by Isaac Hooke
Hoodwink sighed. "John Baker, son of Arrold Baker, 18 Market Street." Though not a User, John was a close cousin of Leader. John assumed quite the risk in being their middle man. Hoodwink hoped the gol didn't use him to hunt the rest of the Users down. But Ari and the others were too smart to let that happen.
"Good," Leader said, gazing at the sky. "The rigged diary is in the duffel bag."
Hoodwink accepted the bag from Ari, and slipped it over his shoulder.
Ari and Hoodwink walked on either side of Leader, and helped the haggard man through the snowpacked streets. Leader verbally steered them down the streets and byways to a secluded back alley of brick walls. The snow was never shoveled here, nor was it packed by the tread of passersby, so the three of them had to wade and dig through snow that was sometimes chest high. They reached a rusty iron gate that was nearly buried by the drifts, and Leader opened it with a key he'd brought along. The gate was like a portcullis, and they were able to slide it upward with some difficulty. Once through, Hoodwink saw that the alley offered secluded access to the city wall.
"Why didn't you put the bomb here?" he said.
Ari shook her head. "There'd be too much damage to the neighboring buildings. We didn't want any human casualties, remember?"
The three dug their way forward through the snow, until the sky-reaching wall consumed everything else. When you came close, you could easily understand why it was called The Forever Gate. What looked like a flat surface from far away was actually a craggy mountain of sheer, infinite stone. A silver rope dangled from the heights, and Hoodwink followed it with his eyes. He couldn't see where the rope anchored—it became lost in the coarse texture of the wall a mile or so up.
"You expect me to climb this?" Hoodwink pulled at the rope. He felt the echo of a distant vibration pass through the material. The sensation was eerie, like plucking the string of some giant lute.
"Think of it as a symbol." Leader gazed blankly up the wall. "Of the hurdles you've faced in this life. You have overcome them all to get to this point. Now you must overcome this last."
Hoodwink glanced at Ari. "But I haven't overcome them all." Far from it.
Leader turned his eyes downward now, to the snow drift piled against the wall. "We tried to dig under it at first. Like the sappers of yesteryear. That proved a mistake. The wall is embedded in the ground at least as deep as it is high. And digging through frozen ground isn't a pleasant thing." He pursed his lips. "It was the time of our exploratory years. When we believed the Outside a sanctuary. Erdus and Callus were the first of us to surmount the wall. They'd practiced for years, taught themselves the lost art of mountaineering. It was they who anchored the ropes. Good men. Their loss was irreplaceable."
Leader motioned to the duffel bag slung over Hoodwink's shoulder. "Dress please."
Hoodwink opened the bag and donned the padded gloves, ermineskin cloak, and the toque. These over the existing gloves, cloak and toque he wore. He wrapped the scarf around his face, and Ari tightened it for him. His breath sounded loud in his ears with that scarf on.
Hoodwink secured the duffel bag and the supplies it contained over his shoulder.
"The climb will take about five hours." Leader's palsy seemed to have spread to his face—his lips twitched, and his eyes blinked spasmodically. Maybe he was just excited. Or nervous. "You'll find a new rope every half hour or so. There are ten ropes in total. Use the rigged diary. Keep us updated."
The Users had either found the diaries or created them in years bygone—it wasn't made clear to Hoodwink. Whatever the case, the books came in pairs. When you wrote in one, your words appeared in the other, no matter how far away you were.
"You never told me," Hoodwink said. "Did you give diaries to the others who went over this wall?"
Leader was shaking all over now. "We did."
Hoodwink wanted the man to look at him, wanted to stare into those eyes and see what he could read there, but Leader didn't oblige.
"And what did you get back?" Hoodwink said.
A smile came to those twitching lips. It reminded Hoodwink of a slithering snake. "The truth."
Leader removed one of his gloves, and extended the palm toward Hoodwink. The start of a handshake.
Hoodwink peeled the gloves from his right hand, and accepted the palm.
A massive surge of current passed through him, and he couldn't move. When Leader released him, both of them collapsed.
Hoodwink scrambled drunkenly to his feet. Leader had recharged him.
Ari helped Leader rise. The old man had stopped twitching, and his face had become deathly pale. When he spoke, his voice was weak. "Now go. Before you change your mind. And good luck."
Ari kissed Hoodwink on the cheek. "Thank you. You're saving me by doing this. You're saving us all."
Hoodwink slid the glove back on, feeling rejuvenated, and eager to climb. "I doubt it. But I'll do my best. I will."
He began the long climb into the sky.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Hoodwink walked his feet along the rocky surface and raised himself hand-over-hand. He hadn't known what to expect, but this wasn't that bad. "Aid climbing," the Users had called it. Rope laid over a route to make it easier for future climbers. He couldn't imagine what those first two climbers must have gone through to lay the rope.
And to be honest, the climb proved a little monotonous. Similar to trudging along snowpack on the ground, bent-over, holding a rope for balance. He understood now what it felt like to be a crooked old man like Leader. Except Leader was only twenty-nine, prematurely aged by the power that flowed through him. The same future awaited Hoodwink and his daughter. Well, whether or not he'd see that future was the question, wasn't it? He had to make it past the next few hours to start with.
The first rope went by easily enough. He was traipsing along, hand-over-hand, foot-over-foot, when the second rope came into view. It overlapped the first route by some paces, so that he could've switched or used both of them if he wanted. The first rope ended in an anchor of small cords that passed through metallic loops wedged into the stone wall.
One segment down. Nine more to go.
He wasn't sure how much time had passed. Maybe a little more than half an hour. He bounce-tested the second cord with a quick pull, and when he felt the faint answering vibration, he slowly transferred his weight until the rope carried his entire body.
He climbed onward, hesitant at first, and then faster as his trust confidence grew. He was growing tired, true, but he covered the second segment almost as vigorously as the first.
He started slowing down on the third rope. The climb was beginning to wear on him.
By the fourth, he felt like going back. His shoulders ached. His biceps throbbed. The sides of his back behind his armpits felt numb. His extremities throbbed painfully from the cold.
By the fifth rope, he was thoroughly beaten. He couldn't go on. By his reckoning, he'd been climbing at least three hours.
He knelt against the rockface, secured the bottom of the next rope around his waist, and rested. He ate some of the salted meat from his duffel bag, and balled his hands beneath the gloves to warm his fingers. He released a trickle of electricity into his extremities, and it was enough to improve the blood flow to fingers and toes, and prevent frostbite.
The urge to look down was almost overwhelming. Just one peek. He was secure. What was the worst that could happen?
He'd lose heart, that's what. Not to mention the vertigo would probably overwhelm him. The same vertigo he felt if he looked up too far, and saw the hopeless, infinite grade above. By focusing on the rockface before him and nothing else, he made the climb doable. And by not knowing how far he'd plummet, by pretending he was only a few feet off the ground, well, that helped calm nerves that would otherwise paralyze him, or lead to a fall.
But while he didn't look, he didn't climb either.
He just stayed there, waiting.
For what?
Resting, he told himself.
Halfway. Come on Hood. You're halfway.
He sighed, and reluctantly untied the sixth rope from his waist, and pulled himself up along it, his body rebelling at every step. Resting had proven a mistake, because he just wanted to stop and rest again. His muscles ached all over. He had no energy. He wasn't a climber. What was he doing out here on the Forever Gate, a mile above the city?
Saving Ari, that's what. Now climb damn it.
He climbed, not daring to overthink his motivation, knowing how easily he could poke holes in it. He climbed for Ari, and that was good enough.
Each handspan became a small battle. Though it was a battle he was determined to win.
The air became thin, and he found himself panting constantly now. Or was he just tired? The frigid wind tore into him incessantly, and at times it felt like he wasn't even wearing a double layer of ermineskin.
He reached rope number seven.
Then rope number eight.
His double layer of gloves was pretty chewed up by now, and his fingers were exposed in places. He had to constantly expend some of his charge just to keep the frostbite at bay.
And then he reached rope number nine. Whereas all the previous ropes had overlapped to some extent, the ninth rope lay above the eighth.
But it was only a little ways above, just an arm-length. He could handle an arm-length of bare wall, couldn't he?
He climbed to the very top of rope number eight, wrapping his hands around the metallic loops that anchored the rope into the wall, and reached up with one hand.
His gloves had worn down enough so that even his unexposed fingers could feel the protuberances in the rock. He ran his fingers along the surface, searching for something that could take his weight. There. A rather large knob of stone. He found an appropriate higher foothold for his boot, then slowly transferred his weight to the handhold. The first joint of his finger flared in protest, but he found another foothold with his other leg, and he was able to haul himself high enough to grab the next rope.
When both his hands were secure around that rope, he exhaled in relief. He'd done it.
Nine ropes down. One more to go.
He climbed mechanically now, more than anything else. Raise one hand. Then the other. Raise one foot. Then the other. His arms and legs felt like stones. He'd thought they'd drop off if he stopped. He kept his focus on the wall in front of him as always.
Raise one hand. Then the other.
And then it was done. He arrived at the loops and cords that anchored rope number nine, and he glanced upward, searching for the final rope.
He saw only the dizzying Forever Gate, reaching skyward in its unending infinity.
There was no tenth rope.
And it had begun to snow.
CHAPTER NINE
What is a mind?
Why does it betray us at those times when we need it most?
Why does it fill us with fear, and emotion, at those times when we most need to avoid fear, when we most need to be emotionless?
Perhaps the better question might be, what is reality?
Is it some cog in a giant wheel? A smaller part of a grander fabrication, of which we all play our bit parts? Are our lives merely parts of this wheel? Predetermined and preset? We live out our days, and time passes, inexorably, slowly building up to one key, quintessential climax, where all the choices we think we've made and the paths we think we've taken converge beyond our control, and we find ourselves on a rope along a wall a mile above the city we were born in. With another quarter-mile to go.
And that rope has just run out.
Hoodwink leaned his head against the rockface, and closed his eyes.
"No, no, no nooo," he said.
It was over. He'd have to climb all the way back down. He'd have to tell Ari he couldn't do it.
The rope had run out, he'd say. The rope had run out.
And he could see her, looking back at him, the disappointment in her eyes, as she set out to climb the wall in his place. I wouldn't have needed a rope, she'd say. And she'd fall and die.
Fall and die.
Hoodwink opened his eyes, and he did what he'd promised himself he wouldn't do.
He looked down.
The city looked almost unreal at this height. It was like he stood again beside the vendor with her miniature replicas and maps, and casually observed one of her wares. True, this was far more detailed than any map he'd ever seen, but the illusion of perception made the city seem much closer, like he could just reach out and pick it up.
But then his eyes focused on the whirling snow closer at hand, those flakes descending from the heights like an endless vortex of doom, and the reality of what he saw hit him. He felt suddenly nauseous, and dizzy.
The duffel bag abruptly slid down his shoulder. He let go of the rope with that hand and caught the bag in the crook of his forearm. Two bundles of salted meat tumbled free and spun away on the breeze as the upper winds picked them up. Entranced, he watched the bundles fall. The fingers that gripped the rope began to slip. It would be so easy to follow those bundles down...
He snapped his head away, slid the duffel bag back into place, and placed both hands firmly on the rope. He concentrated on the bare rockface just ahead.
I can climb without a rope. I can climb without a rope. I can climb...
But could he really?
It was cold. So damn cold. The dead of winter in the coldest winters yet, a mile up from the earth. The snow fell more heavily. If this kept up, he doubted he'd be able to see farther that a pace or two. And the sun would set soon. If he was caught on the wall in the dark, he'd freeze to death.
Yes. Better to go back now, while he still could. He couldn't climb this. He wasn't trained. He was thirty-five years old. Sure, he was fit because of his job building barrels, but hammering nails into wood was far different than pulling one's body up a rockface.
He had to go back.
He had to admit when defeat had slapped him in the face.
He had to.
Just like how he'd admitted defeat when the gol took away his daughter. Just like how he'd given up and buried himself in his job, and spent the nights in the tavern, going home miserably drunk, and hating himself. Hating. He'd wanted his wife to leave him. He'd wanted to be punished, for allowing his daughter to be taken. Every morning he'd passed Ari by on the way to work, and he'd never said a word. He'd given up. Like he gave up now.
He had a rare moment of absolute lucidity right then.
The rockface wasn't his enemy.
It never had been.
It was cliche to think it, but he was his most ruthless enemy. He was the one he had to fight.
He could climb this wall.
And he would.
He was through giving up.
He shut his eyes, and breathed deeply, remembering why he was doing this.
I won't let you die Ari.
Opening his eyes, he let one hand leave the rope before he could change his mind. He felt along the rough surface, seeking a handhold. There. He forced his fingers into a slight crevice, and raised a boot, finding a foothold. He pulled with arm and leg at the same time, and flinched as the finger joints bore the weight of his body.
He planted the opposite boot on a small ledge, and straightened the leg, reaching up to find a handhold for the corresponding arm. He squeezed his fingers onto a tiny shelf, and paused for an instant.
The only thing holding him up was the strength of his own body. There was no rope. No second-chances should he make a mistake. He rode death's horse by the tips of his fingers and the tips of his toes.
He tried not to think about that for too long.
Focus, Hood.
The fingers of both hands throbbed at their first joints, but it was a manageable pain.
He lifted his knee, planted his boot on a new foothold, and pressed upward. His torso came up, and he scrambled his fingers al
ong the wall, searching for a handhold.
But the newly-placed foot slipped.
He slammed down against the rock, and lost his other footing. He hung there by one hand, the finger joints bearing the brunt of his weight. Only the tensile strength of a couple of knuckles stood between him and oblivion. Knuckles that throbbed in torment.
He scrambled with his left hand along the rockface, searching for a hold, any hold. Incredibly, he couldn't find one. Nothing would support him. A tiny ledge there. Too slippery. A crevice here. His fingers wouldn't fit.
The knuckles of his hand had held thus far, but it was the arm muscles that now started to fail. His entire arm had begun shaking uncontrollably.
Frantic now, he lifted his forgotten feet. Had to find a foothold. A foothold!
There. A small jutting piece of rock. Just a fragment. But he was able to jam the toes of both boots onto it, sharing the weight with his arm. The pain in his knuckles subsided a little, but the arm was still shaking rapidly, near exhaustion. He searched the wall again with his free hand, finding a hold he'd missed the first time.
Carefully, he released that shaking hand from the wall. The fingers were curled into a permanent claw, and he found himself unable to straighten the fingers through the pain.
He allowed a little electricity into the hand, massaging the tendons and bone, terrified that he'd never be able to open his hand again. But with an effort he was finally able to coax each finger open. And then he found the next handhold, and had to curl those sore fingers up again.
In this way he proceeded up the last section of the wall, battling against himself, battling against the rock. First one foot, then the hand. Then the other hand. The other foot. Rising one small handspan at a time. Conquering infinity bit by bit by bit.
There was snow in places. And ice. And he slipped, or almost slipped, in countless small battles. But always he climbed on.
It's not real, he told himself often during that climb. None of this is real. A part of him even believed it. Some other world existed atop his own, one that he couldn't see, couldn't feel, but was there nonetheless, where he resided at the same time as this one. And it was from that other world, that other self, from which he drew his strength and focus.