir,” replied Sek. “This bridge has been here for centuries, built by the monks of the mountain to last into eternity. Very smart and very good construction.”
“Then we silly white men shall follow right behind you all then,” Douglas replied. “Possibly Baxter too.” The remark didn’t offend Baxter so much as he was used to the derogatory sneers by now, though what affected him more so was Conrad and Molor’s smiling reaction to the joke. Stemming from both his friend and the dark-skinned accomplice, the mirth felt traitorous.
Sek turned and chattered at the nearest servant, a younger boy whose shaggy whiskers did little to veil his smooth, childish features. Without any sign of alarm or protest of fright, the boy simply secured a heavy pack of supplies to his back then marched towards his possible doom with the fearless confidence of the finest soldier.
As the boy’s padded boots fell upon the first of the bridge’s slats, which was still situated upon solid ground, the aged timber released a mild groan with each advancing step. The Westerners watched carefully as the boy now moved toward the portion suspended over the vast gorge. His first step onto the fully hovering bridge arrived with an anguished groan from the structure, as if the lad had just jumped onto the belly of a fat old man.
But without any pause in his stride, the boy carried along on his stroll, lightly skimming from each wooden platform to the next. Though the structure quivered and protested with spasms of wretched noise, the boy soon arrived at the midpoint of the journey without even relying upon bracing himself to the thin spindles of rope designed as hand rails.
“You see?” said Sek. “Very safe.”
“I wouldn’t utilise the word ‘very,’ my friend,” replied Conrad. “But perhaps safe enough for our purposes.”
While Baxter watched in awe at the native’s surprising facility and success, the sick bloodlust evident on Douglas’ visage faded with each successful procession towards the opposite side. He had expected the young man to fall or fail, he was disappointed.
Finally the boy arrived on the terra firma on the opposite side of the gorge, waving cheerfully back to the stunned onlookers with the joyful naiveté of a schoolchild greeting his parents after class. The feat seemed miraculous considering the remarkable ease of the efforts.
Sek shouted back at his men, and the next began his crossing. “No two at a time,” Sek informed them. “But one is no problem.”
“I wish to go next,” Molor announced, and nobody objected. His features remained statuesquely calm and determined, though Conrad detected the slightest shimmer of hesitation and concern in the man’s large, dark eyes. It was perhaps the way Conrad hoped to look himself considering his own grave fear about this section of the voyage.
Unlike the first two natives that easily ambled across the rickety passage, Molor walked wit
h trepidation. Cautiously gripping the sides of the bridge, his lanky wingspan allowed for both hands to clamp onto the parallel lines of the rails. Carefully placing one foot before the other as if walking a narrow line, Molor at last persevered, leaping across the final few steps with a mad jump anxious to end the ordeal. Through the thick tendrils of his black beard, a wide row of white teeth signalled his pleasure at the successful completion of the trek.
“Okay, we take Rudy now,” Sek announced. The British were momentarily baffled by that particular member’s identity until they were amazed to learn whom Rudy was. Sek led a mule up to the mouth of the bridge, an old, mangy animal at that. By the lax standards that governed the quality of pack mules, this particular beast was relatively shaggy and old, possessing a very poor slouch. When the wind changed, Conrad scrunched his nose in disgust at the creature’s stench.
It took each witness a moment to comprehend that this lone animal had somehow remained behind from the pack. It’s quiet and calm demeanour had invisibly blended the beast into the background. So once that initial surprise was digested, the group then had to grasp with the outrageous concept that Rudy the mule was about to cross this harrowing link across the chasm.
“What, you can’t be serious?” Conrad laughed.
“Sure!” Sek said, enthusiastically drawing out the word and patting the animal tenderly. “Rudy is special. Horses no go across, but Rudy cross the bridge easy, many times. With eyes closed, he can cross, you’ll see. That’s why we no eat him.”
“You said one man at a time,” Baxter interjected.
“One man or one donkey, yes,” Sek confirmed, to which Baxter and Conrad shared a look of wry disbelief.
“Long as he’s not weighted down, I suppose,” Conrad said to Baxter.
“What are you fretting about?” Douglas interjected. “Let the ass fall. It would be quite the show.”
“Not if the bridge broke, so that none of us could cross,” Baxter sternly reminded him.
The remark sobered up Douglas’ cackling. “Hey, Sek,” Douglas urgently cried over to their guide. “You better know what you’re doing.”
“We know,” said Sek without looking back over to his addressor. “Don’t we?” Sek leaned nearer to the donkey and softly whispered into the animal’s ear. The words were the first bit of Sek’s dialect which he had not screamed throughout the journey. After the soothing speech, the animal drearily looked to its gentle master. Sek caressed Rudy’s neck with his palm one more time before giving the beast a gentle pat on the rear to encourage it onto the bridge.
“Perhaps we should unload the animal a mite first?” Baxter suggested. The idea fell upon deaf ears, as Rudy the mule embarked upon his trek transporting a few bags of ware.
At first, his rhythmic clops sounded with soft thuds as his hooves lazily fell upon the initial steps. But then the animal casually paced onto the unsupported bridge, and his steps snapped with sharper claps. Rudy seemed to pay no heed to his footing as he hit each step with absolute precision. The bridge rocked from side to side, the wood and ropes emitted low groans of strain, but it did not break.
Even the other Sherpas witnessing the sight were immune to the giddy magic of watching the four-legged animal so perfectly march along the rickety bridge. Sek himself stared with loving admiration at his well-trained pet, while the other guides and packrats hooted as the animal fearlessly hit the halfway mark. “See? Rudy done this trip many, many times. He is more unafraid than you men.”
The donkey finished the crossing without a single hiccup in its procession. After the men on the far side welcomed the animal across, they immediately ushered him towards the next part of their journey. The porters had begun a small camp of supplies which sat at the base of a steep wall of ice.
So one at a time, the servants hauled the expedition’s gear across the gaping jaws of Jienen Gorge. Each traveller was as successful in their survival as the last, not one acting as though they were playing a potentially deadly game with the wind, decay and gravity as their opponents.
Even Private Gregory ambled through the precarious construct with nary a worry. The young lad even smiled a bit when a slight breeze rocked the bridge like a giant cradle. The elder members of the group dismissed the youth’s intrepidness as naiveté.
Finally, only Baxter, Douglas and Conrad remained to cross the bridge. Each man examined the other in a leery mix of hesitation. Once Baxter realised they were at a stalemate, he volunteered, “I’ll go,” to settle the impasse.
Not to be outdone, Douglas quickly rebuked, “No, I shall.”
“Children, please,” jested Conrad, but the two men remained tense with one another.
Baxter did not want to acquiesce, privately concerned that should he follow Douglas, the scoundrel might just sever the lines to strand him once on the other side. “And why should you? Other than being difficult, is there any particular reason?”
Douglas sauntered forward with his eyes locked on the African’s at the belligerent remark. “Absolutely, boy. How much do you know about line-rigging up sheer fifty-foot walls? Done much spelunking in your days, have you?” Douglas’ voice raised in pitch and volume with each syllable. “Then be my guest and after you, sir, please. O mighty mountaineer, help the other darkies on yonder side scale the equipment up the ten-man tall serac.” His sneering mockery whined with venom, and the rant left him panting for breath.
“All right, man,” Conrad said, placing a hand on Douglas’ shoulder to peel him off of the speechless Baxter. “You’ve made your case. No point in bickering, so just move on.”
But Douglas remained firm, eyes locked upon Baxter whose equally fierce growl mirrored the grizzled vet’s. If ever a fight were to occur between the two, Conrad suspected this was the inevitable moment come at last. So he boldly slid his arm across Douglas’ chest to usher him away from the riled African.
At the force of the careful shove, Douglas broke from his trance, transferring his hostility now onto Conrad. Now that Conrad was in immediate proximity to Douglas, he recognised the familiar symptoms that precipitated an attack: the taut lips, strained neck and wild, focused eyes.
“Beware, man,” Conrad warned sternly.
Douglas shook himself loose from Conrad’s grip. His face softened and relaxed, but was still alight with a bitter seething. “Indeed, friend, we all should beware.”
Douglas then looked back over Conrad’s shoulder at his original target Baxter. “Be wary,” he snarled. After the cryptic threat, he shouldered up his gear then stomped onto the bridge.
The two remaining soldiers watched the madman carefully scoot along the narrow path. With each precarious step, Baxter wondered if he might see the man miss, stumble or fall. In his mind’s eye, he could so clearly envision Douglas tumbling into the vast depths of the chasm, plummeting all the way down into the waiting jaws of Hell itself where he belonged.
With a satisfied smirk at Douglas’ imagined and horrific fate, Baxter turned to look at Conrad and found that his mate did not share the same expression. Upon Conrad’s worn face was an expression of concern, the hardened warrior watching Douglas cross the chasm with a clear hope that he survive. The unexpected sight unnerved Baxter. Conrad noticed Baxter and asked him plainly, “What?”
Baxter then realised the murderous musings that vexed him and suddenly felt guilty for them. Douglas had infected him with hate, so Baxter rubbed at his head and face in frustration as if he were cleaning off a coat of dirt.
“Sorry, mate,” Conrad offered in apology.
“For what?” snapped Baxter in agitation. “It’s hardly your fault the man is vile.”
“Perhaps I should have walloped him harder in his youth.” Conrad cast a sideways glance to see if any humour had even registered.
“The man is hardly as you described,” Baxter said, still gloomily staring ahead at Douglas crossing the gorge. “He’s far more the devil in the flesh.”
“I assure you, he wasn’t always so… unkempt.” Conrad’s
mind drifted into dreamy recollection of his youth, a perfect era of rollicking good fun. “Like you, he was once a dignified young soldier who saved my life countless times in battle. I recall him joking that he had only done so to pay a small debt he owed me.”
“How dignified,” remarked Baxter dryly. “That must have been a long time ago.”
“It certainly was,” sighed Conrad. “Must have been near a decade since last I saw him. Frankly I was quite surprised to find him still alive, considering his headstrong and impetuous nature.”
Baxter passed on issuing a snide comment at the easy target.
The wind picked up, whistling through the cracks of the canyon’s walls like a shrill and distant horn. It was a plaintive wail like a mournful horn playing a funeral.
“Lord knows what the man’s been through since leaving the service,” Conrad continued in his musing.
“That is still no excuse for him to be more animal than man,” Baxter responded.
Conrad twirled to the side to confront Baxter directly. “Have I not seen you transformed into a monster on the fields of battle? Perhaps I too have become a more debased and selfish creature, so am I also to be dismissed and ill-regarded now? War has already damned us all, Baxter, so do not preach to me about that man’s integrity, nor any others,” chastised Conrad. “Your piety is getting tiresome.”
The sudden hostility startled Baxter. “Perhaps,” Baxter replied slowly. “But while you and I have had our momentary lapses into sin, the difference is that Douglas revels in it, enjoys it. He does not switch it off, but is always that way. I do not understand why you are so adamant about categorising us with him.”
Before Conrad could reply, Baxter suddenly departed. As Douglas had successfully disembarked on the far side, Baxter marched to the bridge as the next volunteer.