Unlike Blue, who loved bouncing through drifts, Liza had had more than enough of the snow. For nearly two months the white stuff had come down, and based on the fissures zigzagged across the white and the distant rumblings heard from the ground beneath, Liza thought the mountains were almost as tired of holding it as she was of seeing it.
But today was a gift from God. The snow had let up, the clouds had dispersed, and the sun was out in all its glory. All around Sheep Camp, sled dogs lolled, warming their bellies in the sun’s warmth, and the trickle of streams could be heard in the distance. Liza didn’t intend to waste such a beautiful morning by climbing an icy staircase. Piling both packs into a stepping stool, she had clambered onto a huge boulder already warmed by the sun, then lain back and let her thoughts drift to happier times.
Stan had objected, of course.
“A lot of other people have the same idea as I do,” she said, indicating the dozens of men relaxing among the boulders and around the snowy field. Many had even laid their coats out to dry in the sunlight. That seemed like an open invitation to little Blue, who wandered around the snowy field, sniffing everything and visiting everyone, her tail constantly waving. She was getting more independent every day, but she always came back to Liza.
“Liza,” Stan said.
She said nothing. She was convinced she was growing mould on various parts of her body, and the heat seeping from the boulder into her soggy, clinging clothes was intoxicating.
“Liza! Get up, would you?”
“Stop it, Stan! Give me a little longer. What’s the rush?”
He was relentless. The only one pushing them harder on this journey was their father, and he wasn’t even there. “So help me, Liza. If, after all this time, we get up there and someone tells me they’ve sold the last claim while you were indulging in your daydreams—”
“Oh, stop your bellyaching,” she said. He stood at the bottom of the boulder, hands on his hips, and the exasperation on his face struck her as funny, but she didn’t dare laugh. “It’s not like I’ve been here forever. It’s only been an hour or so.”
“An hour too long. Come on.”
When she didn’t make a move, he huffed with annoyance, then turned towards his sled. The bulky, overloaded thing was only about twenty feet away, but the deep holes their boots had left between the sled and the boulder seemed to go on forever.
“I’m going anyway, with or without you,” he announced, and she knew he meant it. “I’ll see you at The Scales.”
“Fine.”
“Fine.”
He’d left his pack at the base of the boulder, she noticed, right beneath her. Well, she wasn’t carrying it for him. She tried to convince herself that she shouldn’t feel bad as he headed off, his tall black boots no match for the drifts, but she could practically feel the cold rivers of melted snow sloshing between his toes.
“Wait, Stan.” She squinted up the mountain. “What’s that sound?”
“What’s what? Stop making excuses, Liza. Get down.”
“Listen, for once!” She wasn’t sure what she’d heard. Like an oomph, as if something large had fallen.
He kept walking. “I don’t hear anything.”
“Close your mouth and open your ears for a change.”
He rolled his eyes, but then he cocked his head. “Was that thunder?”
“Do you see any clouds?”
As they listened, an uneasy feeling settled in Liza’s stomach. When she got to her feet on top of the boulder, a full person higher than anyone else, she could see the people on the trail were slowing, awakening to the same dull roar. Some had turned back.
“It’s getting louder.” The lovely warm surface of the boulder trembled. “I don’t like this, Stan. It feels wrong.”
“Avalanche!” someone screamed just as a massive cloud of snow exploded up the mountain, far above the camp. “Run! Run for your lives!”
Paralyzed, Liza watched the snow barrel down the slope towards them, becoming a massive, unavoidable wall of white. Climbers scrambled down the trail as fast as they could, and one word became a hot potato, jumping from one man to the next—Go! Go! Go!—but go where? The whole field was just a path for the avalanche to consume as it charged towards Sheep Camp at breakneck speed.
“Get down!” Stan yelled at the same time as Liza shouted, “Run!”
She leapt off the boulder and landed in waist-deep snow at its base, right next to the two packs. Afraid to move, she leaned beyond the massive rock’s edges, waving frantically at her brother.
“Come here, Stan! Run!”
He was moving like a stick man, wrenching one leg at a time from the thick, wet snow, then plunging into it again, his eyes on Liza. Why was he still so far away?
“Faster, Stan! Come on!”
She kept screaming, and he kept uselessly yanking his boots out of the snow, and in an instant the avalanche overwhelmed them, the crushing, almighty vengeance of the mountain stealing their voices, their breath, their heartbeats. Liza pressed herself hard as she could against the side of the boulder, and the vibrations of the mountain rocked and hammered against her cheek. Please, God, don’t let this rock roll over! The snow flew over her, around her, onto her, its fury endless, its white becoming darker as it blocked out the sun.
Then all at once it stopped.
Stan, was her first thought. I have to find Stan.
As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she saw that the boulder had shaped the cascading snow into a sort of cave. A room with no door. A room she had to escape before it became a tomb. Standing on top of both packs, she reached up and outward, testing the snow where it was farthest from her, afraid with every breath that the roof would collapse on top of her. She had no idea how thick it might be. At first nothing moved, then something gave way, and the area shifted, dropping a few chunks of snow. She tried again, this time using more force, and the ceiling gave way, dumping so much snow she cowered against the face of the boulder to protect herself. When it was done, everything below her knees was stuck, but she could hear men’s voices, and the relief of knowing she’d not only survived but wasn’t alone was overwhelming.
“Stan!” she yelled. “Stan! I’m okay! I’m coming!”
She climbed to the surface and scanned the area, taken aback to see that all the hotels and saloons stood, relatively untouched by the slide. Then she turned the other way and realized how miraculous that had been.
“Dear God,” she whispered.
The field was gone. The level of rock- and branch-riddled snow was higher than any of the two-storey buildings behind her. All the tightly packed tents and the people inside them and the horses and the wagons and the packs were gone, washed away and buried somewhere beneath.
A man stopped beside her. “Looks like ten acres gone. You ever seen anything like it?”
Liza had no time for him. “Stan!” she cried, joining the chorus of men stumbling over the field, calling out names. “Where are you?”
A faint voice came from a few feet away. “Help me!”
She fell to her knees and started to dig. “Stan! Stan! Are you there?”
“I’m here!”
She dug with her hands as hard as she could, and the snow turned pink as her fingernails ripped apart, but none of that mattered. Stan’s voice was getting louder. Suddenly a hand broke through and began widening the hole. Then she saw the face below and couldn’t breathe.
“You’re not Stan!” she cried.
“Don’t leave me!” the man pleaded. “Help me out!”
Shaking with exertion, she got to her feet and staggered away. Someone else would have to help him. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she knew she should be pleased—she’d just saved someone’s life. But what did it matter if it wasn’t Stan’s?
“Stan!” she called.
“Here!” The sound was like someone yelling through a pillow, but still she heard his cry.
“Stan? Is it you? Tell me it’s you!”
“Li
za! I’m here!”
She stopped and pictured him beneath her, encased in tons of solid snow. How deep was he?
“Are you all right?”
“I . . . I can’t move. I don’t know which way is up.”
“I’m coming! I’ll get you!”
She threw off her coat and began digging like mad. She lost track of time, almost forgot where she was, and soon snow was piled in drifts around her. Her hands were like planks, stiff and bleeding, and her lungs screamed for air. But Stan’s voice never came any closer.
“Stan? Talk to me!”
“I’m here.” He sounded funny, like he was slurring his words. “I’m awfully tired.”
“Don’t go to sleep!” She’d never know where he was if he did that. She’d never be able to save him. “Talk to me so I know if I’m getting close.”
“I don’t think I can.”
“Excuse me, miss.”
A shovel hit the snow beside her and the man wielding it began to dig. Liza stumbled back, out of the way, squinting against the sun until the man’s profile came into focus. It was the young Mountie from the top of the Chilkoot Pass, the one who’d forced them to keep carrying things up.
“It’s my brother,” she said, swallowing a sob. “Please, please save my brother.”
“What’s his name?” he asked, not breaking his rhythm.
“Stan. Stanley Peterson.”
Sweat darkened the front and back of the Mountie’s grey shirt and his face was flushed, but he kept digging and throwing, digging and throwing, until at last he paused.
“Call him again.”
She was on her knees in a heartbeat. “Stan? Stan! Are you okay? We’re coming for you!”
Nothing.
“Stan!” she screamed. “Wake up! We’re almost there!”
“I’m here.” His words were as thick as cold syrup. “But I’m so tired. I can’t. It’s too much. You . . . you can stop.”
“What are you talking about?” she shrieked.
“I love you, Liza.”
The finality of his statement terrified her. “What?! No! Stop that! You are not going to die here on this bloody mountain.” The Mountie—what was his name? Turner?—was leaning over his shovel, catching his breath. “Why did you stop?!”
He shook his head. “I’m sorry.”
Sorry? He was sorry? “Dig!”
He didn’t make any move to start again.
“Give me the shovel,” she demanded, scrambling to her feet.
Without a word, he handed it to her, then stood back, still breathing hard. Liza’s muscles screamed. Dig, toss, dig, toss. But her arms were failing her. The shovel dropped from her cramped hands, and she fell to the ground beside it, beating the snow with her fists.
“Stan!” she wept. “Stan!”
There was no answer.
She pushed the shovel towards the Mountie. “Please?” she asked, aware that her voice shook. “I just need a break. It’s okay. He can go to sleep for a bit, and we can still get to him—”
“I’m sorry, Miss Peterson. It doesn’t work that way,” he said.
“What are you saying?” she cried. “I can’t let him die down there. Not while I’m sitting right here!”
Constable Turner was watching her intently. “It’s not a bad way to go, from what I understand. He’ll fall asleep slowly. No pain.”
His voice was so gentle, but his words cut straight through her.
“But . . .” How could she answer? “He’s my brother.”
Constable Turner’s attention had shifted to another person in need. When he turned back to her, she saw the compassion in his eyes, but it was lost on her.
“I’m sorry, Miss Peterson. Truly I am. We did all we could.” He bit down on his lower lip, then moved away. “I’ll give you your privacy.”
She watched him go, a chaos of emotions rolling through her. How dare he leave? Then she recalled how hard he’d dug, how determined he’d been to rescue her brother. And now he was running through the deep snow, shovel in one hand, moving towards something or someone Liza couldn’t see. Thirty feet away from her, he started digging. God, he must be tired, she thought.
She swayed over the pit she’d dug, ringed by snow that entombed her brother, and the terrible truth of the Mountie’s words became real. There was nothing anyone could do. As she stood there, Stan still breathed beneath her, but he was going to die. Her knees gave way, and she dropped onto the snow, wishing she could be under it with him. She laid her cheeks on the ground, feeling as if the whole world pressed down on her.
“Stan?”
“Hey, Liza.” His voice was husky, like she’d woken him from a nap.
A sob caught in her throat. “I can’t get to you.”
He paused. “I know.”
God, it hurt. How could she go on without him? “Are you cold?” she managed.
“Not anymore. I can’t feel much at all. It feels funny to move my lips.”
“Are you scared?”
“Yeah.”
“Me too.”
Stan didn’t say anything.
It was so hard just to lie there. She squeezed her eyes shut. She had no right to cry. She wasn’t the one dying.
“Stan, if you hadn’t told me to jump off the boulder I’d be buried, too.”
At first she thought he wasn’t going to answer, then he said, “But you’re not. You’re safe, and that’s good. You gotta get back up top, take care of Mother and Father. Promise me you’ll go to them, Liza. I know you want to stop, but they’re gonna need you since I’m . . .”
She waited to hear how he’d say it.
“They’ll wonder where we are,” he said quietly.
The terrible mountain loomed above her, stripped of so much snow, buried under so much more. “There’s no trail left. So many people are gone.”
“Promise me,” he said. “As soon as there’s a trail, you’ll climb it.”
How could she go on without him? The vastness was already too big for the two of them. It was inconceivable for just her. But she would have to. She would do anything for her big brother. Anything.
“I promise.”
The sun beamed down on the murderous snowfield, its light beautiful and blinding. Liza blinked away her tears, thinking how perfect everything had been just minutes before. The sun on the boulder, the warmth on her face . . . Then realization hit her, and she was suddenly bathed in a cold sweat. It was her fault. It was all her fault.
“Oh God, Stan. I shouldn’t have spent all that time sitting in the sun. Oh, Stan! I’m so, so sorry! I wish—”
What she wished was for him to be right here, right now, hugging her like the big brother he was, but she couldn’t say the words.
“I love you, Stan,” she managed.
“I love you too, but Liza, you’re wrong. I need you to remember something. None of this is your fault. It would have caught us if we’d been climbing, too. Then we’d both be trapped.”
“I’d rather be dead than live without you.”
“Don’t talk like that,” he said, then, “Liza?”
“Yes?”
“Can you do one last thing for me?”
One last thing. “Name it.”
“Sing me that hymn. You know the one. Help me go to sleep.”
God help me.
She took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and did as he asked.
“Lord, with me abide,” she began, her voice shaking. “When other helpers fail and comforts flee . . .” It was a pathetic, worthless apology, but it was all she had. “Help of the helpless, O abide with me.”
Then she turned her face so her trembling lips touched the snow, and she said farewell.
Ben
TWELVE
Ben’s shovel hit the ground, slicing deeper and deeper, but with each cut the level of snow rose, covering his feet and climbing up his legs like a living thing, so thick it locked him in place. The whiteness swept over him like a giant wave, then around him, a
whirling, endless tunnel, closing in. The wind screamed, and something black spun within the walls. He grabbed it and saw it was a twig, but the twig cracked open and became a finger, and the finger became a hand, and suddenly the tunnel was spiked by hands stretching out, spinning around and around, and the scream was getting louder. Ben grasped for the hands as fast as he could, but as he touched them they shrank away, swallowed up by snow.
He drove his shovel into the wall. He had to get through. He had to get out or else he would die. They would all die. But his hands were small, like when he was a child, and his shovel lifted only a handful of snow. A spoonful of crystals. Not enough. Never enough.
“You’re useless and weak. Everyone will die because of you.”
That was his father’s voice, but his father wasn’t supposed to be here. And yet there he was, standing behind Ben, beside him, in front of him, doubled over with that ugly laugh Ben could never forget.
“Give me the shovel!”
“I can do it!” Ben yelled back, but his father had swelled bigger than their farmhouse, and the shovel was now in his hands. He raised it over Ben’s head.
“You better run, boy.”
The shovel came down behind him, and the snow flew everywhere, an avalanche snapping at his heels. Ben ran for all he was worth, but he couldn’t get through the snow. He couldn’t see, couldn’t find his way in the dark. He looked down, and the snow cracked apart, tearing the mountain in half, forcing him to leap—
Ben burst from his nightmare, his chest heaving. At first he was lost—the darkness around him smothering and unfamiliar—then he heard men talking beyond the tent and everything came flooding back. The avalanche. He jerked upright, then cried out when his muscles cramped in protest. The digging. The dream was starting to make sense. It had been a while since he’d dreamed of his father, though. All these years later, the bastard still wouldn’t leave him alone.
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