by MK Schiller
She pulled her head up and nodded.
“Say it.”
If he heard her speak, he could be sure.
“Yes…yes.”
The sun began to set. He worried she might have snow blindness. He reached up and twisted the light on her helmet so it activated. “Can you get your grip?”
Her hand shook, but only for a second. Her ice axe swung up before plunging into the ice wall.
“Good. That’s good. Do you have rope?”
“No.”
“There’s some here. I’m tangled the fuck up in it,” Malcolm called. “Get down here.”
Snow fell and swirled around him. A storm was coming in. “How far down are you?” Tristan asked.
“I don’t know. Maybe twenty feet. I slid part of the way. The rope stopped me.”
“We need to work our way down to Malcolm. If one of us is on either side of him, we can bring him down with us. Do you understand?”
She didn’t hesitate in her reply. “Yes, I understand.”
He hated what he was asking her to do. It meant she had to move a few feet farther away from him. She would be out of his reach. If she fell, he would not be able to save her. She did not question him though. It was the only way he could think that would allow all three of them to have a chance.
They worked their way down, each foothold becoming more precarious. Snowflakes as large as saucers fell against them. He locked eyes with her as they moved. It became a reassurance each step of the way. “We got this, Dimples.”
Something stopped his foot. Tristan kicked at the air, trying to get it loose, before he realized it was Malcolm’s hand gripping his boot.
“About fucking time,” Malcolm said.
They flanked him. The man bellowed out in pain when Tristan unwound the rope tangled around his ankle. “You can use your arms, right? You have to use your arms. I can’t carry you.”
“Yeah,” Malcolm said.
The snowflakes grew in size and force. They clouded the skyline, making it difficult to see. Tristan turned on his headlamp and looped the rope through Malcolm’s harness. Farah took one end and Tristan the other. He didn’t have to explain it to her. She knew. They both looped the rope around their waists. This was a very dangerous technique, but they didn’t have much rope and hardly any choices left. They had to work in unison. This way if Malcolm lost his grip, Farah and Tristan could pick up the slack. But if either Farah or Tristan lost their grip, all three of them would likely fall.
They moved down the mountain, one excruciating step at a time. Minutes turned into hours. The last rays of sun disappeared, leaving them in the oppressive dark. Wet snow pelted them, making it difficult to grip their tools.
“Keep talking, Farah.”
He needed to hear her voice to keep his own sanity.
“I feel stronger now,” she said.
“That’s good. Really good. You’re doing so good.”
“Say something besides good.”
He chuckled. “Great. You’re doing great.”
“We both are.”
Tristan heard something rumbling from above. He held his breath. Please, not an avalanche. The rumble stopped. Thank God.
He took a deep breath. Then a rock slammed into his right hand. He lost his grip on the axe. He still had three points of contact on the ice wall with his feet and left hand. He would have been fine. Three points would have held him up. That was if Malcolm had hung on. But Malcolm chose that moment to let go too.
Tristan twisted in the air and landed on his back. He could feel himself slipping down the edge. He tried to push the spikes on his boots into the snow to stop his fall, but between his awkward angle and the steep grade, he could not get purchase. He spun several times, rotating with each turn, so he didn’t know which way was up. He kept sliding, all the way down to the edge of the mountain. The rope went taught, burning into his skin. He stopped just short of the precipice. Half his body dangled off the cliff, but he was still on solid land. He was still alive.
Malcolm screamed in pain.
Tristan let out the longest breath of his life. “Fuck.”
“Tristan?” Farah called.
“I’m okay. I’m okay. I’m okay. I’m okay.” He said it aloud four times, maybe to convince himself of it. The fourth time was when he heard the ice fracture. The crack sounded like a long piece of rough cloth being ripped into shreds. This was the melody of death, he thought. He closed his eyes. “I’m so sorry, Farah. I cannot save us.”
“Tristan!”
The mountain was going to eat them. Swallow them whole. “Crevasse,” he said, right before the world fell from under him.
The rock beneath him disappeared into an abyss. His body swung, back and forth, a bulky pendulum of flesh. A dull roar echoed in his head. A warm gush of thick liquid rolled down his face. He heard his name. The angels called for him.
I’m dead, Angel. I’m dead.
Except, he wasn’t dead. His heart still beat. His lungs still yearned for air. He could feel the blood on his face. The pain was too real for him to be dead.
“I can’t hold on much longer. You have to pull yourself up, Tristan.”
He looked up and saw Malcolm’s boot at the edge of the crevasse. He hadn’t fallen over yet. It clicked. She saved him. Farah, who was half his size, was holding onto the ice, supporting his weight, with the rope tied around her waist.
Hope bloomed for a brief second before it shriveled and died as the dark realization set in. “I can’t climb up.”
“No,” she cried out. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the blade. The sharp silver edge glinted against the night. He held it against the rope. “You will survive, Farah. I know you can do this.”
“What the hell are you doing?” she demanded.
“I’m cutting myself loose.”
“No! Pull yourself up.”
“There is nothing for me to hold on to but air.”
“There’s a fucking rope. The one you’re dangling from. Climb it.”
Was she crazy? He was the worst kind of weight. Dead weight. Not to mention the weight of his pack. He’d pull her straight down.
“I swear to God if you die, I will kill you. Do not leave me.”
The statement didn’t even sound ironic. With those words, he knew he had to try. He took a deep breath and stuck the knife his mouth. He pulled himself up; his hands slipped at first, the rain and material of his gloves making it impossible to get a grip. He considered taking them off, but he’d risk the chance of frostbite setting in and his fingers freezing against the rope. The rope swayed.
“Fuck.” He growled in frustration and tried again. This time he managed a grip. Using brute strength that didn’t come from rational thought, but deep inside his soul, he pulled himself up, inch by painful inch. He saw it then. The edge of the mountain almost within his reach. He swung back, trying to make contact with the rock. He did it again. Each time, she let out a scream. Not quite a scream. Later, he would call it something of a battle cry. A sound of pure adrenaline expelling itself.
He made purchase with the rock, sinking the sharp points of his crampons into it. He exhaled, dropping the knife in the process. He’d lost his ice axes. He used his fingers to find holds in the rough exterior. He stopped thinking, relying on instinct and training. He found his way up the side, until he was finally on the surface again. She was a few meters higher, her ice axes plunged inside the snow. Her arms had to be ready to fall off.
“Milady.”
“You’re safe,” she said, more of a statement than a question. She must have felt the relief as the pressure of his weight disappeared.
“I am.” Tristan took off a glove and put his fingers against Malcolm’s neck. “Malcolm passed out from the pain, but he’s still alive.” He put his glove on again before the cold air destroy
ed his skin.
“Inshallah,” she said.
Tristan swung his arm over the man and pulled him closer. “We need to make camp.”
“Here?” she asked. The elevation was too high and cold for any reasonable camp. They might freeze to death. But if they kept moving down, they would risk the possibility of another crevasse. They would not be so lucky the next time.
“It has to be here. We’ll have to bivouac. Work your way to the left.”
“All right.”
“Keep talking to me, sweetheart. I can’t see you right now. I need to know where you are so keep talking.”
“I… I’m too tired.” Her voice sounded weak. “I can’t think.”
“Sing with me then.”
His voice cracked on the song, the familiar song that reminded him of ice cold beer on a hot summer day. Her voice, soft and distant, joined his. Tristan dragged Malcolm, checking his pulse every few minutes to make sure he was still breathing. He made his way up to her while dragging Malcolm as she worked her way down. They would meet somewhere in the middle.
It took twenty minutes to find a flat surface where the three of them could sleep without slipping off the mountain. At least he thought it was twenty minutes. Time no longer seemed linear. They had sung the song three times already. When she reached him, he pulled her against his chest. He buried his head inside her neck. He rubbed her arms. He felt down her padded clothes, inspecting her for sore muscles and broken bones.
“Farah,” he said, his voice cracking as he held her. God, her arms had to be on fire. But they’d found each other, stumbling through the dark without any hope. But this… This sense of safety was false and dangerous. After all, they were still on the Savage.
“You’re a horrible singer,” she said. “Anyone ever told you that?”
God help him, he laughed. “Yeah, I’ve heard that before.” He groped around her. “Where’s your pack?”
“I don’t know.”
“It’s okay. I have mine and Malcolm has his.” He undid his pack and Malcolm’s. He rifled through both, searching for any supplies that would be useful. The temperature plunged at a rapid pace. He turned off her light. “We have to conserve.”
He took inventory of the measly items in their pack. There were several bags of trail mix, two space blankets, and a bottle of water they’d have to share. He put his extra pair of gloves over her hand. Her own gloves were shredded to pieces. He found his small first aid kit and put some gauze over the wound on her head. He didn’t bother with antiseptic. It would freeze her skin off. Besides, germs could not survive at this temperature, but he wasn’t sure if they could.
He turned his attention to Malcolm next. He took one of his poles and aligned it next to Malcolm’s leg. He wrapped gauze around it to create a temporary splint. He doubted Malcolm would make it through the night. He looked at Farah as he held up one of the blankets. Neither of them said anything. She took the other end of it and secured it around Malcolm. Dedicating any of their meager supplies to him would jeopardize their chances of survival. They both knew this, but…
Maybe they would live, but how would they live with themselves if they didn’t help him?
He picked her up gently, surprised how light she felt even now. He positioned her so her back was against his chest. He pulled the other blanket around them. She rested her head against him. He put his arms around her and held her close.
“You saved my life,” he said.
She yawned. “Good night.”
Chapter 19
As a little girl, she loved eating fresh figs from the huge tree in the Jat’s garden. Mr. Jat was her mother’s employer. She liked him. He always smiled at her and bought her dolls. Once, he’d brought her a scarf all the way from France, a country where they ate a lot of fruit.
She wanted to visit France one day. But her favorite place would always be her spot inside the fig tree. She’d discovered the tastiest fruit rested at the very top of the tree. She had reasoned, in her eight-year-old mind, that it made sense the most delicious fruit would be closer to the sky and sun. Today, she had to be stealth, since everyone was home. Mr. Jat listened to one of his western albums. He had a record player and a CD player, but he preferred the record player. He’d attended university in America in a place called Ohio. The word sounded a bit magical to her. Today, she heard one of her favorite songs, the song about climbing mountains. She took it as a good omen as she climbed the tree. She pulled herself up on creaking branches, her mouth watering for the sweet fruits that awaited her.
Every chance she had, she climbed the tree, trying to get higher and higher in search of the perfect fig. If Mrs. Jat caught her, she would make her stand in the empty room, her face pressed against the cold stone wall for hours. Sometimes, Mrs. Jat would find a vine from the tree and drag it across her back. It didn’t hurt when she dragged it, but Farah knew she was toying with her, the way the cat pawed at the rubber ball. She was the rubber ball. Once she got used to the feel of the soft wood against her skin, Mrs. Jat would pull it back and slap her. The noise of slicing air and breaking skin made her gag. She pretended it wasn’t her skin though. That helped. She told herself the figs were worth any punishment. She would not give the woman her tears.
Besides, Mrs. Jat didn’t hurt her too much. It was the Jat boys who frightened Farah the most. They looked for reasons to torture her. The nauseating tang of grit in her mouth resurfaced every time she thought of them. One held her arms back while the other rolled a ball of mud in his chubby palms. She could see the bugs on it. He called her the name, the one that meant “bad woman.” But she wasn’t a woman. She was a girl. He pushed the ball into her mouth. They laughed and laughed.
“You’re worse than the worms,” one said.
“You’re nothing but a maid’s daughter. Beggars eat dirt.”
“You have witch’s eyes. We’re going to gouge them out so you can’t curse us.”
“This is our tree. You are a thief. The next time we will give you a thief’s punishment and cut off your hands.”
“She’s a whore. There are other things you should cut off a whore.”
The experience should have kept her away from the tree, but it did the opposite. She felt the tree was put here by God. Therefore, she had as much right to it as those stupid boys. The fruit it bore was the sweetest thing in the world. At least in her world.
Finally, she reached the top. She plucked a fig. She’d figured out figs were the only thing that could mask the flavor of dirt. When she’d told Amma about the incident, she’d gotten the blame. Amma said it was improper for a little girl to climb a tree.
She found a place to rest, nestled high in the branches.
Why was it improper for her? The men of her tribe had climbed mountains, or so she’d been told. Didn’t the same blood flow through her? She didn’t want to be a queen or a whore. She wanted to be an explorer.
She sat, hidden inside the branches, savoring fig after delicious fig, careful to hide the pits inside the knot of her dupatta so they would not fall to the ground and betray her location.
She hated the Jats.
She hated the two boys of the house, who tortured her every chance they got.
Hated Mrs. Jat, whose beady eyes and sour face followed Farah’s every movement. The woman rarely smiled, and when she did, it didn’t fit her face, as if real joy could not live in her expression. The only time Mrs. Jat’s smile resembled anything human or genuine was the moment right before she slapped Farah’s face or put raw chili peppers on her tongue.
The peppers had burned off her taste buds for months. She thought she would never taste sweet things again until she climbed up the tree and found the highest fig. Then she thanked God and swore to never take sweet things for granted again.
She wondered why they had left Hunza and come here. For that, she hated her mother. Amma said she’d get
an education here and an opportunity to marry above her means. A chance for a future. What use was the future when they were miserable in the present?
The only person she could tolerate was Mr. Jat, who punished his sons for their cruel behavior. He asked her not to climb the tree because it would be dangerous for her, not because it was improper.
None of them understood her reasons, though. Sitting high up, inside the branches of the tree, with the dappled sun warming her skin, she felt like herself. She floated in the air, living closer to heaven than earth. It was a place that existed just for her.
Her conscious mind was aware he was holding her in his strong arms. He whispered to her, soft words ripe with concern. But she did not hear him. She stayed in the tree. She ate figs. She hid the pits in little knots she made in her dupatta. She would not throw them to the ground. That is how they caught her last time.
“Farah, please.”
What did he want from her? She was cold. She was tired. She chose death. He should respect her wish.
“Farah,” he said, his chapped lips brushing her temple. “Stop it. You have to keep talking. You cannot go to sleep.”
“I’m dreaming.” Had she said it aloud?
“Okay then, fucking dream, but wherever you are, I need to go too. Let me be in the dream with you.”
“There is no room for you. You’ll break the branch.”
“I won’t. I promise. What branch? Where are we?”
“High up in the fig tree.”
“I like figs. Tell me more. Please baby, keep talking.”
“They taste like sugar, don’t you think?” She felt cold, wet snow against her face. It landed and melted on her skin. Or maybe that was the dream, and the fig tree was reality.
“Yes, sugar. What else?”
“We made her angry, Sinclair. She’s not going to let us go now.”
“Who?”
“The Goddess. We made her jealous with our love, and now she’s going to kill us. I’m going to sleep now.”