Jean-Claude Mourlevat - Winter's End

They had approached the mountain refuge as night was falling, exhausted, and the smoke coming from the chimney told them that the hunters were already there. They had hidden behind rocks, then it began snowing. The cold, their discouragement . . . what could they do? Move away from the refuge and lose themselves in the night? That would mean certain death. Knock on the door and ask for shelter?

“Don’t expect them to feel sorry for us,” said Milos. “No chance. They’re barbarians, and don’t forget it.”

They had seen Mills appear in the doorway three times to breathe in the night air, and then go back to the fire that was keeping them all warm in there, men and dogs both.

“It’s the other one I need,” Milos said at last. “The other man, the dog-handler. He has to come out eventually.”

“Suppose he does? What will you do to him?”

“I’m not too sure. But it’s our last chance. I’m going to leave you alone for a few minutes. If I can’t manage anything, I’ll come back to you and then — well, too bad, we’ll knock at the door. OK?”

“OK,” said Helen. “But be careful. Promise!”

“I promise,” he said. He hugged her, dropped a kiss on her hair, and went toward the refuge, skirting it and going around behind the building.

Helen wondered what Milos was planning. In spite of the cold and her fear, she couldn’t help smiling when she saw him reappear on the roof three minutes later. Milos must have been a cat in a former life.

Pastor got up to throw a log on the fire and watched it burn, brooding, sometimes stirring the flames with the poker. All around him the room looked like a battlefield after a defeat. The sleeping dog-men lay about on the floor like corpses. He noticed, with amusement, that Ramses had moved close to Mills and laid his muzzle against his master’s hip. Pastor crossed the room, taking care not to tread on the bodies lying there, stepped over Amenophis, put on his sheepskin jacket, and opened the door. The cold hit him full on. Snow was still falling, though perhaps not quite as hard as at the beginning of the night. Good thing we brought snowshoes, he told himself, looking at the thick layer that had settled.

“Where you going?” grunted Mills, who was only half asleep.

“For a piss,” said the dog-handler.

“OK, but close the door after you. It’s freezing.”

Pastor shut the door and took a step out into the snow. Then he walked a little way along the wall to his right and stopped to urinate. He took his time. When he had finished, he did up his fly and yawned. A snowflake landed in his mouth, and then another. They melted at once on his warm tongue. It was a pleasant, delicate, tickling sensation. He kept his mouth open on purpose to go on with this little game. Like a kid! he thought, laughing. I’m playing like a kid! Hey, if Mills could see me! That was the last thought he had before the shock hit him.

Crouching on the edge of the roof ready to jump, Milos knew that he couldn’t do it. To drive the blade of his knife into the back of the man standing motionless six feet away was beyond him. So what could he do? He still held the opened knife in his right hand, just in case. Then he concentrated on the two things that his life and Helen’s depended on: knocking Pastor out at the first blow and next, at all costs, preventing him from alerting his dogs. They were sleeping only a few yards away, and their keen ears would pick up the slightest hint of a groan. He was lucky that Pastor had positioned himself just below him. In spite of the darkness, he easily recognized the man’s thick sheepskin jacket. Now he must make up his mind to jump.

Never, not even before his toughest fights, had Milos felt a quarter of the tension flooding through him now. He realized that all he had ever experienced so far on the wrestling mat was just a game. Yet he had entered into it entirely, body and soul; he had trained hard. He’d never given up the sport in spite of suffering hard blows, sprains, and broken bones. Over the last year he had defeated all the other boys he faced, even fifth-year and sixth-year opponents who were older and heavier than he was. But this time it wasn’t a matter of winning or losing. It was a matter of life or death.

How would his stiff muscles respond when he told them to jump? Would they let him down, for the first time ever? This man Pastor seemed rather thickset — he was massive. Milos guessed he must be about two hundred twenty pounds. Quite a weight difference when he, Milos, fought in the under – one hundred forty-five pounds category! And his opponent was still warm from the fire, and had probably had something to eat.

Frozen and feeling sick inside, Milos still hesitated. Now! Now! he urged himself. In a moment that fat lump is going to turn. He’ll see you, and he’ll shout, and then it’ll all be over. Jump, Milos, jump!

The snow giving way under his feet made his mind up for him. He began sliding and couldn’t stop by holding on to anything. He had no choice now. He gathered all his energy together and launched himself into the void.

His knees hit Pastor’s backbone with violent force. Pastor collapsed in the snow headfirst, and Milos flung himself furiously on the man. He got his right arm around Pastor’s neck under the chin and locked the hold with his left arm. The armlock was banned in wrestling. No strangling. All his trainers had said the same to him ever since the day when, still a little boy, he had first put on a wrestler’s uniform. No strangling.

The rest of his body had instinctively gone into the on-top position, which prevents the other wrestler from disengaging. Legs, hips, pelvis — he had brought them all into action without stopping for a moment to think about it. The hundreds of hours he’d sweated out on the training mat came from concentrating on a single swift, sure, precise move. Up to this point, he was sure, Pastor had made no sound at all. And it must stay that way. It must stay that way at any price. And those words really meant something. Milos braced himself, consolidated his grip, and then tightened his hold.

Bombardone Mills, about to drop off to sleep, felt as if he had heard a muted thump somewhere outside. Had poor old Pastor thrown a snowball? Or had he slipped and fallen flat on his face? He was tempted to get up and go out to take a look, but the feel of Ramses nestling against his stomach overcame any idea of moving. He patted the dog-man’s long head with the back of his hand. Without opening his eyes, Ramses growled faintly, as if in thanks. Mills closed his own eyes. He had to get some sleep. Tomorrow would be a tough day.

Helen had seen Milos launch himself off the roof and land on the man. She immediately forgot the cold and her exhaustion and fear. There was nothing over there but the shape of the two motionless bodies. The snow was already beginning to cover them. What was Milos doing? Surely he wasn’t going to —? Through the window of the refuge she could see dancing shadows thrown by the flames on the hearth. A cruel man and six dogs were sleeping there only a few yards away, ready to tear Milos to shreds if they found him. Perhaps they weren’t even asleep. And he had gone to face them alone, armed only with his big hands and his courage. “I never get caught!” he kept saying cheerfully. But suppose they did catch him all the same. Suppose they did catch him.

How long does it take to strangle a man? Every time Milos relaxed his armlock, even very slightly, his opponent shook faintly but convulsively and groaned. The sound might rouse his companions. Milos braced himself again to keep the man silent and immobile. The muscles of his right arm were beginning to seize up under the strain of his intense effort.