Ronald Malfi - The Ascent

3

MY EXPRESSION CAUSED PETRAS TO CHUCKLE. IT

was a rumbling sound, reminiscent of an eighteen-wheeler barreling down an empty desert highway.

“How do you know Andrew?” I said.

“Ice climbing. Canadian Rockies. We were in the same group. There were about fifteen of us. Spent a good two weeks in the hills, then spent another week getting drunk in Nova Scotia.” I was still confused. “I mean, how’d you know …?” Still grinning, Petras said, “I heard you ask the man on the tram about the Canyon of Souls.” He scratched behind a large, sun-reddened ear with one massive hand. “Ain’t many folks come out here searching for the Canyon of Souls. Hell, most have never heard of it.” “I’ve never even heard of it myself.”

“See, this place, it’s practically Disney World for mountaineers, climbers, the whole lot. Even the amateurs come in their guided tours to say they’ve set foot on Everest or took a piss on the Khumbu Icefall and watched it freeze. I know this because I’m usually the guyguiding the tours. These people don’t care about making it to the top of anything. Most of them wouldn’t know a crampon from a tampon.” He pointed to the book in my lap. “There are very few George Mallorys left in the world. What’s become important to folks is being able to say they’ve done something. The doing it part … well, that’s just what has to happen in order to tell their friends. There’s no heart in it, no spirit. And these people sure as hell ain’t here to cross the Canyon of Souls.”

“So why are you here? What’s so special about the Canyon of Souls for you? Or is it just because Andrew Trumbauer mailed you a plane ticket?”

Petras’s gaze flicked toward the fire in the hearth. After a moment, he said, “I guess it’s because it’s never been done before. No one’s ever crossed it. Few that I know of have even bothered to try. The place, it’s not in any of the guidebooks or maps. Few care. Forgive me for cribbing Sir Edmund Hillary, but I’m doing it because the damn thing is there to be done.”

“That’s a good answer,” I said.

“So how about you? What made you drop everything and run the hell out here?”

“Unfortunately my reasons are a bit more complicated.”

“I hope I don’t look stupid to you,” Petras said without any emphasis or insult. I could tell it was only his way of imploring me to open up.

“I didn’t mean it that way.”

“I know. But you see, you and I are getting ready to trust each other with our lives. This little adventure ain’t gonna be no walk in the park. So before I put my life in the hands of another man, I like to know why that man’s putting his life in mine. I find comfort in what makes a man tick, and I sure as hell like to know why someone would do such a crazy thing.” He smiled warmly and his eyes twinkled. He couldn’t have been more than thirty-five, but there was something fatherly in that smile. “I just want to know we’re not dealing with a death wish or something here is what I guess I’m saying.”

I ran my thumb along the rim of my teacup, then set it on a small table beside my chair. “I used to be an artist, but my talent died along with my wife. So I’m here because I’m hoping to find something that’ll get my life back on track. It’s no death wish coming out here. The death wish would have been to stay home.”

Petras nodded. “Fair enough. It’s as good a reason as any I’ve ever heard. Better than most, probably.” His eyes narrowed. “You know, you look awfully familiar. Any chance we’ve met before?”

“Doubt it. I’m pretty good at remembering faces. I’ve been on a couple of magazine covers a few years ago. Did several sculptures for some important people.”

“Well, then,” Petras said. “You were more than just an artist. You were successful .“

I shrugged. “Depends on your definition of success.”

“And,” he added, grinning, “your definition of art.”

Smiling, I rubbed my upper lip with one finger. “What is it about him?” I asked in a quiet voice, as if I were talking to myself. And perhaps I was. “What is it about Andrew Trumbauer that gets us all jumping just because he tells us to?”

“I’ll admit I don’t know him that well,” said Petras. “In fact, I was pretty surprised he asked me to come out here. In truth, we didn’t particularly like each other near the end of our expedition together.”

“He’s a tough guy to understand.”

“We’re all tough to understand. Especially to ourselves. That’s why we do stupid stuff like this. Didn’t you figure that out yet?”

I leaned back in my chair and watched the fire dance in the hearth. “There’s quite a bit I haven’t figured out about myself yet,” I said, and it was like an admission.

4

THE TEMPERATURE HAD DROPPED CONSIDERABLY

while Petras and I talked in the lounge. Walking across the wooded clearing toward my cabin, my hands stuffed into the pockets of my cargo pants for warmth, I could smell the smoke from nearby chimneys and the alpine scent of the wilderness around me. I’ve never seen a darker night , I thought, pausing to stare at the blanket of stars. There were full clusters of them, too many to count.

I mounted the steps to the cabin and was about to reach for the door handle when a large shape materialized at one end of the cabin, causing me to freeze. I heard the boards creak beneath the man’s considerable weight as I tried to make out his features. But it was too dark; I could only discern wide shoulders covered in a wool coat and a whitish face dense with a heavy beard. I couldn’t see the man’s eyes.

“Can I help you?” My voice shook.

“You are one of the Himal climbers?” the man said, his voice deep, his English laden with a dense regional accent. “Your party leaves at the end of this week for the Canyon of Souls?”

“Who are you?”

“You must not go to the canyon,” he went on, ignoring my question. “To do so will mean great disaster for your party. The canyon was not meant to be crossed. Do you understand?”

“No, I don’t. How do you know about me? How do you know where we’re going?”

“My name is Shomas. I live in the village. I am often hired to navigate climbers through the Churia Hills. I know this land very well, as I know the climbers who come here to conquer it.” He took a step out of the shadows, illuminating his face with moonlight. He was hardened, his forehead and cheeks a patchwork of creases and ancient scars, his eyes steely beneath an extended brow. “I know your party is planning to cross the canyon.”

“I appreciate the concern, but we’ll be fine.”

“It is a canyon not meant to be crossed. If you do not listen to me, you will find this out firsthand.”

I opened the door. Warm, milky light from the hallway spilled out. Shomas’s face was once again cast into shadows.

“Thank you,” I said, “but I’ve come a long way to just turn around and go home.”

“Do not be a fool,” Shomas cautioned, his voice steady and without inflection. “Do not be the foolish American. I have seen many of them in a short time already.”

“Good night,” I said and quickly pitched myself through the door, closing it behind me. I hustled down the corridor to my room, glancing over my shoulder to see if Shomas would be bold enough to follow. But the door remained shut, and by the time I entered my room, I was breathing heavy, as if I’d just run a marathon.

A cold breeze froze the sweat on my brow. Across the room, I noticed one of my cabin windows was open; the gauze curtains billowed in the breeze. Looking at my bags, which I’d stacked in a heap at the foot of the bed, I realized they’d been looted while I was out.