T. Boyle - Without a Hero

He followed her eyes and looked down to where the hunters sank out of view and then bobbed back up again, working their way up the path. She could see their faces now — two men, middle-aged, wispy hair sticking out from beneath the fluorescent caps. No guns. Cameras. He studied them a moment and then looked into her eyes, looked deep, as if he’d lost something. Then he shrugged, turned his back and started down the path toward them.

She was in good shape, the best shape of her life. She’d been up the steps a thousand times, two thousand, but she’d never climbed them quicker than she did now. She flew up the stairs like something blown by the wind and she felt a kind of panic beating against her ribs and she smelled the storm coming and felt the cold to the marrow of her bones. And then she reached the door and slammed it shut behind her, fumbling for the latch. It was then, only then, that she noticed the flowers. They were in the center of the table, in a cut-glass vase, lupine, groundsel, forget-me-not.

It snowed in the night, monstrous swirling oversized flakes that clawed at the windows and filled her with despair. The lights would only have made her feel vulnerable and exposed, and for the second night running she did without them, sitting there in the dark, cradling the kitchen knife and listening for his footfall on the steps while the sky fell to pieces around her. But he wouldn’t come, not in this weather, not at night — she was being foolish, childish, there was nothing to worry about. Except the snow. It meant that her season was over. And if her season was over, she had to go back down the mountain and into the real world, real time, into the smog and roar and clutter.

She thought of the four walls that awaited her, the hopeless job — waitressing or fast food or some such slow crucifixion of the spirit — and she thought of Mike before she left him, saw him there in the black glass of the window, sexless, pale, the little butterfly-wing bifocals perched on the tip of his nose, pecking at the typewriter, pecking, pecking, in love with Dryden, Swift, Pope, in love with dead poets, in love with death itself. She’d met a man at a party a month after she’d left him and he was just like Mike, only he was in love with arthropods. Arthropods. And then she came up to the tower.

She woke late again and the first thing she felt was relief. The sun was out and the snow — it was only a dusting, nothing really — had already begun to recede from the naked high crown of the rock. She put on the kettle and went to the radio. “Zack,” she called, “Needle Rock. Do you copy?”

He was there, right at her fingertips. “Copy. Over.”

“We had some snow up here — nothing much, just a dusting really. It’s clear now.”

“You’re a little late — Lewis already checked in from Mule Peak with that information. Oversleep again?”

“Yeah, I guess so.” She was watching the distant treetops shake off the patina of snow. A hawk sailed across the window. She held the microphone so close to her lips it could have been a part of her. “Zack—” She wanted to tell him about the crazy, about the man in the Stetson, about his hands, wanted to alert him just in case, but she hesitated. Her voice was tiny, detached, lost in the electronic crackle of time and space.

“Lainie?”

“Yes. Yes, I’m here.”

“There’s a cold front coming through, another storm behind it. They’re saying it could drop some snow. The season’s still on — Reichert says it will be until we get appreciable precipitation — but this one could be it. It’s up to you. You want to come out or wait and see?”

Reichert was the boss, fifty, bald, soft as a clam. The mountains were parched — six inches of powdery duff covered the forest floor and half the creeks had run dry. The season could last till November. “Wait and see,” she said.

“Okay, it’s your choice. Lewis is staying too, if it makes you feel better. I’ll keep in touch if anything develops on this end.”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

“Over and out.”

“Over and out.”

It clouded up late in the afternoon and the sky closed in on her again. The temperature began to drop. It looked bad. It was early for snow yet, but they could get snow any time of the year at this altitude. The average was twenty-five feet annually, and she’d seen storms drop four and five feet at a time. She talked to Zack at four and he told her it looked pretty grim — they were calling for a seventy-percent chance of snow, with the snow level dropping to three thousand feet. “I’ll take my chances,” she told him. There was a pair of snowshoes in the storage room if it came to that.

The snow started an hour later. She was cooking dinner — brown rice and vegetables — and she’d opened the bottle of wine she’d brought up to commemorate the last day of the season. The flakes were tiny, pellets that sifted down with a hiss, the sort of configuration that meant serious snow. The season was over. She could drink her wine and then think about packing up and cleaning the stove and refrigerator. She put another log on the woodstove and buttoned up her jacket.

The wine was half gone and she’d sat down to eat when she noticed the smoke. At first she thought it must be a trick of the wind, the smoke from her own stove twisting back on her. But no. Below her, no more than five hundred feet, just about where the trail would be, she could see the flames. The wind blew a screen of snow across the window. There hadn’t been any lightning — but there was a fire down there, she was sure of it. She got up from the table, snatched her binoculars from the hook by the door and went out on the catwalk to investigate.

The wind took her breath away. All the universe had gone pale, white above and white beneath: she was perched on the clouds, living in them, diaphanous and ghostly. She could smell the smoke on the wind now. She lifted the binoculars to her eyes and the snow screened them; she tried again and her hair beat at the lenses. It took her a moment, but there, there it was: a fire leaping up out of the swirling grip of the snow. A campfire. But no, this was bigger, fallen trees stacked up in a pyramid — this was a bonfire, deliberate, this was a sign. The snow took it away from her. Her fingers were numb. When the fire came into focus again she saw movement there, a shadow leaping round the flames, feeding them, reveling in them, and she caught her breath. And then she saw the black stabbing peak of the Stetson and she understood.

He was camping.

Camping. He could die out there — he was crazy, he was —this thing could turn into a blizzard, it could snow for days. But he was camping. And then the thought came to her: he was camping for her.

Later, when the tower floated out over the storm and the coals glowed in the stove and the darkness settled in around her like a blanket, she disconnected the radio and put the knife away in the drawer where it belonged. Then she propped herself in the corner of the bed, way out over the edge of the abyss, and watched his fire raging in the cold heart of the night. He would be back, she knew that now, and she would be ready for him.