Clouds mix with fog, the air is heavy and cold. It stings against my cheeks. My breath tumbles out of my lungs and spills into frost against my beard. I wish it would leave.
But it stays.
The mountain’s layer of crystal crunches against my boots. It crushes about like so many pieces of glass. I use to do this for work. I say to myself and the world. When it was easy. Nothing seems to be anymore. The stillness in the air is deafening. I am no longer in the city where the hustle and bustle of people and cars and pets drowns out the tinnitus in my ears. So now I do nothing but listen to the thundering quiet. The steady ring is background noise at this point in my life. I’ve learned to hear past it. But the gaping yawn of it is more noticeable at night when I have only my thoughts to keep me from dreaming.
A false peak in mountaineering is a common phenomenon. It regards the cornices and outcropping’s abilities to be imposters. They signal to you the top of the mountain, but reveal the truth when you reach them. I have run into four of them already. I hope this next one is it.
When I was a young man I’d count my steps and my breaths to keep myself entertained as I trudged along the sides of mountains, looking for gold in the summer. The alpine would unevenly give way under my feet. Sometimes I’d stumble. It was infrequent.
I stumble more now.
It’s her birthday tomorrow.
I told her I’d do this.
It becomes my mantra.
I told her I’d do this.
One more step. One more.
I hear the wind whine and howl as it blows across the shield of frozen snow. It blows some up into my face sometimes when I’m not quick enough to turn against it. The cold is biting. I take a glove off and put on my face mask. I feel my frozen beard push against my face. I can’t seem to catch my breath. I see a strong pile of snow, packed in a corner of the mountainside.
That will be my camp for tonight.
The sun will find its way to Europe soon. It will abandon me. I must be prepared.
My pack weighs against my body and I release my burden with a grunt of relief. I pull the shovel from it and begin a slow dig into the wall of the snow pile. I just need enough room for my tent, lest it blows away. The snow is hard and old. It will be a fine shelter.
The camp is readied just as the last rays of hope disappear into the darkness.
They will return I tell myself.
Wolverines live up here along with foxes, goats, and some birds, ground squirrels too. But tonight I hear not the soft scrape of paws against the snow. The wind is too strong. When the world awakes in the summer, bears will make their way up here to feast on the small game, but mostly the berries that grow. I am safe now from them. They have wisely slept the season away.
Only men dare to go this far in this time of the year. It’s when we are safest. Still…I pull an old pistol out of my holster. I found the gun abandoned in the street years ago. After the wars they couldn’t give the things away. No one had any bother for them. We had bought them in a fever dream of murdering each other. But we found legal ways to instead. Once the killing was over we realized we needed each other to survive. We had forgotten that in our opulence. Now life was sacred again. We celebrated spring and fall, and cared little for murder. Mostly. In the winter we’d do it sometimes. It was in our nature to be destructive. I bring it with me now. Just in case.
Years ago I’d have months longer to climb in this snow to reach the peak. But these days the snow melts sooner. The days grow warm earlier. Down below the snow now rarely falls. It’s mostly rain. It has made the bears crankier, the fox more brave, the wolf desperate. Humanity, once living in relative harmony with the animal, now must avoid them. Several diseases inhabit the animal population, and they’ve become aggressive against humans. It’s almost as if they know our sins toward them. I put the pistol beside my sleeping bag in case I need it.
They know our sins
I think these things and listen to the past as it strives to keep me awake. It fails as my body is too tired to listen to my mind. I drift off into a restful sleep.
“Do you hear it?”
She laughs as she skips to the water. “Do you hear the stream?” It was a river at one point. It’s drying up these days. But there’s still a little left. Her dress falls against her sweat and she gently tip toes into the stream. She pulls the hem of her dress up in a half-hearted attempt to keep it from getting wet. She stands for a while and her smile drops a little.
“The minnows” she says. And then she climbs out. I look in and see what she means. The fish are lazy, some are dead in the pools. The water is too hot for them. “Is this what we’ve done?” She says to me. I put my hand in hers. She rests mournfully against my shoulder. We gaze at the bodies.
Only a little.
I awaken with a start. The wind has died down. I pull out my watch. It is old fashioned and resistant against freezing. The sun will be up in a half hour. I pull myself out of the sleeping bag. My body cries out in protest. I told her I’d do this.
After breakfast I clean camp and mark it with a flag. With any luck I’ll be able to use it on the way back down. I see small footprints from a nosy animal. They must have come just before I awoke. I leave a scrap jerky for whatever it was. I glimpse at the peak and hope I’ll make it today. It’s not that far. It’s not that far It’s not that far it’s not that far.
I think it’s as close as the moon.
I chuckle to myself. I wonder aloud if anything new has happened down below where we live. The Water Wars ended once there wasn’t enough of us to kill each other anymore. We ran out of people to pump gas, to even find the gas to take our weapons to the homes of others. We ran out of money long before, but we just pretended that we had not. Only a miracle had saved us from using the goddamned nukes.
There’s not much left of us anymore. My younger brothers died in the wars and my sister became sick. One of our diseases evolved too quickly, most of our hospitals were overwhelmed. It was a week before her birthday in March. I use to tell her that the sun was never warm for me until her birthday came. Now its warmth is deadly most of the year.
But I still loved the sunrise.
I left my love below where we live now. I left her when she was sleeping. I left a note on the table that tells her what I’m doing. What she should do if I don’t return. She has been sick for a long time. The same sickness that took my sister, but hers was milder. It’s only lasted years. I caught it too but it didn’t take my health like it could have. It just made me tired is all. Tired like now. Worse. Maybe. I’m pretty worn out. My thighs burn and my knees cry out. Just a little further.
The sweat stains my eyes. It runs down my neck into my shirt. Sweating in this cold isn’t ideal. Once you stop moving to rest it can pull the heat from you, cause you to freeze. But I’m so close. I’m so close. I hear the wind howl again.
But the wind isn’t blowing.
I look below me.
Four skinny wolves are following in single file along the trail I’ve blazed. They weren’t the tracks around my tent from earlier, but they must have caught my scent. I remember my salvage jerky. I reach down into my holster and pull out the pistol. I aim at them, but hesitate. The snow feels strong but I know the angle of the hill is ripe for an avalanche. The loud crack of the gun might cause one. I put it away and try to double my efforts. I look over my shoulder. They aren’t in a hurry. They’re starving and tired too. They know they can go for days. I can only go for hours. If I can get to the peak I’ll have a chance. I can use my shovel if I need to.
My breath is ragged. I must get to the top. At least there. I feel my back muscles straining. I should lose the pack. I say. No. I mustn’t. I must climb. I count my steps like in my younger years. They slow and I count my breaths. They quicken.
I look back. They are slowly gaining. I don’t know if I can make it. If they get within thirty yards I’ll shoot them. I’d rather take my chances on an avalanche than being eaten by fucking wolves. Dirty diseased wolves. I think to myself. Damned wolves.
The last bit of the peak is about sixty yards and half it is rock climbing. I take my steps carefully. Find a foothold. About half way up I look down. They’ve made it to the rocks. I can shoot them. They’re close. Goddamned they’re close. I find a spot to lean against. I pull the pistol out. I’ll get ‘em. I steady my breath and aim down the iron sights. I see the lead one. I pull the trigger.
“Do you see the stream?” She says to me. I smell rot. Then I see.
“It’s not there. It’s dry.”
“Already? It’s only June.” She catches up.
“Dry winter.” I reply.
“This was our spot…” Her voice trails off.
“Not anymore. Now it’s no one’s.” The dry river bed shows days-old dead fish, rotting in the hot sun. The ground is still a little dark with wet. It hasn’t been dry that long. The bears will be close. “We have to go,” I say.
“Not yet.”
“We have to go.” My head is on a swivel and my alarm bells are going off. These aren’t the bears of the old days. They’ll rip us apart.
She begins to cry. “It’s all ruined.”
“We have to go.”
“What have we done?” I see a bear on the other side of the dry bed. He doesn’t notice us.
“Come on.” We retreat back to the car. We never go back.
The gunshot is loud but the still air swallows it. I see a puff of smoke in front of the wolf I was aiming at.
Goddamn it.
I TOLD HER I’D DO THIS!
They don’t listen. I pull the hammer back and aim again. I pull the trigger. Fur on the neck of the wolf I aimed at puffs out. She howls and stumbles. Then she falls over. She tumbles down the rocks. The others turn toward her as she falls. Then they turn down the mountain and run after her. She thuds against a boulder. They dive into her and start to tear her apart. I can hear the meat ripping as they yip in jubilation.
You fucking cannibals. I holster the pistol and begin to climb again. I need distance between those wolves and me. I need to get to the top. I told her I’d do this. The top is close, so close. Much closer than the moon. I stumble and slip. I feel the sweat soaking my shirt. Rocks break under my feet. I’m breathless and eager. The blood courses through my bones like when I was young. The peak. It’s the real peak. Oh thank god.
I let myself slump to the ground. My breath needs to be caught. The air is so thin. It’s so hard to. I begin to feel cold.
Not yet. I reach into the pack and pull out the urn. My sister is within. All my dreams. All of it. It’s here now. Come hell or high water. I told her. I’d spread her over the earth, as far as I could. I always thought I’d fly her across the world to the places I’d been but she never. After the wars started and the government limited travel, this was the best I could do.
I’ve not been a very profitable man. Not very accomplished. I wish I had saved her. She caught it from a small boy in the street. Her husband was heartbroken and old. She asked me a week before she left. “He could never. And it breaks his heart.” I remember her, frail. Soft. Exhausted. She didn’t cough much in the end. She didn’t have much energy anymore. I wish I had enough money to buy you medicine. I wish so, but I didn’t. I did this.
I feel my head begin to hurt. I start to cry. I miss you. Oh my dear. I let her fly through the air like she never got to. Find rest now. Find home The sun was never bright until your birthday came.
I sit until I feel my ears sting in the cold. My jacket begins to freeze against my soaked shirt. I put my face mask back on. Camp is some way down. I’m not sure how I’ll get to it. The sun begins to find its way to Europe. The stars are showing. I see Venus and Mars far in the distance. We never made it. I feel exhaustion creeping into my bones.
I think I hear the wind howl.
Storied By Josh 