Thin Air

by Michelle Paver

  I’ve fetched up here at the lake, seething and pacing up and down. I can hear him at the other end of camp, teaching the Sherpas to belay. He and a young man called Tenrit are roped together, and Kits has seated Tenrit in front of a rock, with the rope looped around it.

  ‘So now,’ he explains in a singsong voice, as if they’re children, ‘if I climb down below Tenrit, and I slip and he can’t hold me, that loop around the rock will hold him – which means I won’t pull us both off the mountain!’

  Dutiful grins for the Great Teacher Sahib, who – Cotterell, please note – remains his usual cheery self, despite unwarranted provocation from his beastly younger brother.

  It’s noon, and the sun is fierce. The wind has dropped, and on the boulder, the prayer flags hang motionless. The lake is utterly still.

  Over the years, we’ve evolved a way of rubbing along together, and for the most part, it works – provided I ignore his half-jocular, half-resentful digs at ‘medics’ and anything remotely ‘high-brow’ that I happen to enjoy, and we restrict our talk to climbing, Aunt Ruth, Dorothy and their two fat, unappealing progeny, as well as every other crashingly boring detail of his crashingly boring life. Only in the odd unguarded moment does the truth ever threaten to erupt: that if we weren’t related, we wouldn’t give each other the time of day.

  But I knew all this when I came, so what’s changed?

  I suppose what I didn’t realise is how Kits views my rôle on the expedition. He thinks we’re still at Winchester. He thinks I’m still Pearce minor, the clever if slightly awkward younger brother who’s only good at things like Latin and Greek, for which no decent fellow cares a fig. He thinks I ought to remain meekly at Base – or at best, the lower camps – while the real climbers get on with the job.

  The belaying lesson is over, and the Sherpas have returned to the cook-site. Nothing disturbs the peace. No avalanche, no icefall. Not even a gorak.

  Half of the lake is covered by a thin glaze of greenish-grey ice, which the wind has roughened to an odd, reticulate pattern. The other half is open water, and as still as a looking glass. It mirrors the mountain with photographic clarity. I can see the Great Shelf cutting across the Face, and at its near end, the Icefall tumbling down the right flank of the Buttress, with the snow slope on the other side. On the upper part of the Icefall, I fancy I can just make out that zigzag crevasse, and the dark, whale-backed crag that sparked the row.

  The row which, as I squat by the water’s edge, now seems embarrassingly childish, a brotherly tiff that we allowed to get out of hand.

  The water is extraordinarily clear. I shift focus from the mountain’s reflection to what lies beneath: smooth grey pebbles on greenish-gold sand. Cupping water in my palm, I take a sip. It has a mineral tang, and it’s so cold it sets my teeth on edge.

  Belatedly, I remember Nima’s prohibition against drinking from the lake. I can’t help smiling. Poor old Nima. He’s too polite to scold, but if he knew what I’ve just done, he’d get his concerned look. Once again, the puppy in his charge has done something unwise.

  The sun goes in behind a cloud, and suddenly I’m cold. Something feels wrong. There’s a tension in the air. I take a deep breath, but I’m still breathless: a sick, prickling weight on my chest, like the moment before you faint.

  I can’t hear the Sherpas at the cook-site, or the distant roar of the wind across the Face. The silence feels dense and hostile.

  I shift focus from the bottom of the lake to the looking-glass mountain on its surface.

  I stop breathing. There’s someone up there. Up on the mountain. I can see him, a dark head peering from the crag.

  But there can’t be anyone that high. There can’t be anyone at all.

  I lurch round to stare at the mountain itself – and of course he’s gone, because he was never there. And yet, some impulse makes me shout, ‘Hulloa! You up there, what d’you want!’

  My voice rings out, and at the cook-site, the Sherpas raise their heads and stare.

  Turning back to the looking-glass mountain in the lake, I follow the black wedge of the Buttress to its apex, then across the Icefall to the crag.

  It’s still there. On the mountain. I watch it peering down. Then, slowly, it sinks backwards. Out of sight.

  10

  It can’t have been a bird; it was bigger than that. Or an ibex or a sheep. I asked McLellan if there are any animals on the mountain and he said no, there’s nothing alive up there.

  Obviously it can’t have been a man. And even if it was – even if, which isn’t possible – I couldn’t have seen him, not from that distance; my eyesight’s not good enough, no one’s is. So it must have been a shadow, or a rock, or an odd formation of ice.

  It’s three forty-five a.m. and Nima has just brought my tea and chuppaties. He didn’t need to wake me, I wasn’t asleep. I think I did sleep for a few hours, but mostly I lay in that half-conscious muddle which is so much more tiring than being awake.

  Yates, Stratton, Pache, Freemantle and Knight. The names tumbled through my mind with a nagging sense that I’d got something wrong. But they’re all accounted for, all safe in their cairns. That’s what my brain kept assuring me with its warped dream logic. As if a pile of rocks could stop the dead from walking.

  It’s the tenth of May, the first day of the climb. I really don’t wish to know whether that’s the same day on which Lyell set off – although doubtless Kits will tell me if it is.

  My tent is dark and freezing. The canvas is crusted with hoarfrost. My beard and sleeping bag are stiff with it. From now on, we’ll be starting each day well before dawn, to avoid what Cotterell calls the ‘enemy fire’ of rockfall and avalanche.

  That’s fine with me, the earlier the better. I want as much reality as I can get, even if it does mean waking in darkness and forcing swollen feet into frozen boots. My hands aren’t steady, but that’s all right too, I always get the shakes before a climb.

  Cedric pokes in his nose. I let him in and give him my last chuppatie. His eyes are a warm, chocolatey brown, and when I bury my face in his shaggy white scruff, his doggy smell is immensely reassuring.

  The others are already outside, stamping in clouds of frosty breath. It’s bitterly cold, and the pale yellow shafts of our electric headlamps only deepen the darkness.

  Above us, a blizzard of stars in a clear black sky. Without wirelessed reports from Darjeeling, we’re relying on Sherpa weather lore, which is proving surprisingly accurate. They say it’ll be calm for at least the next few days.

  Kits is explaining something interminable about his crampons to Garrard, who, ever the devoted friend, is feigning interest. He looks nervous. The shadows around his close-set eyes are more pronounced, as if he hasn’t slept.

  Cotterell and McLellan are chivvying the coolies, who are still at that boulder by the lake, casting tsampa and singing their tuneless prayers. For once, McLellan doesn’t seem to mind. Perhaps he’s been praying, too.

  All twelve Sherpas will be climbing with us. They’re a tight-knit bunch, and most of them seem to be related. Nima is uncle, brother, cousin or some sort of in-law to just about all of them. The other coolies, under McLellan’s command, will be running supplies between the lower camps and Base.

  And now we’re off. It’s a two-hour hike to the knoll, and Cedric’s coming too, as I knew he would.

  ‘Not sure about that, Dr Pearce,’ says Cotterell. ‘He’ll be a drain on supplies.’ He turns to McLellan, who’s coming as far as the knoll to see us off. ‘When you return to Base, old chap, you’ll have to take the hound.’

  ‘Absolutely, sir.’ But behind the Major’s back, the Scotsman tips me a wink. He’s guessed that Cedric will be doing nothing of the sort.

  And why shouldn’t the beast come with us, if he wants to? On the north face, Bauer took a dog to twenty-four thousand feet. Besides, it would give me a chance to compare human and canine physiologies. And he’s good for morale. Especially mine.

  Because the truth is, I need
Cedric. What I saw yesterday is cutting me off from the others. Oddly enough, McLellan seems to understand that, even though he doesn’t know why.

  I wish I’d told him last night, when I had the chance.

  At dinner I was too shocked and confused to talk to anyone. But later, when I stopped by McLellan’s tent to check on him, he asked me if anything was up.

  I was startled. ‘What do you mean?’

  He looked embarrassed. ‘Oh, I don’t know. You didn’t say much at dinner. You seemed sort of – well, spooked.’

  ‘—Spooked,’ I repeated inanely.

  With a rueful smile, he held up his splinted forearm. ‘This isn’t an omen, you know. I mean, for the climb. It was my own stupid fault.’

  It flashed across my mind that now was my chance to tell him. I could make light of it: Queerest thing happened to me by the lake. Isn’t it odd what one’s brain conjures up on the eve of a climb? And then we could laugh about it, and I could put it behind me.

  Instead, I patted his shoulder and forced a smile. ‘You weren’t stupid, old man, just damned unlucky. And don’t worry about me, I don’t believe in omens.’

  And that’s true, I don’t. But I find it alarming that I missed my chance to tell him. After all, what I glimpsed on that crag can’t have been anything, so why did I keep quiet?

  Well, because – because I don’t want anyone thinking the altitude is affecting my nerves. Especially not Kits. He’d pounce on it, and then where would I be? Stuck at Base, that’s where.

  I just wish it hadn’t moved. I can see it now, sinking out of sight. Too slow for a fall, more of a conscious withdrawal. And the way it moved … It wasn’t right.

  I keep pushing it out of my mind, but it always comes back. I won’t say that I’m scared. Only apprehensive. I can’t seem to shake off the feeling that there’s something up there, waiting for us.

  And I know that’s impossible; it’s simply oxygen lack affecting my perceptions – and doubtless also the Sherpas’ odd beliefs, which have been preying on my mind. As well as those infernal Lyell graves.

  Just now, as we reached the knoll, Nima lit sticks of incense before each cairn, and whipped off his woolly cap and bowed. On impulse, I went and dropped a pebble on each one; swiftly, and without looking at the names. For luck.

  That pleased Kits. I think he took it as a peace offering: my way of honouring Lyell. So once again, things are patched up between us. We’ve buried the ice-axe, as it were. And that’s good, because from now on, it’s us against the mountain. Garrard, Kits, Cotterell and me.

  I do feel sorry for McLellan. If I was the poor beggar being left at Base, I’d be devastated. And strangely enough, I find that incredibly comforting, because it tells me that I’m not so fearfully shaken by what I saw yesterday, and I do still desperately want to climb this mountain.

  Even if our route does take us directly over that crag.

  * * *

  Nothing like climbing to drive out the demons.

  The weather’s perfect: sunny, but with enough wind and cloud to prevent the heat becoming unbearable. We’re aiming to hack steps up the snow slope and pitch Camp One where Lyell did, about two thirds up the Buttress’ west flank.

  Garrard, Kits and I form the advance party with the best of the Sherpas: Nima, Dorjit, Cherma, Tenrit, Angdawa and young Pasang. As well as cutting steps, we’re setting ropes and marker flags, to make what we’ve dubbed the ‘porters’ highway’; this will allow the support party with the baggage to follow behind.

  Cotterell hates hammering in pitons, he says it’s spoiling the mountain with ‘blacksmiths’ leavings’. But Nima doesn’t seem to mind, he tells me that what’s important is not to treat the mountain with disrespect. ‘Never tell it bad word, Doctor Sahib. Never kick it in anger with feet.’

  The slope is steeper than it looked from below, and although not technically difficult, it turns out to be mostly ice, rather than snow. And this ice is tough, much tougher than in the Alps, so hacking each step is pretty stiff work. My heart is pounding, my throat sore from constant panting; and despite slathering on the Penaten, my face feels like cracked leather. But that’s all good. It’s what I want.

  Pausing for breath, I push up my snow glasses. The glare is eye-watering, but just for a moment, I want to see things as they really are. Around me, the ice is fantastically sculpted, and glittering like white diamonds, with plunging shadows of astonishing sapphire. The air is achingly clear. I feel I could reach out and touch the guardian peaks.

  ‘What are you grinning about?’ pants Garrard below me.

  ‘We’re climbing the Crystal Mountain,’ I mumble through chapped lips.

  ‘The what?’

  Above us, Kits hoots with laughter. ‘Ignore him, Beak, he’s mad!’

  My laugh is a series of breathless gasps, but I can tell that Kits remembers. He loved that story as much as I did, although he’d never admit it now.

  A while later, we pause in a patch of cerulean shade for a quick lunch of Mint Cake and Ginger Nuts, with vacuum flasks of tea. After that, I remain behind with the support party: that’s Cotterell, Lobsang and the five remaining Sherpas.

  Cotterell is very breathless, and will bear watching; I wonder if his extra years are starting to tell. But the Sherpas are amazing. It’s beyond me how such small, slight people can climb with such enormous loads. I think Bauer’s medical officer, Dr Hautmann, may be right, and there’s something about their blood that allows them to tolerate oxygen depletion.

  I certainly couldn’t carry one of those packing crates, or a doko crammed with firewood. My rucksack can’t weigh more than twenty pounds, but it feels like a ton. Every step is an effort, even though we’re not really climbing, merely trudging up a steep slope. Digging in my crampons and gripping the head of my ice-axe like a walking stick, I jam in the shaft and haul myself up. And again. And again. But I’m grateful for the sheer, gasping drudgery. It banishes all sense of – well, of anything else.

  Cedric is helping enormously. We’d just finished lunch when he came scrambling up, as I’d hoped he would, lashing his feathery tail and looking wildly pleased with himself for having found us.

  The Sherpas leant on their ice-axes, grinning from ear to ear, and Cotterell struggled to look stern.

  ‘We can’t send him back now,’ I said. ‘If anything happened to him, it’d demoralise everyone!’

  This made him smile. ‘So that’s your argument, is it? A mascot, to encourage the troops?’

  ‘Absolutely! He’ll know when he’s had enough, then the Sherpas can take him back to Base.’

  Cedric was glancing from me to Cotterell, clearly aware that we were talking about him.

  ‘Oh, very well,’ growled Cotterell. ‘But he’s your responsibility, Dr Pearce.’

  So that was settled. I’ve made Cedric a rope harness, criss-crossed over his back and around his forelegs, so that if he gets into trouble, we can haul him clear without throttling him. And I was right, he has lightened our spirits. He’s amazingly sure-footed, and spends his time scrambling between the advance and support parties, having apparently conceived it his duty to ensure that none of us gets lost.

  * * *

  The climb after lunch wasn’t quite as straightforward. We had to negotiate several tricky traverses of snow-filled crevasses, and giant blocks fallen from the cliffs. Then Pemba was hit in the thigh by a small icefall. Fortunately, it was only a bad bruise, but I’d just finished seeing to him when I glanced back, and saw someone far below, following us up the ‘porters’ highway’.

  I told myself that McLellan must have sent a mail-runner from Base; but as we climbed higher, I kept an eye on the figure over my shoulder, and it was always there. Following.

  At last, I checked with my field glasses – and it turned out to be a lump of ice. I was shaken by the intensity of my relief. What had I imagined it was?

  By the time we’d struggled up the final stretch of the highway, the advance party had already pitched the t
ents at Camp One, and set the Primuses hissing under saucepans of ice, for tea.

  Kits was bright-eyed with the sheer fun of the climb, and joshed us for arriving late. ‘The things you lot will do to avoid work!’

  Camp One is on a broad balcony on the western flank of the Buttress. It’s a cold, exposed, noisy camp, what with the canvas snapping and the wind roaring over the Saddle. But it’s spacious, with several yards of level snow in front of the tents; and we’re sheltered from avalanches by the top of the Buttress.

  The support Sherpas headed off down the highway some time ago in order to reach Base before dark. First thing tomorrow, they’ll start again with another load. Cotterell wants them shuttling between here and Base until we’ve amassed a sizeable stores dump, which we can use for establishing the upper camps.

  From now on, we’re doubling up in the tents, Kits sharing with Garrard, and I with Cotterell. I’ve left him writing his journal in ours, and stepped out to catch the last of the light, and a few moments alone.

  As soon as I’m beyond the lee of the tents, the wind cuts like a knife. Spindrift hisses at me, stiffening my windproofs as I trudge forwards to see how far we’ve climbed. I should have worn my balaclava. Within seconds, the wind snatches the heat from my face, and my skull is achingly cold. Wrapping my muffler around my head, I pull up my hood.

  As I stand facing the tents, I crane my neck at a dizzying sweep of rock and ice that rises some seven thousand feet to Kangchenjunga West, one of the mountain’s ‘lesser’ peaks. To my right, the glaring chaos of the Upper Icefall is ablaze in the last of the sun. Somewhere over there is that crag. That’s where we’re heading tomorrow. Fortunately, it’s out of sight behind the Buttress.

  Turning my back on the tents, I trudge towards the edge of the ‘balcony’. We’ve climbed higher than I thought. Staring down the snow slope makes me giddy. Far below, I can just make out the black hump of the knoll, and the Lyell graves.