Ah, she did learn my survival lessons too well.
Look, Mom! No hands.
And I recall a page, crowded with silver stars she glued in the margins and around the last sentence.
Climbers don’t stop climbing just because they have kids. They’re hooked. One more fix. And it’s that last fix…
The rough stone grinds into the small of my back. I shift position. When I try to talk to her, she slinks away. Sam fares better. From time to time, I find them sitting side by side on the back stairs, recalling climbing moments. She never lambastes him for keeping up his mountain pursuit. Alex, a mystery to me at the moment. Alex, wild, stubborn, but not a delinquent. An achiever in the classroom, she discovered early that if you do well in school, you could get away with eccentric behaviour. Even though she’s popular, she spends hours alone behind closed doors. I leave her be.
I blame myself for setting her off on her dubious course. Cowardice, I swore, would never plague my daughter. She was five when we fitted her with a full-body climbing harness, and on her eighth birthday, we gave her her first mountaineering axe. She scampered up anything vertical with the surefootedness of a mountain goat. However proud of Alex’s climbing abilities, Sam reminded her that a healthy dose of fear separates the courageous from the foolhardy, preserves life and elevates the spirit. We argued the point while I crushed in her any manifestation of the bashful, the timorous, the pusillanimous. I’d have none of it. Wild land is not your enemy, Alex. Learn the climbing techniques well. Learn to assess risks. Wild nature became my daughter’s second nature.
Six months ago, she gave up climbing and took up running.
The wild doesn’t scare me one bit. Never has. Now, pitting myself against human violence. Anything more terrifying than that? Will I ever know, what she feels, my mother?
Dawn. In spite of clinging to an exposed, impossibly smooth slab, but this being the crux, I am climbing with rare confidence. After the crux, one has only to scramble up on the easy summit ridge. I’ll make it. I’ll make it for Sam, for her. For all of us. But, oh, no…
The face retracts from under me. I fall. Not far. Maybe ten metres. I land hard on my back. Red flashes shoot across my eyes. I count on my pack to have softened the blow to my vertebrae. High above, the raven glides in morning light. The young dead climber whispers: Did you make the summit, at least? My daughter screams on the wind, her hands dripping with thick blood. At least, let it be her own. Don’t let me read in her diary about a man with a knife, a struggle, Alex defending herself, the man lying on the ground, his throat cut. On the wind, I sniff the scent of dead animals; hear Alex’s voice distorted by distance. Don’t let me hear her say she tried to close the slit with her hands, begging for my help in stitching up the man’s throat, she didn’t mean to. My mind is swimming in and out of consciousness and I wish for my daughter the same sudden raw release of fear as with the young man brandishing his father’s rifle at that party. The raven croaks. Leaves my field of vision.
I check the stone under my buttocks. Feel nothing, as if the impact had knocked the terror right out of me. I must get up. Reach that summit. I lie here, waiting. We must resume our tango danced a thousand times with high steps and careful dips over the void. I will dance with you again, Sam.
I unclip the cell from my harness. Dial in a daze. Will it connect? Last night, what did he tell me about her hands? Something about Cossacks and glass…
Alex?
Mom!
Your dad home?
He left early. Did you make it?
I hear a tremolo in her voice. I’d hoped Sam had not gone to work yet, the morning so young, so bright.
As calmly as possible, I explain. Listen to me, Alex. I’ll try to rappel. It’ll be slow. Once I’m down, I’ll have the hike back to the car. It’ll take all day.
Mom, I’m losing you.
The signal is weakening.
Mom, don’t move. Do you hear? Stay where you are. They won’t find you otherwise. Where are you? Describe it. Mom?
Now, finally, Sam’s words filter through, the things he said yesterday. Some kids were having a bottle-smashing contest. Glass everywhere. Alex slipped and broke her fall with both hands flat on the ground. In the stance of a Cossack dancer. Broke her fall. I exhale, close my eyes. Her own blood on her hands. She is yelling in my ear.
Mom? Are you there?
Not going anywhere.
Mom? Mom?
You have a pen?
I describe where I fell. The signal is getting spotty. Gaps between our words.
Alex, I’m losing the connection.
Okay, I got it. Hang on. I know what to do.
Although the pain in my lower back is searing now, I’m reassured when I can move fingers and toes. Alex alone in the house. Will she phone the wardens’ office right away? Try to reach her dad at work and let him take charge? Tears run down the side of my face.
Oh, Alex, to this day, I don’t understand my distraction. Pregnant, I mean. I looked at my belly in disbelief the day I strained to buckle up my harness over you. The thing growing inside me that took control. I could no longer self-arrest. An internal rope tied us together, a rope that you would cut only at the time of impact. You birthed yourself, a puzzle that had nothing to do with me. Sam, on this clear, clear morning, you, so intimately tied to me, seem all of a sudden too far to reach. I’m thirsty. At an incredible distance from my head, I glimpse my feet shod in scuffed boots.
Boots! So that’s what made me peel off. I think back to last night, switching from rock shoes to hiking boots for warmth and comfort. And this morning, forgot to switch back again. Holy scree! How distracted am I?
I can only laugh. The nurses assumed it was maternal happiness that made me giggly. It wasn’t that. It was thinking I had just given birth to twin cracked-leather boots. Staring at my feet through tears of mirth, failing to understand how I could have been allowed to deliver a child, in a hospital, with my boots on, I formed the notion that I had, at last, expelled my congenital fear.
Not so. It had never left me. This morning acknowledging my distraction, it’s all too clear. Forever, I’ll climb, fall and climb again, pushing before me the rock of my dread. If there is one consolation, it is that, in the delivery room, I didn’t pass that damn emotion on to my daughter. My only wish now is for her to stop trying so hard to experience it. Staring at the sky, I imagine Sam up on the ridge above, egging me on, both of us clinging to our jagged little peak, and, despite the sharp pain across my ribs forcing me to shallow my breathing, I can’t stop laughing. Here I come, love. Here I come.
I swallow dryness, my tears distorting Sam’s face and the light.
Benighted on Mighty Mount Royal
AS IF RACHEL WANTED to go tobogganing. The cold, the snow. Her father died in the cold in the snow. In those distant mountains. The wool sweaters that make you itchy. The tuque that makes you look ugly. The mitts that make you clumsy. His tuque and mitts and itchy sweaters did not keep him from turning into a snowman. The slushy streets, the boots always damp. Damp. As if Rachel wanted to go tobogganing.
But the game, Rachel! We must play the game.
Yes, Jeanne. The game.
Rachel understands that she and her cousin must play the sacred game. And this afternoon, Jeanne wants to go tobogganing, so that they can play the game. And when Jeanne wants something…
Don’t worry so much, Rach. On Mount Royal, the snow will be friendly. Nothing like the snow on those giant mountains. So very far away. Jeanne also reminds her cousin that, once back home, Rachel always says she loved the game. The aftermath, the power.
The aftermath. A word Rachel’s mom had taught the cousins. Sounds like after the math. Homework done, problem solved. The reward, out of the cold, safe from the snow, Rachel slurping a hot chocolate, her feet toasty in her slippers. Rachel dissecting the game. One thing she loves above all else is dissecting. In the coziness of aftermath, she keeps adding to the game events of epic proportion. So as usua
l, she yields to Jeanne’s persuasion.
When they reach the foot of Mount Royal, the December afternoon is already drawing to a close, the temperature dropping quickly, and forecasting a frigid night. In the fading light of day, Jeanne notices dark clouds forming over the mountain.
Her mouth hidden behind her wool scarf, she curses her cousin and her crazy ideas: Let’s go home, Jeanne. Before my toes turn into hard candies.
Come on, Rach, don’t be a crybaby. We’re eleven. Not two. Make yourself tough. You’ll see. When we start sliding, we’ll warm up and you’ll love it. Let’s run to the bus stop.
Pulling the toboggan, they run against the wind. The sharp air brings tears to their eyes. Under their feet, the snow cracks like caramelized sugar. With each breath, their nostrils stick together and the glacial air pinches their lungs. At the bus stop, they stamp their feet, endure the cold knocking on their foreheads. And the bus fails to appear. Jeanne suggests that they play the game of hiking the trail that climbs to the summit. Soon, the paved road that parallels the trail disappears behind fir trees loaded with snow. Between the trees, the cousins glimpse several buses driving back to the city.
Jeanne climbs the trail with much energy. Rachel follows more slowly, pulling the toboggan tied to its red cord. In the snow between the stems of the naked shrubs, sparrows’ tracks have left exclamation marks.
Jeanne waits for her cousin: Come on, Rach. My turn to pull the toboggan.
No, no. I can do this. Walk!
They resume the hike, watching the city lights below, a scene straight out of a Christmas card. ’Tis the twelfth month, Christmas is very much on their minds.
When they reach the lake, not quite at the summit, Jeanne looks around: Eh, Rach! See that? The place’s deserted. Where’s everybody?
That’s right. The snowy slopes have been abandoned. On frozen lac des Castors, not one soul is skating. And, out of the loudspeakers, not one note of a waltz streams into the cold air. The girls don’t understand this anomaly, since in the glittery season, the place crawls with winter-loving people, even on weeknights. The parking lot lies empty and the windows of the lodge are dark.
Rachel feels all funny inside, disoriented and uneasy. As if a giant hand had dropped her in a strange land.
Let’s go back down, Jeanne. I’m really, really cold.
Oh, Rach, this is great! How often do we get to have the entire mountain to ourselves!
Jeanne’s right. A tiny part of Rachel wants this adventure. But how she wishes it was already over. How she wishes she was back home, dissecting. Still pulling the narrow sled, which seems heavier now, she follows her cousin, leading the way toward the summit.
Jeanne searches for the deepest powder, the girls sinking in up to their knees. Giggling, Jeanne kneels on the toboggan and remains afloat: Look, Rach! Like a magic carpet!
Catching the thrill, a little, Rachel also kneels on the magic carpet. Then, the girls stand up, pretending to surf like those boys in the Hawaiian TV show. Only, they lose their balance and fall into the snow as into the sea. Sharks! they shriek. Still in the shelter of the fir trees, they make snow angels before trudging toward a fallen log to catch their breath. They look up. Spot one star. Fancy it is the Star of Bethlehem.
With one whip of wind, clouds pack into the parcel of sky visible above the trail. The star vanishes. Raving through the trail, the wind throws bullet-hard snow pellets at the girls’ faces. The blast latches on their mouths, stifling breath. To draw air, they must turn their backs to the wind. Around them, the treetops now swing wildly, their trunks creaking.
Jeanne, this is omin… This is not good!
To be heard in this hurricane, Jeanne has to shout: You’re right. Let’s go back down.
Unlike Jeanne that, to agree so quickly. Which should have sounded an alarm. But doesn’t. Instead, Rachel sees herself back home in one hour. Tops. The cold makes her want to pee, but hating public toilets, and hating even more to pee in the open, she will hold the flow. Once home, she will rush into the privacy of the warm bathroom to relieve her bloated bladder. Sighing with pleasure, she will dissect the hike in cold and snow, the challenge, taken up and won.
The girls walk, heads dunked into coat collars, eyes fixed on their boots, as if the footwear could show them the way. No longer a shelter, the trail has transformed into a wind tunnel filled with a wall of snow. Red dots dance in front of their eyes and they can no longer see the firs that, up to now, guarded their adventure.
Rachel bumps into a tree hidden in the whiteness. Stunned, she collapses, calls out to Jeanne, but the wind eats her words before they reach her cousin’s ears. Jeanne disappears from view. That’s it. Rachel will die here, as her father died in those faraway mountains. She whimpers and crawls on the toboggan as on her deathbed: Father! I’m coming up! And so, already deep into playing the game of her death, it takes her a moment before she feels Jeanne’s red face against her own. Lightheaded, she loses her balance.
Jeanne helps her cousin to her feet: I’ll pull the sled now.
No! It’s my toboggan. I’m okay. Rachel touches the hurt on her forehead. Blood, like red gelatin, sticks to her mitt: I’m dizzy. We’ll die.
We’re not gonna die.
We will too.
Okay, Rach, die if you want. But first, tie one end of my scarf around your waist and I’ll tie the other end around my waist.
Instead of reassuring her, this precaution intensifies Rachel’s fear. This is how people die in mountain stories. Tied to each other. And so will they, under tons of snow, a bit of red scarf sticking out to mark their glacial grave. But walk they must.
And so, nearly blinded by the storm, Rachel keeps moving, step by step, her face offered to gusts of wind, her neck touched by the thousand frozen fingers of snow. Only the tension of the scarf around her waist, which pulls her forward when Jeanne walks a little faster, proves that the cousins are linked together. Despite that tether, Rachel imagines herself lost and alone in wild mountains on the other side of the world.
Trees have become cliffs between which she is climbing a hair’s breadth from dizzying exposure. She must progress with great caution. Over snow bridges that could collapse into deep valleys. Through avalanche terrain where wind has deposited deadly snow. Under seracs hanging above her head. Her limbs have turned to wood and her body is bruised with cold and exhaustion. Famished and tormented by thirst, she trips in her numb feet. Her hard candy toes that, surely, will have to be amputated. She hates Jeanne for turning the sacred game into a disaster. But, even if the toboggan was a true magic carpet capable of flying her home in an instant, she cannot call off the game. She and her cousin must conquer the virgin mountain. Must succeed in this rescue mission in the frozen hell. Together, they search the Himalayas, away from all humans and all beasts. At this high altitude against the deserted flank of the goddess mountain, mistress of vast blue spaces, and of death, even the eagle never glides. Somewhere among the folds and the crevasses, the crags and the ledges, her father and her aunt are dying. Courage! Hang on! Rachel and Jeanne will plead with the goddess mountain. Together, the cousins will rescue their parents. Having learned about the madness triggered by thin air, Rachel allows herself a brief rest. She tries to locate ancient cities in the storm, convinced that some Nepalese demon is causing the mirage of emptiness. A cruel game to force Jeanne and her to abort their life-giving rescue mission.
Standing still, Rachel feels the tension of the scarf. The scarf that yanks her out of the game. Then, she feels the slack. And her cousin emerges from the white.
Jeanne waves her arms in defeat: I lost it.
The game? Me too.
The trail. I don’t know where to go.
They look around. In this white desert where earth, sky, trees merge into nothingness, they have lost their bearings. Below, the city has vanished. The overcast sky hangs so low, it obliterates the street lights from view and robs them of any means of orientation. Try as they may, they can’t make out anythin
g. Streets, lights, the squat blocks of red brick houses. All gone. They can’t even hear traffic.
Rachel guesses that they have been walking in circles for an hour. An hour! Far from home! And lost! She glares at Jeanne. If she had brought her play shovel, she would use it this minute to whack some sense into her cousin’s head.
Jeanne looks ahead. Points: The lodge. That way.
The lodge! Stupid! We can’t even see the city. How can you know where the lodge is in this? This time, you really did it, Jeanne! Mom will be…
They’ll be super late for supper. Rachel knows it. At home, her mom is fretting. Pearl checking her watch every five minutes. Peering out the window. Searching the snowy night. Phoning Rachel’s and Jeanne’s friends. At the moment, Rachel can’t remember if, in the rush of departure, she even told her mom where they were going. To go play up Mount Royal without first asking permission? Jeanne would have replied that they wouldn’t be gone long, they’d be back in plenty of time for supper, let’s go. Chilled to the bone, Rachel will die here. And so will Jeanne. Good! That’ll teach her. They’ll die, both as alone and forgotten as their parents were. Rachel who forgot to be a good girl. Pearl fretting.
Rachel’s face covered in snow, eyes brimming with wind-whipped tears, she searches for the dark shape of the lodge. Tonight in the alien surroundings, she experiences the same disorientation as she does in her dark bedroom in the middle of the night when she has to get up, half asleep, walking round and round, unable to find the door or the furniture until she manages to turn on the lamp. Here, she hasn’t got the luxury of electricity within reach, and yet, she must get somewhere.
She shivers with cold and dread. Still holding the cord tied to the toboggan, the cord twisted around her mitt and numbing her fingers, she lets out a mad little laugh. Such trouble for nothing. All that snow, and they aren’t even sliding. And yet, despite the lack of blood flow in her fingers, Rachel will not let go of her toy. The sled, a raft without which she will sink into the white sea.
Rising Abruptly Page 3