Ronald Malfi - The Ascent

“You should give yourself some more time. Fuck Andrew Trumbauer.”

“He’s not my type.”

Petras didn’t protest further.

I carried empty bottles down to the river with Hollinger and Curtis and filled them with water, adding drops of iodine for purification. Back at the fire, someone had opened my gear and laid out my belongings to dry. I repacked it all and was ready to set off again in under an hour. The guides killed the fire, and we climbed a ravine to the next plateau in silence.

At the crest of the plateau, the land far below was dotted with tiny pagodas. Tendrils of smoke drifted lazily from huts pressed against the foothills. Yak herders watched us as we descended the other side.

In oncoming dusk, we dipped through a stone channel and foundourselves staring at the Himalayas, ghostly and blue and seeming to hover off the ground, in the distance. The range was spectacular in its grandness, its solidity, forcing even the most atheistic of mankind to pause and contemplate the existence of the divine.

At the end of the valley, foothills rose to touch the faint stars. The fields gave way to sand and crushed rock. At the front of the line, the guides once again spoke to Andrew in their native tongue. Like the other conversations, this one started out like a conspiracy in hushed tones and subtle gestures, but as it progressed, it was evident Andrew was becoming agitated. His voice rose. The guides adjusted their packs and began walking in the direction of the village we’d passed only an hour or so ago.

“What’s going on?” Curtis wanted to know.

“They’re leaving,” said Andrew. “This is as far as they’ll go.”

“I thought you said we were close to the Valley of Walls,” said Hollinger. “You said we would reach it by nightfall.”

“It’s just beyond these hills,” Andrew said, surveying the terrain ahead.

“Then why did they leave?” Hollinger pressed.

“Because they’re superstitious,” Andrew said calmly, his voice once again quiet and restrained.

Under my breath I asked Petras if he had understood any of what the two guides had said.

He considered for a moment, then turned his head away from the others and said, “They believe the Valley of Walls to be one of the levels of the beyul , the outer level to the Canyon of Souls. They won’t set foot in the valley.”

“Why not? It’s not just superstition, is it?”

“Not to them,” said Petras.

Andrew slung his gear over his shoulder. “Doesn’t matter. I know where I am from here.”

“Great.” Hollinger scowled.

“The Sherpas will already have camp set up,” Andrew continued.

“They’ll take us to the Godesh base in the morning.”

“Do you blokes get the feeling he’s making this up as he goes?” Hollinger said to Petras and me, then walked away before we could answer. I rolled my eyes and Petras shrugged.

We continued through the pass, the foothills looming on either side, as the twilight faded to a deep, resonant blackness.

Chapter 9

1

THE VALLEY OF WALLS WAS JUST AS IT PRO-

claimed to be: a narrow tract of land flanked by the gradual slopes of jungle and the sheer stone of the foothills rising high above the trees.

The entranceway into the valley was defined by a rising crest of rock on either side of the stone path, like sphinxes bowing together to form an archway. The floor was comprised of busted shale slats and powdery white rock between which tall, spindly weeds sprouted. Immense boulders had come to rest at random, wreathed now in age-old moss and dressed in fallen garland, and what looked liked tombstones jutted up periodically from the earth. The valley itself had once been a river fed by a mountaintop glacier, but that had been many years ago before the glacier disappeared and the riverbed dried up.

We lit electric lanterns and followed Andrew. The walls seemed to narrow and close in on us until we were hiking single file down a sloping flume. As I passed one of the tombstone-like edifices, I swept my lantern across its face. Monastic prayers were carved into the stone.

“It’s a spiritual place,” Andrew said, his tone hushed and reverent. Somehow I’d found myself beside him at the front of the line. “The Yogis say there is always the scent of roasted barley.”

I inhaled deeply but could smell nothing except the alpine scent of the distant trees.

Ahead, the prayer stones grew increasingly large, positioned at seemingly intentional angles. Soon it was like traversing through a maze. In the light of our lanterns, our shadows grew to hideous size on the stone walls. I pressed my hand to one of the prayer stones—it towered several feet above my head and must have been about fifteen inches thick—and traced the intricate carvings. I’d first thought the “walls” were the rising foothills on either side of the valley. I realized now that I’d been wrong.

“It’s amazing,” I breathed.

“Few have been this far,” Andrew said. “I can only imagine what else is in store for us on this trip.”

“The guides,” I said. “They were afraid to come here.”

“Bad juju. Nothing to worry about. They saw your little accident at the bridge as an omen.”

“What if it was?”

Andrew merely glanced at me and kept moving.

In the distance, firelight flickered in the darkness. It was the Sherpas. They’d come from the neighboring village, hired by Andrew to set up camp in advance. As we approached, the frying electric smell of our lanterns was overpowered by the scents of stewed meats and boiled tea leaves. The four Sherpas were dressed in heavy maroon robes, their faces white and ageless in the firelight.

“It’s like the pilgrims meeting the Indians for the first time,” Chad mumbled and received Hollinger’s elbow in his ribs.

The Sherpas said nothing for the entire evening, though they made us very comfortable and brought us more food than we were prepared to eat. Exhausted, I set my gear down between Shotsky and Petras and peeled my sodden boots from my feet with relish. Rubbing the feeling back into my toes before the crackling fire, I could feel the events of the day already begin to drain from me.

Shotsky appeared with a steaming cup of tea and some bread. He folded himself neatly onto a straw mat and tore into the bread with vengeance.

“You doing all right?” I asked him.

“Sure. How about you? You almost bought the farm today. Good thing you thought about tying us all together like that.”

I winced, working a particularly painful knot out of the bottom of my foot. “Good thing you were nervous about crossing.”

Donald Shotsky smiled and nodded, his eyes reflecting the bonfire.

“You said something about needing this job,” I said after a few moments of silence. Around us, the stone walls laden with scripture cast rectangular shadows on the valley floor. “Back at the bridge. Remember?”

“I guess.”

“What did you mean?”

“I mean, I needed the money.” He tore at another piece of bread and washed it down with tea. “You think I’d be here otherwise?”

“Hold on. You’re getting paid to be here?”

Shotsky sensed my change in tone. He shot me a sideways glance. “Of course. Isn’t he paying you?”

“Andrew?”

“Who else?”

“How much?”

Shotsky seemed to consider whether or not this information should be shared. After too many drawn-out seconds, it looked like he was ready to self-combust. He said, “Twenty thousand dollars.”

“Motherfucker,” I whispered.

“Why else would I come? For the goddamn scenery?” Shotsky said. Then added, “Why would you come?”

“Probably because I’m a fucking idiot,” I groaned and pulled my socks back on.