by Mike Miller
So Conrad tugged the blindfold back down over his eyes, then nestled it into place with both hands to pull it tight and secure. “After you,” he said.
Baxter grabbed Conrad’s hand, and like a parent with a child, led the frightened man onto the first planks of the road. Realising that the two couldn’t share the path aside each other and that their weight required even dispersal, Baxter switched his grip so that he could stand in front with his left hand hung back to hold Conrad’s extended right. The gloves on each man complicated the hold in an awkward lock, also muffling the sensation of a firm grip. So Baxter dug his hand deep into the snuggling embrace of Conrad’s as much as he could like happy lovers on an afternoon stroll.
With his free right arm, Baxter grabbed the side support line of the bridge, then recommended, “You should hold the side with your left hand.”
Conrad’s hand rose up into the air, groping aimlessly through space. Baxter noticed Conrad grimace anxiously. “Lower,” Baxter said. When Conrad’s hand finally touched the twine rail, it clamped onto it ferociously. Baxter rewarded the success with a compliment. “Good.”
Baxter stepped forward, the first onto open space. The bridge trembled from the footfall, but Baxter urged Conrad forward anyways. “You have the spacing, the distance for each step,” he said encouragingly. “Just follow my lead.”
As Conrad was just a pace behind, his foot reached forward and then tapped against Baxter’s leg. With a smile, Conrad stepped forward with his right foot onto the same plank as Baxter’s left leg. “There you go,” said Baxter in a kind tone as if teaching an infant to walk. Conrad smiled like a simpleton.
Working in close conjunction, the two quickly established a rhythm that enabled them to proceed relatively quickly along the path. Conrad walked with an erratic hesitation that smoothed itself with each successful step. Baxter quieted any encouragement he could offer, figuring that they had stumbled upon the best formula for progress. The bridge itself was cooperative too by remaining relatively motionless.
A shrill wind could be heard howling in the distance, growing in volume and pitch in its approach. “What’s that?” said Conrad with alarm.
“Just the wind,” said Baxter, though he paused in his walk to firmly grasp the supporting rope.
When the wind arrived, it licked its icy tongue over their faces with the shocking splash of an ocean wave. Baxter was ready for the staggering impact of the attack, however, it caught Conrad completely off guard. He fell to his knees, his balance less disrupted by the force of the zephyr than by its startling arrival.
Conrad screamed loudly, and his hand’s exuberant grasp for survival threatened to break the bones in Baxter’s supporting palm.
The disruptive shift in weight swept them both to the left side of the path. Conrad’s leg shot through a gap on the side, his foot kicking wildly. Baxter’s torso heaved over the rail as his left feet became unplanted from the bridge. The two men clung to each other to prevent both themselves and the other from falling.
“I’ve got you,” Baxter said calmly as he stared into the infinite depths of the gorge below them.
Conrad continued his wail, though his body had stopped moving and now just sat upon the path. His foot flailed wildly as if he were on a raft fending away a shark. “Help! Please!” His mind was devoid of all reason, also scrambling for direction like his body.
Once Baxter righted himself, he couldn’t help but guffaw at the frightened child. The derisive sound of the laughter reverberated off both sides of the chasm walls to produce a disorienting sonic bombardment of mockery, instantly quelling Conrad’s feeble behaviour.
“Avalanche,” Conrad hissed. “Would you please?” Though he could only imagine how pathetic he must have appeared to his companion, Conrad once again pondered the possibility of dementia contributing to Baxter’s hysterical reaction.
Baxter reached past Conrad’s outstretched arm and heaved up the fallen man’s entire body with a mighty pull at the collar of the coat. Conrad was surprised by the sudden jolt upwards, but regained his footing quickly.
“There,” Baxter said encouragingly. “Almost there.” They resumed their proper positions within the team and resumed their walk.
Then something odd caught Baxter’s fancy.
“What is it?” Conrad said, sensing a disruption to their advancement.
Baxter narrowed his eyes for a better look. He pulled back the hood and scarf whose fringes impeded upon the view.
A significant factor of Baxter’s legendary marksmanship beyond his steady hands and practiced talents was his keen eyesight. From his earliest youth, the man had always possessed a near supernatural ability to perceive the finest details at the greatest distances.
So at the farthest end of the gorge and between the sporadic drift of wandering snowflakes, Baxter spied something unusual. On the sheer face of the cliff’s wall, a tiny patch of unblemished white broke the steady pattern of vertical creases in the icy rock. It was impossible to determine the size of the oddity, as the wavy creases of the mountain wall created a mirage akin to desert heat. The dizzying pattern of overlapping lines created an illusion that completely distorted and obscured distances and scope.
Another strange feature about the object was its dull veneer compared to the shininess of the reflective surfaces around it. The small patch of flat white stood in stark contrast to the smooth shimmer of the frozen ice. And though it was a few hundred meters away, Baxter’s sharpshooting vision estimated it to be almost the length of three men standing end to end.
Then it moved, quickly climbing up the wall. The suddenness caused Baxter to recoil slightly.
“What’s wrong?” Conrad asked.
“Did you--?” Baxter’s eyes were drying out from the intense peering. He winced, blinked, massaged the lobes back to health, then returned to scouring for the mysterious object. But he had lost the form and could not locate it again.
“Yes?” Conrad asked with impatient irritation.
“Did you see that?” Baxter muttered, still searching the walls of ice for the strange thing.
“I couldn’t see the Queen of England slug me in the face right now, you dolt!” exclaimed Conrad.
The condescension angered Baxter, though he felt foolish for posing the question. “Not funny,” Baxter said sourly.
“You’re the one telling bad jokes,” Conrad snorted.
“This is not levity.” Baxter grumbled absent-mindedly as he scanned the vistas for the lost abnormality. As he sought along the icy cliffs, the lines began to shimmer and blur. The whites, greys and blues melted together like a foggy sky. The exertion began to exhaust him, and the farther Baxter’s eyes strained to see, the dizzier he became.
Though blind as ever, Conrad could feel Baxter woozily wobble. Tightening his grip on Baxter’s hand with a light shake, he restored Baxter’s sense and stability. Though Conrad couldn’t see it, Baxter’s face blushed with embarrassment at the weakness.
“What did you see?” asked Conrad.
“I…” Baxter focused again on the spot where he believed he had witnessed the strangeness for one last undertaking at a rational explanation. He found nothing. “I don’t know.”
Conrad waited for more, but when he received no further explanation, he gently suggested, “Don’t trouble yourself. Let’s go.”
Baxter looked back over his shoulder. If there was any benefit to the momentary madness, it was that it had served to distract Conrad from falling to his doom. “The cold can plays tricks on a man,” Conrad assured.
“It can,” said Baxter. “But I don’t think so,” he added stubbornly.
As the two resumed their procession on the second half of the bridge, Conrad ruminated on the condition of his cohort. Hallucination was a telltale symptom of mental regression, though Baxter was wont to admit it. It was a cruel paradox to madness that a madman could never say he was mad.
Chapter XXII
Crossed Upon the Other Side
On the f
inal leg of the trek across the bridge, Baxter and Conrad were welcomed to the far side of Jienen Gorge by a barrage of sarcastic goading. “Bravo, noble warriors!” Douglas applauded rapidly as if cheering a race horse across a finish line. “Almost there, heroic conquerors!”
For every litre of sanguine enthusiasm Douglas professed, Molor seemed calibrated to emanate an equal amount of solemn displeasure. The two spectators were the only ones remaining on this level as the rest of the party and all equipment had already ascended the steep precipice of their next leg.
The mocking greatly annoyed Baxter, but was genuinely encouraging to Conrad since he knew the jaunt was soon to end. When Baxter finally connected with solid ground, Conrad at first tepidly followed as if the successful crossing was too good to be believed. But upon the recognition of the sturdiness of earth beneath his boots, his face alighted with glee.
“We are here,” Baxter announced.
Conrad released Baxter and joyfully stumbled forward before falling to the ground on his knees. With eyes tenderly closed beneath the blindfold, Conrad kissed the snow-covered stone like a land lover returned from a long absence at sea.
“Isn’t that dear?” Douglas said, clasping his hands together while batting his eyelashes in poor imitation of a lovestruck little girl. “These two dandies prancing along hand-in-hand on this beautiful summer day. How delightful!”
“Curse you,” Baxter instinctively spat.
“Wait, Baxter, what are you doing?” Douglas said in a frightened tone. His face wilted with nervous concern. He even retreated a step backwards with apprehension.
But Baxter had done nothing and remained planted at the mouth of the bridge. He could only stare blankly back in Douglas in curious shock at his strange game.
Still blinded Conrad lifted his head from the ground. “What now?”
As Molor slammed the butt of his sword into the back of Conrad’s head, Douglas quickly drew his pistol on Baxter.
Within the next blink of an eye, Molor coiled his arms around Conrad’s neck and throttled him like a python. The sword clutched in Molor’s hand pointed outward at Baxter like a giant fang.
Baxter’s muscles tensed to attack. “Don’t,” cautioned Douglas tersely.
The urge to relent was difficult, but Baxter knew when he was beat. Though he ceased any movement, his entire body pulsed with blood, ready for any opening to exploit.
After just a moment of stiffness, Conrad’s head slumped in unconscious defeat. Molor immediately began dragging the lifeless body back towards the cliff, lugging his comatose cargo along the ground by the neck like a heavy pup.
“We have decided to subdue Conrad for his own good,” Douglas said. As Baxter snarled at the explanation, Douglas began to retreat backwards yet still aiming the firearm forward at his target.
When Baxter began to follow, Douglas jostled his gun which halted Baxter after a single step. “If I were you, I’d turn around and fetch yours and Conrad’s bags like a good little doggy.”
“You treacherous snake.” Baxter’s pointed finger would have fired a bullet through Douglas’ forehead if it could.
“Treachery? What?” Douglas’ thin frame trembled with laughter. Baxter hoped the gun’s barrel would suffer from the disruption, but it did not. “Is that what you think this is? Oh, you poor, stupid brute.”
In the background, Molor finished securing Conrad to the rig. With a wave of his arm, he signalled the men above to begin hoisting the sleeping soldier up the wall.
Douglas continued his lecture. “Your problem is you expect the worst. It’s like an infection that makes you sick. Everywhere you look, you just see what you want to see. It’s no way to go through life, lad. It really makes me sorry to see you suffer like a dumb beast.”
Douglas had inched his way all the back into the wall which Molor had already begun to scale. As Douglas began to wrap himself into the final of the three lines, Baxter grew bold enough, or perhaps let his rage affect his better judgment, and he began to march forward to close the gap separating them. “So you say,” replied Baxter with a half-mad smile on his face.
Douglas did not try to stop him, but kept the gun carefully pointed at his foe throughout Baxter’s cautious advancement. “We aren’t leaving you. Yet. But we well might if you keep your dilly-dallying.”
“Then drop the gun,” said Baxter.
“Not until you fetch those bags, monkey,” quipped Douglas.
Baxter watched Douglas wrestle his final limbs through the last of the rope and chain loops of his harness. Conrad’s body had reached the apex of the cliff. The way his body disappeared over the lip made it look as if he had been suddenly snatched by the heavens, vanishing into air. “How do I know you won’t leave me?” Baxter asked.
Douglas chuckled. “You don’t,” he answered wryly.
“What if I don’t go?” queried Baxter.
“Then I couldn’t be happier.”
Baxter was at the midpoint between Douglas and the bridge behind, so a few dozen feet still separated him from the lanky scoundrel. “Why not just kill me now?”
“That’s a fine question,” Douglas said, his lips rumpling in mock pondering of the idea. “But as I had explained, you nitwit, none of us are trying to put one over on you.”
Douglas cinched a strip tightly around his arm, and tugged at the cord to test its strength. Then he sighed and said, “Maybe if you hurry, you can still catch us before we’re forced to abandon you.” He yanked the line and slowly began to ascend upwards. With one hand gripping the line for stabilisation, the other hand continued to aim the gun at Baxter below. He winked, and whispered, “Now shoo.”
With no other hope for salvation, Baxter had to acquiesce defeat. So he spun and sprinted back to the bridge’s mouth. He tried to maintain his pace upon the frail construct, but the violent speed of his footfalls made the entire structure wobble ominously. Baxter froze with fright at the violent imbalance. Once the structure levelled itself so that the creaking had silenced, a bawdy laughter erupted from behind him to echo across the frozen terrain.
Chapter XXIII
The Last Cross
By the time Baxter finally reached the original side of Jienen Gorge, his opponents were more than halfway complete with their transporting. Molor was now atop the cliff, coordinating the final stages of hauling Douglas and the remaining gear up the mountainside. Douglas waved over merrily as he bobbed slowly up the cliff.
With only a moment to marinate some spite at their maliciousness, Baxter hurried to secure both packs to his body, both his own on his rear and Conrad’s to his front. He briefly considered using his rifle to snipe a hole through Douglas’ head. Though the kill might bring some small, personal solace, it would certainly damn him to exile and abandonment. He resolved that his best opportunity to remain with the herd was to quickly rush back as instructed, whereupon he could still threaten Douglas as a final resort if need be.
The weight of the two bags was difficult to bear but not impossible. Once accustomed to the balance required of both packages, Baxter lurched forward like a crippled and pregnant woman to cross again. On his third step, his foot slipped on a thin layer of slush that crumpled his left knee at an awkward, painful angle.
Baxter would have to move as fast as possible to catch Douglas in time before they could abandon him. But this now fifth trip across the bridge was the most difficult to undertake with the added weight. While doubling the weight caused its own problems, Baxter’s legs strained from the intensity of each delicate step necessary to navigate the frail bridge. He wanted desperately to expedite his hopefully final voyage, but any aggression increased the trembling and tilting.
Douglas clapped his hands together in delight. If only the line around his waist were a noose about his neck, wished Baxter.
Growing more comfortable with the extra luggage, Baxter redoubled his efforts to sprint along the bridge and catch Douglas before he completed the departure. Though oftentimes his steps stumbled as if he we
re sliding in spilt oil, Baxter moved with a speed only possible of an athlete of rare ability.
At the midway point on the bridge, a violent gust of wind suddenly swirled around him. His gloves braced himself to the side railing as the entire structure leaned to one side from the force. The road itself tilted in an effort to spill its contents into the bottomless abyss.
The preternatural appearance of this obstacle left Baxter frozen to the ropes of the bridge. The fact that both the elements and strange destiny conspired to stop him wounded him more than the stinging cold across his eyes and cheeks.
The moment Baxter finished cursing his dumb luck at the zephyr’s blast, the invisible current dissipated, and the air was still again. Baxter hurried to resume his trek and cover the final feet to solid ground.
Douglas realised Baxter’s impressive performance was bringing him nearer than expected. “Hurry, you bloody buffoons!” he called to the servants above.
As Baxter’s feet scurried from plank to plank, he realised Douglas would not escape in time. This made Baxter smile through cold, panting breaths as he finally reached solid ground, having survived the bridge for hopefully the last time.
As soon as Baxter had cleared the bridge’s exiting steps, he dropped both bags to the stone floor while falling to one knee. His lapse was only partially from exhaustion, but more to brace himself for attack. Removing his rifle from his shoulder, he blindly fetched a box of ammo from his pack, and fed a single bullet into the chamber while targeting his prey. He raised the weapon to his cheek, the cool wood reassuring and familiar against his warm skin. The firearm crinkled against his nascent beard with electric anticipation of the forthcoming shot and subsequent blood. Closing one eye, the other found its target as Douglas reached the summit. Through the scope he could see Douglas’ merry disposition sour with fear. Now it was Baxter’s turn to revel in another’s torment.