Snow Blind

by Richard Blanchard

  The window light restores sight. Why am I holding back? Light streams around me, great strands of it. I lift my head to see the source of the blood. My palms are exposed through my gloves. The wounds leak blood consistently. I cleanse them with snow. Blood drips into the substantial kidney-shaped pool in front of me. A pair of palm prints to my right trace the last parts of my crawl. Just stay here a while. Suspend your life for a moment. My body is intact and I have a soul that’s clean. I feel such a roar gathering. Take this moment to release.

  The wooden door is within easy reach. I push onto all fours and recover myself to stand. Blood being called to my core makes my first steps wobbly. It is my upper body that screams, but I still stumble. No call bell here. Two stone steps later I elect to fall against the wooden door and cause an alerting thump. The bump in the night brings no response. I reach for a rock at the foot of the steps and bring it in one motion to the door, clattering into the metal door catch. I won’t fail here. Each effort brings life.

  After a neat click overhead, the rock flies from my hand when it doesn’t meet the expected door.

  “Merde. Hal, Hal!” is shouted back into the building.

  I rest my eyes. Job done. I grimace to fight back a cry but my eyelids leak.

  Within seconds I am pulled from the doorway. Strong arms lock into the back of my knees and behind my back; swept in like the newly wed bride I have never been. Laid on a table now. I hear metal bowls hit the stone floor.

  “Regardez-moi. Vous avez mal quelque part?” A full-faced beard hides a man of maybe thirty years. He seems so sure of what he is doing I don’t want to interrupt him.

  “Je vois que vous vous êtes blessée aux mains, mais vous avez mal ailleurs?”

  “Elle vient d’où ?” There are maybe three people who have joined him.

  “Vous êtes toute seule?” I think he’s asking me if I’m alone. I shake my head.

  I remember the howling at the foot of the ice cliff. Robert attempted to climb the wall and slid down within a minute. Max and Steve offered desperate and less frequent screams.

  It was Johnny who helped me. I started to bend my remaining ski pole in two. He managed to finally snap it.

  “Get us all out of here Juliet.” He handed me the shortened pole handle and the bottom end with the ski basket, in great faith. And so my climb began, with the stiffer re-freezing ice taking the poles readily.

  Although all hope hinged on me I could feel male smirking on my back; that bint will never make it. After five clean holds from the poles the group fell quiet. Hope had sprung to smother fear. The slope was steep but steady. I kicked footholds in the snow and etched others out with the pole. Half way up there was no banter. Grudging support sustained me. Before long I had fallen onto the beaten path to this door. Gravity had sustained me.

  “I am with five others. Oui, cinq hommes. Under the Refuge. Below here. No, there are four others, only four. One is lost.” The whole roomed clatters. Torches, ropes, zips, belays, crampons, helmets.

  “Is your guide dead?” someone asks, but I shake my head. These men seize the chance to help without being asked. This manhood bursts out into the night.

  I am safely abandoned; exhaustion means I don’t protest and go to help. I am sat in a clumsy wooden chair smothered in sleeping bags; my weariness seeps into it. The fire is waning; it expects to be left to fizzle out. The solidity and steadiness of the stone and oak refuge, its shelter and normality, stand up calmly to the fierce nature outside. My core is impenetrable at first but gradually re-admits warmth. Blissful silence again. Every man departed, except those in my heart. Shivering stops me from sleeping.

  SUNDAY 19TH APRIL 2009

  CHAPTER 44

  Juliet 05.45.

  “IS THERE HOPE FOR A MAN?”

  God sped me through the darkness. I will hold Ethan too tightly tonight; my head pressed onto his chest hearing the booming heartbeat I created. He will flush at his mum’s desperation but welcome it easily.

  Where is the door, by my side or at the foot of the bed? I have no sense of orientation. No light through yonder window breaks. My blackberry says 05.45 local time and shows 107 emails that I refuse to acknowledge but couldn’t anyway. Souped-up work dramas await me tomorrow. Should I suspend Charles for his wandering hands? When can Primark see me on Monday afternoon? Should we bother lowering our day rate just to get on a six-month contract? How can we achieve a step change in margin without changing the headline rate to clients? These questions occupy me but never engage me; my dispassion is lauded as a strength.

  Why am I the only one awake? Is Dan awake or unable to sleep with the cold? Is he taking in the morning through hyperventilating lungs, cursing his misfortune? I hope he is occupied thinking about Ethan and his impending marriage.

  No noise in the Refuge de Requin. No one stirs, not a begrudging owner nor an expectant climber. I waited up for all the sheep to come in last night. Robert and Max came in together, nonchalantly knocking the standard of accommodation. They fraudulently talked beyond thoughts of the danger they had faced. It was midnight when Johnny was brought in. He had replaced Dan as the misguidedly generous host having given the others priority. Steve was already asleep by then; the first one relayed up the slope because of his distress. He stared at the fire I had enlivened, sat on the stone floor at my feet, hugging my legs. He nervously swept the corners of his mouth on my ski pants, his bristles scraping the nylon.

  “Steve. Take care of yourself for now. We will do our best for Dan.” Without acknowledgement he rolled onto his right side into the foetal position.

  I called Chris at the hotel when everyone except his brother was safe. He said less than Steve.

  “You must call the family Chris. I would do but I can’t from here. We will rescue him at first light. We have a helicopter coming. Have faith and give it to your mum, and Sophia…” I know it’s beyond him. Maybe he will call his mother and let her spread the news that her son is in mortal danger. Let a woman cope with another woman. The collective word for females is that of a “woe man”, that never occurred to me before. This would have been a male take on our disposition if it were intended.

  “No, no, no,” Chris repeated as if he had failed to guide a lamb safely away from a cliff edge.

  I elect to be the first noise. Light shifts up the valley. I have saved them; I must save Dan. I pull back the thin curtain material. I knock the room chair over, maybe on purpose. I wash my underarms and between my legs with the postage stamp of soap and scratch them dry with a thin overused towel. Sweat has cooled in my clothes, moulding them for me to put on again.

  I clatter down a flight of wooden steps, heels of ski boots clunking, open boot fastenings rattling. Claude the owner topples three plates onto the table: ham, salami, Gruyere.

  “Bon matin. Thank you and your friends again for your help. Will the helicopter fly okay?”

  “There is nothing to stop it.” Claude ambles to the unlit window. He must be able to read weather systems in the dark. A small layer of light blue enters from the bottom of the window the longer I stare at it. The sun is rising to our rescue.

  “Great news, thanks so much for calling them.”

  “You will pay for this.” In what way Claude?

  “Don’t you think he will survive?”

  “Maybe not. Only with big strength will he survive. In the head, in his mind.” Claude has outlined Dan’s biggest challenge. “No. You will pay for your lost friend?” I see that he was really asking how we were going to pay for the rescue helicopter.

  “All of us will pay.” We may pay twice.

  “About a thousand Euros, no?” He advises me, clearly not considering the cost of human life.

  “We must get to him before the helicopter arrives.”

  “No, no. You must not make more mistakes. I have arranged Hal and Jacques to get you down the mountain.” Two heads appear, leaning back from their bench, nodding their chewing faces to acknowledge me. They had all come down silently
before me. Without knowing, I suspect Jacques is the man who opened the door to me last night. I feel uneasy, reminded of my proximity to disaster.

  “Hey Jules. That was amazing what you did. Climbing a seventydegree ice cliff with two broken ski poles, awesome. Are you a climber?” Hal seems to have an easy Californian sensibility; Jacques looks at me with thunder in his eyes. I move to sit opposite them.

  “As soon as the sun is up we are out of here. Got a day’s climb to fit in as well.” Hal insists.

  “Where are my friends?” I ask Claude, doubting whether they are.

  “Chambres cinq, neuf, dix, quatorze.” Was that last one fourteen? I clatter back up the stairs and knock sharply on all the doors. Max opens immediately and comes down with me.

  Back at the table Max joins in “We did okay last night. These guys took turns to come down on a rope and abseil us back up. You couldn’t see where your feet went. The snow collapsed but we got through it.” His adventure is expressed without considering my own more difficult experience.

  Carbs and coffee pick me up further. Johnny brings Steve down. We all settle across the bench from Hal and Jacques.

  “L’Anglais sont si arrogants.” Jacques is pissed off with us. No one looks at anyone else except me.

  “Ils n’ont aucun respect pour la montagne. Ces abrutis d’Anglais. On va rater une journée d’escalade à cause d’eux. Sans doute qu’ils n’ont pas d’autre moyen d’aider leur ami. Ils m’écoeurent.” He knows we don’t understand but I comprehend. He is berating us for risking ourselves on the mountain without a guide.

  “Claude says you will guide us back to our friend. We are so grateful.”

  “Yes, but where is your guide?” Jacques doesn’t have my language difficulty. “You come to my mountain. You have no preparation. You have no experience. You risk avalanche. You lose your friend. You don’t know where he is. Yes, I love to help you people. If I hadn’t come for water I would not hear the door and you would all be little English popsicles. You don’t care for life.” His delivery is emphatic, but he looks over my shoulder to avoid eye contact. Robert appears at the column at the top of the table, smiling behind our challenger.

  “That maybe true, but I know exactly where Dan is. I have a GPS location; I have pictures of the mountains where we left him and I have marked the spot with my other ski pole. We may make mistakes.”

  “Causing trouble as usual Juliet? Is this garlic-injecting Neanderthal trying to get in your pants or is he just getting on your tits?” Robert arrives refreshed.

  I have seen this before. I once insulted a bouncer at the Mud club on Tottenham Court Road, with Dan loyally tugging me away. When Dan hit the pavement and skidded under a parked car, the obvious lesson was that when a man needs to lash out, most luckily he can’t hit a woman. There was real shock on Robert’s face when he crashed across the cheese and meat table; so rarely are his insults met. One clean punch to the chin from Jacques was unsuspected.

  “I rescue you and you give me this. Outside, we go.” Jacques stands up and saunters past the stricken Robert.

  “Hey guys. Keep him sweet. He has passed up his day’s climb for you. Let’s get to your friend and hope for the best, hey.” Hal smoothes the tension and follows Jacques onto the wooden veranda. White light at the windowsill; azure blue is in the window’s centre.

  Robert peels Gruyere from his shoulder and places it on his plate. He rearranges the spread and returns to our table a broken man. Facing people down orally is one thing, showing everyone that he doesn’t possess the physical prowess to back it up has made us all see through him.

  Our group stares intently at the table. We silently give thanks we are alive; starting to realise the enormity of the hole we face if Dan isn’t.

  “Guys. Dan is with us; he’s hanging on waiting for us. You were all hand picked as his best men; so let’s all show him he is special to us now. I came here to tell him I had his child when we were living together, my son Ethan. I had to tell him before his wedding so it didn’t cause future upset. Look, we have all let him down so far, but not now. The chopper will be up from the valley floor soon; we have to locate him on the ground. Max, Steve, Johnny, let’s go outside. Robert, come as soon as you can.”

  We assemble our abandoned gear on the veranda. The sun makes a burnt halo over the eastern tips of the Alps. We can’t look directly towards it.

  “As soon as she comes over that ridge properly we will go. It will be hard crust so take it easy. Jacques will lead; I will be the tail. Give Jacques your phone. If anyone can get that GPS location he can.” Hal forms a bridge between the group.

  “You English fall in line now? Alons-y!” shouts Jacques gliding down the trail leading away from Refuge.

  CHAPTER 45

  Dan 06.58.

  Handbills frantically dance across my face, whipped across the night sky by the downdraft of aircraft engines. They make wing-like fluttering sounds as they flock around me. I catch one and hold it up towards the light of the plane ahead of me. VERBOTEN is hand stamped on it across a swastika, as the lights catch the edge of the rough imperfect paper pulp.

  I know a plane is nearing as it rips a bigger space in the sky, both with light and noise. It’s coming all right, buffeted by the bills I stand in defiance of the truth. Stand up to this one now; something tells me to stay put. The engine echoes against something, a hanger maybe, the engine betrays an older more imperfect age of flight as they rip and roar satisfyingly. Hang on, is it landing or taking off? Another handbill glues to my cheek; three more rip paper cuts into my left hand. This one advertises ByeFly; my inane words scatter across it in the name of the kings of cheap flights.

  I have power here. Everyone looking on expects me to run but I know better. For once I am sure. A pink break in the clouds on the horizon leaks from behind the plane. I listen intently for a change in ferocity of sound and light but they seem constant. With my eyes closed I still can’t tell. Let it be taking off please, just get out of here will you? Prove my strength right this time. To my right is a wooden gallery, full of trench-coated wearing reporters waiting to judge. I hope their flashes fade with no image worth capturing. It feels like a time when truth will out.

  The engines race towards a take-off, yes a take-off. I am to feel the force no more. The sound closes down into a more singular rasp now; a more closed noise intent on delivering flight. Bills are birds now, the whitest doves searching for a way out of the air pocket that pounds us all. I grab a bird one handed, his shifting eyes tell me he is anxious to leave. I turn and throw him away towards the gallery; off balance I fall over. My right shoulder takes the impact as the bird is sucked up into oblivion above me.

  I am on the tarmac as the plane leaves sight. I liked its reassuring force, but it dissipates with every second. I was right to stay. The photographers have gone, abandoned hats and cameras strewn on the steps. I can enjoy the air on my skin as it settles again. The intense cold of the tarmac remains; I cannot distinguish between the pains in each of my body parts.

  … Dead cold…

  …It’s morning…

  …Sharp breath stabs…

  …No animals above…

  …Morning…

  …Hand on chest…

  …Dare not move…

  …It’s morning…

  …Just drop off…

  …Just go.

  CHAPTER 46

  Juliet 07.52.

  “CAN A MAN SURVIVE?”

  “There’s my pole! There it is.” I scream, my high pitch revealing my expectation it would be lost.

  Jacques’ legs take on new purpose; elegant pushes take him on a direct track across the untouched snow. He breaks the crusty top layer creating a virtual railroad track for us all to ski. Clear blue sky, rising sun, but we feel no heat yet. We speed up but still fall well behind. He manoeuvres directly above Dan, throwing himself to the ground on his chest. He is talking to him. My god he is alive. Married in a wheelchair maybe? Will he have a ring finger?
But he will be married next week. He has to get married, he has to.

  As I arrive Jacques is sitting up talking into a radiophone, presumably guiding in the mountain rescue team. Part of me resists the conclusion of what I might see if I look over. Is he there at all? He’s there; except for his flatter right ski Dan hasn’t moved. Conserving his energy? Maybe just waking up? Does it take longer in hypothermia? Has he signalled to Jacques? Come on Dan, something. We have to get him out; we have betrayed him here.

  “Non, aucun movement. On voit sa tête et ses mains. On peut l’atteindre avec une échelle. Pas trop d’espoir, mais ces idiots sont assurés.”

  “Hey Frenchie, what’s the score? Is my mate alive?” Robert pushes past; our synthetic jackets brush each other with a swish. He unclips his skis and starts to shout into the crevasse. “Dan, you lanky git, are you okay?”

  “Arrête-là!” Jacques breaks off from the call to shout at Robert.

  “What do you mean? I will look out for my friend if I want to.”

  “No. Arrête. Stop there you idiot.”

  Robert is enraged. “I will do what…” With the phone cradled into his ear by his shoulder he clasps Robert’s leg and snaps his right ski back on as if manipulating a puppet.

  Taking the phone from his ear, he shouts. “Everyone. Ground unstable. You must keep them skis on. You must stay back now…” Robert dutifully clips the second ski back on having fallen foul of his own safety advice.

  “Okay, okay, you will see. Over…” The valley dampens the rumble of the rescue helicopter. Each rotation of the blade brings relief. A potential solution is rising through the valley. Oh please let them do it.

  “Dan, Dan, mate,” Johnny breathlessly calls out, but his fear takes all meat from his voice; it is the pained cry of a loved one. Still no movement but words are drowned. The red helicopter rises into view. We have all seen the Hollywood scene, but we are living the rescue. I can watch that movie again.