by Various Orca
“Stop here,” Sarah said.
I almost bumped into Doris. I felt like I could go farther and I didn’t want to stop. Then I saw the sign: Welcome to Stella’s Point! We were almost there. My mind raced back to what I could remember. The slope was supposed to flatten out now. There was less than 200 meters left to climb.
Doris took out her camera. “I want a picture of you two here before we go on.”
Sarah and I bookended the sign, and Doris snapped a picture.
“Now you,” I said.
I took the camera as she took my place. I slipped off my glove and realized that my fingers felt fine. The chill was gone from them. I looked up. I was going to say “smile,” but both of them already were. I snapped the picture and then took a second, just in case.
As we stood there, two more parties came by on their way down. They were smiling and laughing and every single person offered us encouragement, cheering us on. And each word just gave me a little more energy, a little more incentive, a little more inspiration. Without saying another word, we started up again.
We pushed up the slope, reaching the crest. I looked beyond Sarah, over her head. As we climbed one side, the sun rose over the other. It was blindingly bright. I shielded my eyes with a gloved hand until they adjusted. I looked out in front of us. The ground flattened until it was barely rising. And there, no more than 200 meters away, was a small group of people crowded around a sign post—the sign post.
“Is it?” I asked.
“We are here,” Sarah said. Her voice was filled with wonderment.
“Almost there,” I said. “Still a few more steps to go.”
“One step at a time,” Doris said. “DJ, you should go ahead.”
“What?”
“You go ahead. You and your grandfather.”
“No. You, Sarah, me and my grandpa. Together.”
I reached out and took her hand and then Sarah’s. “All the way to the top. Together.”
Three astride, we walked up the little slope. The rush of adrenaline pushed aside the tiredness in my legs, the strain in my lungs, the pain in my head. For the first time in days I was certain we were going to make it.
“I wish my husband could see me now,” Doris said.
“He can,” I said. “The same way my grandpa can see me.”
As we reached the sign, the crowd parted. They offered smiles, and a man—a stranger on the same journey—shook my hand and offered congratulations.
“Let me take your picture,” he said.
Doris gave him her camera, and the three of us climbed in front of the sign and stood there. Uhuru Point—the Highest Point in Africa. All the way to the top. I felt like laughing. I felt like crying. I just felt…so alive.
TWENTY-FOUR
I stood off to the side, clutching the cane. I’d done what I’d been asked. I was at the top of Mount Kilimanjaro. I could sprinkle the ashes and then go down, go home. It would be over. Now that I was here, I didn’t want it to be over. Until the ashes were sprinkled, it was like he was still with me. But that was wrong. He’d always be with me.
“We need to get going,” Sarah said. “Soon.”
I nodded. “I understand. Just another minute.”
“We understand, dear,” Doris said. “Do you want to be alone?”
“No. I want you here. I’m just trying to figure out what to say. I should say something.”
“Would you mind if I said a few words?” she asked.
“No, of course not.”
Sarah and Doris removed their hats and I pulled off my balaclava. In my one hand was the cane, and in the other my grandpa’s beret.
“We are here to say goodbye to David McLean,” Doris said. “I did not have the good fortune to know the man, but I have been blessed to know his grandson. David, they say that you can tell a tree by the fruit. I have known the fruit. To produce such a fine grandson, you must have been a fine man. You are missed.”
I felt myself choking up, trying to fight back the tears, and then I heard sobbing. I turned. It was Sarah and she was crying, her whole body convulsing.
“You asked a favor of your grandson, a favor we will now complete. I have a favor of you. Could you say hello to my husband, and make sure he isn’t causing too much trouble up there?”
I unscrewed the top of the cane and slowly dumped the ashes into the palm of my hand. The wind, which had been strong, seemed to pause, waiting.
“Thanks for taking me along on this trip,” I said to Grandpa.
I tossed the ashes into the air. The wind picked them up and they flew up in an iridescent white cloud and then were grabbed and lifted higher and higher until I couldn’t see them anymore, until they were someplace between heaven and earth.
“It’s not goodbye,” I said softly. “You’ll always be with me.”
TWENTY-FIVE
My eyes popped open, and in the pitch black my hand went up to my head to push on my headlamp. It wasn’t there. And then I realized that I wasn’t there…on the mountain. I was in a bed in a room at the Springlands Hotel in Moshi. I let out a big sigh of relief and satisfaction. I’d gotten to the top and back down to the bottom. I closed my eyes again. The bed felt good.
In the morning I’d be flying out. From Moshi to Nairobi to Amsterdam to home. It would be a long journey, and I needed to get back to sleep, but I couldn’t help thinking about the day ahead. I’d get dressed, finish packing, take my grandpa’s cane and meet Doris, Sarah and Mr. Odogo in the lobby. They were going to be driving us to the airport. I’d be sharing the first flight with Doris and then we’d go our separate ways.
I wasn’t looking forward to saying goodbye to her, but it wasn’t going to be a forever goodbye. We’d promised to get together next summer. It wasn’t the usual “see you sometime” arrangement. We’d agreed that I’d fly over to England and she’d show me around. She even threatened me with a granddaughter she wanted me to meet. If she was anything like her grandmother, it wasn’t a threat. Maybe she’d even have two granddaughters worth meeting. I’d already asked Steve to join me, and he’d said yes. It would be a great trip for us to share.
I really missed him. I didn’t know if that would last once we were together again, but who knew? He was my brother, and more than that, my twin brother. I was sure that within a couple of weeks we’d start to drive each other crazy again, but still, wasn’t that what brothers did? And probably what brothers and sisters did too.
That’s what Sarah had become—my sister. Despite all the kidding around, she’d never be my girlfriend or my wife, but she would always be my little sister. My annoying, irritating, bossy, opinionated little sister who I cared for very much—even if I never saw her again. Maybe I could help her realize her dreams the way my grandpa had helped her grandpa. I’d already been part of one dream, although she probably didn’t need much help from anybody to achieve the others. Maybe she’d remember me kindly when she became the first female president of Tanzania.
I was going to miss Mr. Odogo as well. A few days ago I wouldn’t have believed that was possible.
We had arrived back at the base camp from the summit about an hour before Mr. Odogo arrived. As soon as he got there, Sarah told him what we had done. I’d held my breath, waiting for the explosion. How he reacted wasn’t what I had expected. He offered us each congratulations, a handshake and a hug. He said that he was “too proud to be angry” with us. In fact, he said that he had expected us to climb, that he knew his daughter too well, and knew that I was going to keep my promise to my grandpa. It seemed that he had faith in me even when I didn’t.
That didn’t stop him from punishing us though. Instead of allowing us to stay and rest at the base camp, he marched us partway down the mountain. After ten hours and 1,300 meters up to the summit and back down to base camp, the last thing I needed was to move again. He pushed us another 10 kilometers, down another 1,400 meters. Sarah had told me that if Doris hadn’t been with us he would have marched us all the way off the moun
tain, shedding another 1,500 meters over another 8 kilometers. Thank goodness for Doris. Not just for up there on the mountain but for down here at the hotel…and in the future.
I sat up in bed—my nice comfortable bed. It was becoming clearer as my mind came alive that I wasn’t going to be able to go back to sleep. Maybe it was almost time to get up. I sat up, turned on the light and reached for my phone. It was almost five—too early to get up but too late to go back to sleep. And then I noticed I had emails and texts. That wasn’t surprising.
Since I’d gotten down from the mountain, I’d been exchanging messages with all my cousins. Up there, pushed to the limit, it had been easy to forget that I wasn’t the only one on an adventure. I had no idea where Rennie was, but the rest of us were scattered around the world—Steve in Spain; Adam in France; and Spencer, Bernard and Webb in North America. In those brief messages I’d gotten little snippets of their adventures.
I couldn’t wait to sit down and tell them about my journey, but more important, hear all about their quests. I could picture us all sitting around at the cottage with our parents, sharing our stories with each other. But there would always be one person missing. The person who launched us on our trips and gave us so much, the person who would have enjoyed the stories more than anybody. But really, he wouldn’t be missing. He’d been right there beside me the whole way up the mountain and he’d still be with me—with us—when we gathered again.
Then I remembered. I still had one more part of Grandpa with me right now. The last letter still to be read. It was buried somewhere in my pack.
I climbed out of bed and pulled things out that I’d already packed. I started to feel a little panicky—where was it?—and then I found it. It was bent out of shape, a bit worse for wear. I’d originally thought that I should read it at the top of the mountain, but in the excitement it had slipped my mind. Coming back down, I did remember but I wondered if the word on the front—End—really meant the bottom of the mountain. Then when I got to the bottom, I thought maybe it meant when I got home or…Really, I guess part of me just didn’t want to open it. It was the last thing he was ever going to say to me.
I held the letter in my hands, turning it over slowly. I thought about what had happened over the past weeks and I thought about him, what he had meant to me, what he still meant to me. It was time to open the letter. I unsealed it, careful not to rip the envelope, and pulled out the letter.
Dear DJ,
With the first two letters I knew where you would most likely be when you opened them; probably in your bedroom for the first, and at the foot of the mountain for the second. This one, well, it’s hard to say what “end” means. It might mean you reached the top of Kilimanjaro or it might mean that you couldn’t. It doesn’t matter. To be honest with you, it never mattered. What truly matters is not the path that lies behind you or before you—what matters is what is inside of you.
You are such a strong, capable person. Somebody who always seems to succeed in the tasks he has set. I hope this gift that you gave to me—taking me up the mountain—was also a gift to you. I hope you have learned the joy of taking life as it comes, living in the moment, not thinking through to the end, but relishing the process and perhaps going polepole—going slowly along the path you travel.
You’ll have to excuse me for my feeble attempts to communicate wisdom. I was always amazed when people saw me as wise. It seems to be a by-product of growing old; if you are old, you must be wise. Believe me, I’ve met a whole lot of stupid old people, most of whom were positive they were wise. Wisdom is almost an illusion.
A fool believes he knows what life is about. A wiser man understands he knows little. The wisest man not only understands his limitations, but accepts and embraces that lack of understanding. Slowly, over the years, I came to appreciate that what I knew would never be as great as what I didn’t know. The only thing I have come to know with certainty is that all of us are simply trying to get along the best that we can, sharing in our struggles, trying for our dreams, living with our failures and celebrating our successes. I’ve had my share of both.
With you, I’ve often wondered if your greatest disadvantage was that you’re so used to succeeding. Failure is good for the soul. While we aim for success, it is the failure that defines us. Don’t be afraid of failing. You need to accept it and understand that failing doesn’t make you a failure. It merely makes you human. I hope through this trip you have learned a few things, but the most important is that life is a journey, not a destination. This was part of your life journey—the last part I will share with you—although I know that a part of me will always be with you.
The Chagga people believe that a man never dies as long as he has children. I believe that as well. Through my daughters, through my grandsons, I live on. Through you I live on. I am so proud of you and sad that I will not be there to watch your ongoing journey to manhood, to becoming a husband and father and grandfather. And through your children and their children I will live on. Part of me will always be here on earth. The rest—I guess that’s something I now know but can’t pass on to you.
There is still one more thing I’d like to ask of you—and no, it doesn’t involve climbing any more mountains! Having you named after me was such an honor. Your mother gave me one of the most precious things in a life that was filled with so much. Of course two Davids in a family led to you being called David Junior and then DJ. Now there’s no longer a senior, so there’s no longer a junior. You could—and only if you wish—now be known as David, but only if you wanted, and only someday if it feels right to you. And who knows? There might, many, many years from now, be born a son or grandson who would be named David to carry on both of our legacies. If that does happen, I want you to do two things: give him our beret. And don’t make him climb any damn mountains!
Socrates was once asked to comment on whether or not a man had led a good life. He said he could not say until the man had died because his life was not over. I can now answer. I’ve had the best life imaginable. And it ended, not back where I died but up on that mountain. Thank you for taking me with you on this trip—thanks to you, I finally have been between heaven and earth.
With greatest love,
Grandpa
I fought unsuccessfully to hold back the tears. But I knew these tears weren’t just about sadness. Mixed in were gratitude, relief, happiness and joy.
There on the bed, among the items I’d unpacked to get to the letter, was the beret. It had been buried in my pack. I picked it up, felt the material, turned it around in my hands and thought of him wearing it, a smile on his face, a spring in his step, telling stories, laughing and living and loving each moment of his life.
I put it on, but somehow it just didn’t feel right. I walked over to the mirror and rearranged it, turning it a little this way, pulling it down slightly, until it looked right. Then I looked into the mirror. And I saw him looking back at me. We were both smiling.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Many thanks to the other wonderful writers of this series—what an honor it was to share the process with you all! Thanks also to Andrew Wooldridge for taking a chance on the series and actually getting back from lunch, and to Sarah Harvey for editing seven stories by seven very different writers.
ERIC WALTERS began writing in 1993 as a way to entice his grade-five students into becoming more interested in reading and writing. Since then, Eric has published over seventy novels and won over eighty awards. Often his stories incorporate themes that reflect his background in education and social work and his commitment to humanitarian and social-justice issues. Eric lives in Mississauga, Ontario, with his wife and three children. For more information, visit www.ericwalters.net.
Eric, his son Nick and Nick’s friend Jack climbed Mount Kilimanjaro to research this book.
Eric founded and helps operate a children’s program that provides for over 400 orphans in Kikima, Mbooni District, Kenya. For more information, and to find out how you can help, go to w
ww.creationofhope.com.
JOHN WILSON
LOST
CAUSE
ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS
Copyright © 2012 John Wilson
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Wilson, John (John Alexander), 1951-
Lost cause [electronic resource] / John Wilson.
(Seven (the series))
Electronic monograph.
Issued also in print format.
ISBN 978-1-55469-945-2 (PDF).--ISBN 978-1-55469-946-9 (EPUB)
I. Title. II. Series: Seven the series (Online)
PS8595.I5834l66 2012 jC813'.54 C2012-902620-4
First published in the United States, 2012
Library of Congress Control Number: 2012938224
Summary: Steve travels to Spain and uncovers his late grandfather’s
involvement in the Spanish Civil War.
Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for its publishingprograms provided by the following agencies: the Government of Canadathrough the Canada Book Fund and the Canada Council for the Arts,and the Province of British Columbia through the BC Arts Counciland the Book Publishing Tax Credit.
Design by Teresa Bubela
Cover photography by Getty Images
Author photo by Katherine Gordon
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