The Yeti

by Mike Miller

  “Then how do you know the Yeti is responsible for their deaths?”

  Jah reached into the folds of his cloak and retrieved a small totem. It was a tiny cloth doll, no bigger than a finger, and dangled it on a string for display. “This belonged to my little brother. It was maybe the only thing left of them but for the blood frozen to the ice.”

  Baxter’s own memento of his beloved seemed to burn a patch into his chest where he had stored the treasured keepsake. “I’m sorry,” said Baxter tenderly, “for your loss.”

  “Then you will help me,” Jah said in a convinced statement of fact.

  “No,” Baxter replied. “I understand you’re angry, but you are a child.” The insult wounded Jah enough to make him angrily frown. “You have no concept of what this demon is, what it is capable of. I have seen the Yeti obliterate an entire regimen of British military like these men were mere children.” Realising his tone had grown harsh with reprimand, Baxter laboured to soften the lecture as if he were educating the boy. “You have no chance in defeating the Yeti. Even with my help, it is too big, strong and fast. It is too vicious to be stopped.”

  Jah’s chest heaved with rage, his deep breaths trying to contain his disappointment. “Fine,” he smiled. “I cannot make you come. You may go.”

  “Really?” Baxter said in disbelief. Jah had already begun to lay down in his bed, while fluffing his sheets for rest.

  Baxter’s joy at release and freedom soon melted with a crushing realisation. “How do I get home then?”

  From within the hood of his cloak, Jah scoffed loudly in a sharp discharge reminiscent to a muffled gunshot. “I already saved you once. Now I must deny myself my life’s mission to care for you all the way back home?”

  “Okay,” Baxter said submissively. Without his guide’s help on the mountain, he would surely become lost in the frozen wasteland and perish a most ignoble fate. History had already proved that alone he had not a chance of survival.

  “Me, a child?” Jah continued.

  “I understand!” Baxter bellowed sharply, distressed that his fate had been decided again for him. There were no other options, so he was powerless to protest the unfairness of the course. “I will help you find the Yeti.”

  Jah slowly rose out of his bed to sit upright, his legs still buried under the covers. While half in bed, he became even more reminiscent of a child with a mischievous smirk on his boyish face.

  “Are you happy?” Baxter asked.

  “Yes,” Jah said.

  With a gloved hand, Baxter rubbed at his forehead and temples as if trying to erase a cursed mark from his aching brow. “What makes you think that you can defeat that gigantic horned abomination that has swords for fingers?”

  Jah paused in reflection. “It has horns?”

  “Yes!” Baxter laughed. “And since you didn’t know, it has a tail longer than an elephant’s trunk but nimble as your finger. Its mouth is filled with rows of extremely sharp teeth.”

  In his mind, Jah forged a full picture of the beast. Still, it did not frighten him. “I will beat it,” he said confidently. “I have not met a man I could not easily best in combat.”

  “The Yeti is no man, and you have not met it!” Baxter cried, his hands open and out in a plea for sanity.

  “You saw what my grandfather could do,” Jah replied calmly. “I am much better.” He talked as if warning Baxter.

  Baxter needed a moment to sift through his memories to connect the moment Jah had referenced. “You mean the balancing on the stick?” checked Baxter, to which Jah nodded. “Impressive, certainly for his age. But a whole lot of nothing that parlour trick will do you in the heat of battle with that brute.”

  Jah stood up, clutching his staff and ready to fight. He looked restlessly around him. “Your pistol,” he said, “shoot it.”

  Baxter drew the weapon from his belt. “Why?”

  “I want to show you something,” Jah said.

  “Fine,” Baxter said, checking the barrel then cocking the weapon. “Would you like me to hit anything in particular?”

  “No,” said Jah. “Perhaps just those rocks.” His pointed finger indicated a cluster of stones at the base of a rock wall.

  “Very well.” Baxter took a moment to aim with one eye staring down the barrel and fired. The rocks exploded in a small cloud of dust, a clatter of pebbles splattered along the ground.

  Baxter looked back over at Jah who remained unimpressed with the demonstration. “Now shoot me,” Jah commanded.

  “Don’t be absurd!” Baxter laughed.

  But Jah was serious. “Do not worry. Shoot me and you will see what I can do in battle.”

  “Any moron can get shot in battle,” muttered Baxter, but he dutifully raised the weapon at the lad’s insistence. At the far end off the pistol’s point, Jah stood defiant, ready to stop the bullet with his chest. He was no more than twenty paces away, a sure target given Baxter’s skilled marksmanship.

  Once the boy was struck with the bullet, perhaps then Baxter could dictate the terms of their journey. But he certainly did not want to murder the boy, convenient as that might have also been. “This is madness,” Baxter bemoaned.

  “What are you waiting for, coward?” Jah goaded slyly.

  Baxter let the insult dissipate without raising his temperature. He shrugged as if he was helpless to do otherwise. He fired the weapon with a thundering bang that reverberated loudly off the cold surroundings.

  In one swift and smooth motion, Jah whipped his staff before him to then rest on the other side of his body. He smiled confidently and spread his hands to demonstrate his vitality. Cockily approaching Baxter to have a better look, he said “Do you see? I stopped the bullet.”

  Baxter clapped lazily and said, “Amazing. Count me impressed.” A tone of sarcasm permeated the would-be compliment. “But I missed you on purpose. I fried off to the side of your head, so you stopped nothing.”

  “I had hoped you would say that,” Jah said, equally unfazed by Baxter’s cheating admission. “For your aim needs to be far better to defeat the Yeti.”

  Jah grabbed Baxter’s wrist and pulled his palm up. Though confused, Baxter permitted the boy to manipulate his hand. The boy tapped the end of the staff onto Baxter’s outstretched palm.

  His bare hand stung with unbearable heat, and the big African yelped at the unexpected pain while waving his hand through the cold night air to extinguish the fire. A shrill ding rang out from the stone floor at his feet. Bending over to investigate the mysterious sound, Baxter realised he had just dropped a molten hot bullet onto the ground.

  When Baxter went to ask Jah about this feat, the boy was already curling under his bedding for sleep. “If anything, I know of one use for you,” Jah said with a yawn. “You will be excellent bait.”

  Chapter XLII

  The Continued Trials of Conrad

  Conrad awoke in darkness. With eyes wide open, he found a rough blackness dangled before him. When he sat up, he smashed his head against a bumpy stone ceiling and fell down upon his back. As his hands nursed his scalding forehead, he recalled his predicament. When he looked down past his boots, he could see a wide, bright hole, the mouth of the miniature cave into which he had crawled. It was as if the sky were waiting to eat him feet first. Rolling over and onto his stomach, he scrunched himself up into a ball to pivot around. The cramped quarters scraped his head through his wool cap as he squeezed himself roundabout to face back out into the world.

  A thick fog had rolled into the territory, enshrouding him in an impenetrable blanket of smoke. Whether looking up the cliff side or down beneath his perch, his sight could only catch a few yards of stone before vanishing behind these low clouds. But like a shimmering mirage from desert heat, he could occasionally discern images through the wisps of fog.

  Directly across from his position lay the hillside he had dashed down in his escape from Douglas and the avalanche, the same bluff from which he had leapt to cross the ravine. Dim gray light blanketed the land
scape, but some dark boulders on the far side were more easily glimpsed given their stark contrast against the white snow.

  Prying open a tin of beans, Conrad munched upon the cold, tasteless mush while surveying his surroundings for his next play. The meal was made particularly awkward when he had to lie upon his belly to eat, but he still gobbled the gruel with gratitude.

  Whenever the cliff on the far side emerged through the dense fog, it would seem eerily proximate to Conrad now. Looking back up at the immense escarpment above him, he was dumbfounded as to when or if it ever ended. Resuming his climb to escape above would be impossible. However, the original side of the chasm was definitely closer to reach. He had already crossed from that half previously, so he figured why not do so again.

  Jumping across would be nigh impossible, for even if he were to reach the far side, he would be plummeting downwards at such a fierce velocity as to be unable to catch himself against the rock. The avalanche’s assistance was definitely a vital component to the success of his first trip over the ravine.

  But the pickaxe and rope could certainly help in this undertaking. He gathered the coiled length of rope and ensured it was safely secured to the end of the pickaxe in an unbreakable knot. Then he looped the other end around the wrist of his right throwing arm.

  He measured the distance to be approximately fifteen feet just to touch the far cliff. However, the sturdiest rocks to target lay another three to four feet beyond. He probably had a twenty foot length of rope, offering just enough to safely reach across the expanse.

  A thick wall of fog obscured his vision, and he speculated as to the accuracy of his measurements. Though he could not discern the far side, he set himself about to try anyhow.

  Still prone upon his stomach, he reared the pickaxe over his head, and it was abruptly stopped by the low ceiling. Scooting himself aside to lay diagonally, he moved the instrument to an inclined angle and found more space now for an adequate throw.

  Shoulder and wrist still creaking and sore from his climb, he tested the gesture he would have to make to fling the axe and rope with enough power to reach the far side. A hole opened in the fog to tease him with a scant glimpse of his objective.

  With a groan and all the strength he could muster, he flung the axe and rope into the mist. He was uncertain as to how far it travelled once it vanished in the fog, but he could feel it descending limply down before it became stiff and swung back into his own wall with an echoing clatter.

  He gathered the line back in like a disappointed fisherman, than reared up for another attempt. Now the fog vanished altogether so that he could easily descry the next toss clear over half of the distance before falling woefully short of its goal.

  “Damn,” he cursed softly, reassessing his positioning.

  With reluctant hesitation, he carefully scooted himself outwards so that his chest cleared the lip of the cave, his arms and head dangling over the space. Quietly thanking the fog for obscuring the great height below, he still avoided any looking down and focused on the rocks across from him. Weighing the pickaxe in his hand again for another throw, his new precarious perch gave him an extra few inches to swing the projectile overhead, which could only afford greater distance on the toss. He pitched the line again and was still several feet short of connecting with anything. And now the forward momentum of his endeavour slid him a little further from his crevasse, threatening to drop him into void.

  “Damn!” he cursed again at the dangerous jolt forward, but this time the word was shouted loudly. Like a tortoise into its shell, he scrambled back into the security of the enclosure.

  Once again the line was collected back while he pondered a better attempt.

  Next he resolved to seat himself upon the corner. While this situation felt even more volatile than his previous dangling over the side, he calculated that he might be better situated for more power in his throw. What he sacrificed in reach, by not being able to raise the pickaxe fully over his head, he now had the added strength of his waist. But he knew he had to be careful not to fling himself over the side with the force of his next, valiant effort.

  Watching the rocks appear and disappear behind the roving wall of fog, he tested various angles for this throw, finally resolving upon a seat to his left that would permit a side-armed lob of the instrument. He swung it back around his waist, then turned to throw the pickaxe like an athlete hurling a discus.

  While the line sailed farther than his previous attempts, it collided with the far cliff a few feet down from the edge and banged off the wall before snapping itself at the length of its reach to swing back into his own cliff wall. To add to the frustration, the pickaxe head struck the rock with such force directly on its point that it managed to catch itself into the stone, forcing Conrad to wrestle it free before he could gather it.

  When he finally able to retry, the next throw felt like it was delivered with optimum force, but it barely fared better, still missing the jagged rock by a few feet to crash beneath the intended shelf.

  Collecting the rope, he could feel something amiss in his arm, the ball of his shoulder rolling loosely in its socket.

  The next throw was weaker than the previous two and made his arm hurt all the more. He retreated back into his tomb to regroup, rolling onto his back for rest.

  To lie down again invited sleep to retake him. He drifted in and out of consciousness.

  Suddenly a fear gripped him that the next time he were to fall asleep might be his last. He opened his eyes wide and gasped for air like he had been drowning. He raised his arms high overhead to reach for the ceiling, stretching his body alive from its slumber. With his fingers alternately closing and opening to pump the blood through his body, he realised that with his head now closer to the mouth of the opening, the tapered cave allowed him to stretch his arms to their full extent. He grabbed the pickaxe beside him and raised it over himself and even with the extra length, he could grip the tool at the top of its neck and still not be obstructed by the roof of the cave.

  Slowly he lowered the axe down so that his hands lay at his waist, the metal snout of the tool at his knees. Then he raised it up over his head, and the pickaxe arced carefully over his body until his arms were stretched straight upwards. When his hands followed the entire trajectory to its end, they were suspended overhead and over the end of the cliff.

  He smiled.

  He shuffled himself for better positioning on his back. Then he tilted his head to look at the far cliff now upside-down from his inverted perspective. It was as if the sky was filled with stone, and the snowy incline was a slanted floor.

  Conrad moved the axe back and forth overhead like the pendulum of a clock, then rested it down on his body. He closed his eyes and found himself praying for help. Then without further thought, he yanked the object back up over his head to throw it at the other side and his only hope of salvation. With a fierce and anguished yell, the tool soared through space.

  He shifted his body to find the flying projectile just as it smashed into the far cliff. While it did not get atop the cliff to the rocks it needed to claw, it struck the cliff with enough force to reinvigorate him fully for his next try. Now he knew there was adequate strength in this technique to get the blasted device across the gorge. The only obstacle to his ploy revolved around the issue of aim.

  With the pickaxe once again in his possession, Conrad found that he could tilt his whole body so that rather than throw the pickaxe directly over himself with a choked grip at the top of the neck, he could use the diagonal expanse of the cave opening to slide his hands farther towards the base of the tool’s handle for greater leverage.

  With this newly discovered tactic and the reaffirmed confidence that he had enough space to throw the pickaxe to its intended destination, he knew there was no greater angle to try than this last position for his next attempts. With a heaving two-handed throw of the pickaxe from his back, the item flew through the space and landed upon the soft snow of the flat cliff top.

  W
hile the pickaxe lay alone on the cliff top but still a few feet far from the rocks to which it needed to anchor. Conrad still laughed hysterically at the success.

  He pulled the line back in, and the pickaxe swung back down through the space to clank against his own rock. But Conrad knew now that he would catch his object soon.

  But the hours passed as the day’s brightness burned away more of the mist. Every attempt was confoundingly close, but none were true enough to stick. His arms growing wearier, the upside-down perspective from his back becoming more disorienting and dizzying, Conrad continued to fling the axe and line over the chasm without success. While every shot would fall firmly upon the flat top of the cliff, none of his throws could drive the slender nose of the pickaxe amongst the rocks for an assured grip.

  One good throw found him hooking the axe into a small patch of boulders, but once he tested the line with a yank, the rocks came free to fall over the cliff along with the loose tool.

  He tried not to let frustration dog him, knowing that preservation of effort was the only option for his survival.

  Eventually he became so steady with his throws that he could do so without looking, relying upon sound and touch to sense whether the line would hold or not. Inevitably the pickaxe would slide free and fall back down when he retracted the cord.

  But then one attempt did not. He opened his eyes and pulled harder, but the line refused to budge. Twirling quickly onto his stomach with desperate excitement, he reeled the rope in with all his strength, but it remained as taut as steel. While the pickaxe head was vanished into another shroud of thick fog, the line would not surrender to his strongest efforts to free the pickaxe.

  He laughed excitedly as he moved himself to sit upon the edge of his cavern. The fact that his plan was still working was unbelievable as he tugged again and again in near disbelief of the steadfast line to the other side.

  Conrad had figured long ago that there was nowhere to tether the other end of the rope on his side to form a line across, so this next phase of this strategy proposed only one solution: he would have to swing across the ravine.