The Long Walk Home

by Will North

“Jesus! Surely he’s dead, Alec.”

  Alec placed a finger against David’s carotid artery; the pulse was still there, though very slow and faint. He lifted both eyelids and saw that David’s pupils were dilated.

  “Almost, Owen, but not quite. Not yet anyway. There’s a phrase you learn when you take first aid training for hypothermia: ‘the victim isn’t dead until he’s warm and dead.’ David’s in a sort of deep freeze. His body has automatically shut down anything that isn’t critical. He’s breathing, but only barely; it’s all he needs because so much of him is shut down. Part of the problem here is that I can’t tell whether he’s unconscious because of the hypothermia or the alcohol ... or both.”

  “That’s my fault.”

  “What is?”

  “The whisky. He’s been having me get it for him in town for weeks. I didn’t want to but he got really nasty about it and I did it.”

  “Owen,” Alec said, putting his hand on the boy’s shoulder, “you didn’t cause this. None of it is your fault. This was his choice. He didn’t even need the liquor to do this.”

  “What do we do?”

  “Sadly, almost nothing.”

  “But surely we should try to warm him up?”

  “That’s the one thing we surely don’t want to do. Let’s say we start rubbing his arms or legs. That will eventually warm the peripheral blood vessels in his skin and limbs and get the blood there moving again. When that cold blood gets to David’s heart, the temperature of the heart will drop suddenly and it may well stop. We’d kill him.”

  “Shall we try to carry him down to the farm?” Owen asked, desperate to do something.

  “No, moving him around would do the same thing, only quicker.”

  “So we just sit here?”

  “We just sit here, yes. And we keep him wrapped up to conserve what heat he’s got and check his pulse every few minutes. If it stops, we try CPR, though that’s not likely to help. You’d think breathing warm air from our lungs into his would help, but the difference we’d make would be negligible. The good news is that it’s getting warmer. That helps a lot. What did Mountain Rescue say?”

  “They’re sending the Outward Bound Search and Rescue Team from Aberdovey, and they’ll try to call in a Royal Air Force rescue helicopter. Aberdovey’s close, less than twenty miles away, depending on what route they decide to take. There’s an old farm track that comes up from Llanfihangle, just southwest of here. They’ll be able to get at least halfway up the mountain before they have to get out and walk. What with the call-out and the climb, I reckon it’ll be an hour or more. Helicopter will come from RAF-Valley, a base on the Isle of Anglesey. It’s near Holyhead, where the ferry to Ireland is. It’s about sixty miles. My guess is they’ll coordinate so the helicopter gets here after the rescue team has David ready.”

  Alec thought for a moment. “We should make it as easy for the helicopter pilot as we can, since we have the time. Why don’t I stay here and keep an eye on David while you go find a spot beyond this rock field where it might land. I know there are grassy areas to the east in the direction of Mynydd Moel, but that’s a long way to carry David. See if there’s someplace west of here that’ll be closer, why don’t you.”

  “Right. You’ll be okay here?”

  “Just fine. With any luck David will be, too.”

  Owen dashed off westward, bounding from rock to rock like a mountain goat. Alec checked David’s pulse again and found it, then scanned the sky. Three hours of daylight left, but he knew David didn’t have that long.

  ***

  FIONA DRIFTED AROUND the house. She realized she had no idea whether she would be home when the Llewellyns returned. She wondered if she shouldn’t send them elsewhere. In the end, she wrote them a note:

  Dear Mr. and Mrs. Llewellyn,

  I am afraid there has been an accident on the mountain involving my husband. You are welcome to stay tonight, but I regret to say I may not be here in the morning to prepare your breakfast. You will, of course, not be charged for this evening’s accommodation. For breakfast tomorrow, may I recommend the Royal Ship Hotel just off the Square. Please accept my apologies for this inconvenience.

  Respectfully,

  Fiona Edwards

  ***

  NEXT SHE PHONED the Tourist Information Center and told Bronwen not to send anyone to her for the next week. Finally, she called the guests who had already booked reservations and left them the Information Center’s number. Thankfully, in most cases she got answering machines and simply left an apologetic message.

  Then, because she did not know what else to do, Fiona checked the flowers in the dining room and the guests’ sitting room. There she noticed Alec’s notebook lying open, facedown, where he’d left it the day before. She turned it over and found he’d written a poem:

  SKIN HUNGER

  Ravenous,

  I cleave to you,

  you welcome me

  and we two

  make a three

  who is raw desire

  and naked need,

  who is born of loss

  and longing

  for the simple gift

  of skin on skin;

  the hunger is expressed

  the way the fingers drift

  across a rising breast,

  the way the nails rake

  ripples down an arching spine,

  the way a moistened tip

  of tongue licks paths of fire

  across a curving neck,

  the way our arms clutch

  closely as we crest,

  the way we curl together later,

  like some rare new life form

  joined at groin and chest:

  immortal, soaring, pressing

  out against the membrane

  of the known, slipping

  through a crack in time

  and space to find ourselves

  a story just begun—

  written on living skin

  with trembling hands,

  turning to page one ...

  She pressed the notebook to her breast and began to cry. She cried because she knew now with certainty that Alec loved her, and because only now did she realize how long she had ached for a man who was a kindred spirit. And yet, if her husband—her husband!—were to die in this way, under these circumstances, how could she ever put that horror behind her and love Alec freely? It was beyond her; the whole situation was beyond her.

  ***

  HIGH UP ON the north rim, Alec sat with his back against an outcropping and waited for Owen to return, from time to time checking the pulse in David’s neck.

  The man did not deserve to die; what had happened to him was brutally unfair. Alec wondered whether he would have been able to cope with such disabilities as long as David had. Alec had always thought suicide the coward’s way out, but now, as he sat beside this comatose man, he could understand why David wanted to kill himself—not just to end his own misery, not just because he could no longer do the work that defined him as a man, but to free his wife and child from his anger and bitterness. Striking his wife of more than twenty years must have shocked him even more than it had Fiona. Perhaps he no longer recognized himself. Perhaps he was horrified by what he did recognize: that demon who lives in us all but who, under normal circumstances, we keep in the darkest shadows of our soul.

  After perhaps half an hour, Owen returned.

  “There you are; I was beginning to worry about you.”

  “Sorry. I found a possible landing spot not far to the west—a bit of a slope, but not bad. I decided to mark it with a wide circle of stones. That’s what took so long. I thought an artificial shape up here would be something the pilot would notice.”

  “Good thinking.”

  “Any change?”

  “None. Which is good, actually; I think he’s stable.”

  Owen sat beside him. Alec saw that his hands were raw from hauling the rocks. The two of them sat quietly for a few minutes.

  �
��Owen,” Alec said finally, “last night you mentioned that your mother lived in town. I wondered what happened to your family’s farm.”

  Owen looked out across the valley to the north.

  “You see where the Mawddach comes down to the sea, away off to the west there?” he said, pointing.

  “Yes?” Alec replied.

  “There’s a town there, just behind that rocky headland. Place called Barmouth. Name’s an English corruption of the Welsh word, Abermawddach—meaning mouth of the Mawddach. Anyway, if you carry along to the north on the coast road, the farms begin again right at the edge of town. My father had one of them, and a lovely place it was. Broad pastures sloping down from the hills all the way to the cliffs above the sea. Pretty as it was, it wasn’t arable. Bedrock just beneath the turf. We grew hay and had dairy cows and sheep both. Five years ago next month, my da was on the tractor, going down the main road to one of the pasture gates, when he rounded a bend and a car passing a slow-moving lorry hit him head-on. Killed him instantly. Driver walked away. The lorry driver was a local, a friend of ours. He came up to the house and told us. Shattered he was; never been the same since.

  “After we buried my da we found out the farm was in bad financial shape. My mam never knew. We lost the farm, but the insurance was enough to get my mother a nice little place in Dolgellau. Never had liked Barmouth, anyway; too touristy for her. Me, too, come to that. I live with her, though she won’t have me looking after her. Tough lady, my mam—Anna’s her name—but nice tough, if you know what I mean.”

  “I think I do,” Alec said, thinking of his own mother.

  “I think she prefers living in town, you know; lots of people to talk to, everything in walking distance, especially now she’s got this new hip.”

  “But you don’t like it there.”

  “Nah. I’m not a townie; I’m meant to be on a farm.” Owen nodded to the valley. “Like this one. I love it here.”

  “You seem to be well loved here as well.”

  “You reckon?”

  “Fiona thinks the world of you.”

  Owen’s head jerked up and turned away from him. “Hear that?”

  “What?”

  “A whistle. I heard a whistle. The kind you blow into. I think they’re here already. Bloody amazing; they must have run up the mountain!”

  The next time, they both heard it. Owen stood and clambered over the rocks to a high point and began calling. Alec rose stiffly, then bent over, picked up the whisky bottle, and flung it over the cliff edge.

  After a minute or two Owen saw two men climb into sight, then more, all in identical red anoraks. He waved his arms and they waved back. Ten minutes later, they were close and he led the way toward the cliff edge. Alec was standing beside David’s body when they all arrived. He was astonished by how many men had come—there were fully a dozen of them—and by how much gear they were carrying.

  One of them, older than the others by a few years, held out his hand and Alec took it. “Brian Phillips, team leader; what’ve we got?”

  “David Edwards,” Alec said. “Sheep farmer from Tan y Gadair, just below us to the north. Severe hypothermia, comatose, faint pulse.”

  “How long’s he been here?” the leader asked. He was drenched with sweat; they had indeed run up the mountain.

  “We’re not sure. There was a pretty nasty hailstorm up here just before I found him, a couple of hours ago; he was covered with ice.”

  “So we don’t know how long he’s been unconscious?”

  “No.”

  “Where’d the space blanket come from?”

  “It’s mine. I was just up here for a day hike this morning; it’s from my first aid kit.”

  “Bloody lucky for him you had it or he’d probably be dead by now. Wish more walkers were as well equipped; make our lives a lot easier.”

  “I wish I’d had more spare clothing,” Alec said. “I stripped him and put on what dry clothes I could spare, but I didn’t want the same thing to happen to me when I went for help.”

  “Understood,” Phillips said.

  While Phillips collected information, the rest of the men had gone to work. Two of them checked David’s vital signs. Two more had removed sections of a lightweight stretcher from their backpacks and were assembling it, working together like a well-oiled machine. Several of the men were carrying full mountaineering gear—thick ropes, belts of carabiners and pitons, heavy nylon straps and slings; having no idea where the victim was, Alec guessed they had to be prepared for every eventuality. One fellow stood to one side, talking from time to time into a walkie-talkie. All Alec could hear was the occasional hiss of static, but he assumed the man was in contact with the helicopter. Two other rescuers were very carefully insulating the length of David’s body. These were all burly young men, but Alec was amazed at their gentleness.

  “Question is,” the leader said to no one in particular, “what was he doing here in the first place? It’s lambing season; hill farmers don’t go out for a morning climb under most circumstances, but especially not in lambing season. Too busy and too tired.”

  Alec thought quickly. “I’m staying at the farm; I’m pretty sure I heard his wife say walkers had left some farm gates open yesterday and he’d gone off to get the pregnant ewes back down to the lower pasture. Also, I know he has a weak heart—sheep dip poisoning. Isn’t that right, Owen?”

  Owen had been standing to one side, dumbfounded by Alec’s story, but he snapped to. “Dickey heart, yes. Two heart attacks in the last three years. Gets dizzy sometimes, too.”

  “Owen here works for David, helping out with the farm,” Alec explained. “By the way,” Alec added, changing the subject, “Owen’s found a place just west of here where he thinks the ’copter can land. Marked it with a ring of stones.”

  “Well done,” Phillips said. “Don’t know whether the RAF boys will land or hover, but it’s good to have a safe staging area.”

  “Ten minutes out, Brian,” the communications man yelled.

  “Okay, lads,” Phillips called out, “what’s our status?”

  “Ready to be transported,” one of the men beside David answered.

  The assembled stretcher was set down next to David’s swaddled body and four of the men gently shifted him onto its bed. There was a kind of basket attachment to stabilize David’s head. Then the four took hold of the frame and one man called, “Ready ... one, two ... three,” and they rose in unison.

  While the rest of the team collected their gear, Phillips said to Owen, “Okay, lad, lead on.”

  Slowly and with great care, the stretcher bearers picked their way across the boulder field, talking to each other constantly to coordinate their movements so David would not be jostled. Alec followed with Phillips.

  They heard the helicopter before they saw it, the low-frequency whomp-whomp of its blades hammering the air carried for miles. Finally, off to the northwest, Alec saw a bulbous yellow shape emerge from the haze of the late afternoon sun. The communications man was guiding them in, but here on the barren summit plateau Alec couldn’t imagine the pilot would miss the red-jacketed rescuers.

  The pilot circled the site, getting the lay of the land. The young man with the walkie-talkie yelled to Phillips: “He doesn’t want to try to land; wants to hover.”

  “Right,” Phillips yelled back. “It’s his call.”

  The helicopter settled over the circle of stones Owen had made and the stretcher bearers moved to the center. Above them, a hatch door slid open in the side of the helicopter and a helmeted RAF winch man descended on a cable with another stretcher. The noise was incredible and Alec could tell the rescue workers, unable to hear one another, had the whole process down to a system. When he reached the ground, the RAF man unclipped himself and the stretcher. Then he gave a signal and the helicopter rose and moved away from the mountain for safety. With great care, the mountain rescue team and the RAF winch man transferred David from one stretcher to the other. Then the helicopter returned,
lowered the cable again and winched the crewman and the stretcher back up into the belly of the bird. The door slid shut and the ’copter rose, reoriented itself, dipped its nose, and throbbed through the air to the south.

  Alec watched the yellow shape slip into the haze and thought about Fiona. He knew she could hear the helicopter. She didn’t even know David was still alive.

  “Where will they take him?” he heard Owen ask Phillips.

  “Aberystwyth,” the leader replied. “There’s a playing field near the hospital. They’ll land there and an ambulance will be waiting. Normally, it would be Bangor, but their ER is at capacity.”

  “What do you think his chances are?” Alec asked.

  Phillips paused. “Hard to say. It’s amazing he’s lived this long, to be honest. And with that weak heart there’s no telling what will happen when they get his blood circulating again. Reviving him could just as easily kill him. No way to know.”

  Alec watched the team break down and stow the portable stretcher and shoulder their gear. The light was fading fast. He turned to Owen.

  “I guess we’re done here; which route down do you think we should take?”

  “I’ve been thinking about that. If we take the Pony Track, which is safer, it’ll be dark before we’re down. We only have the one torch, and I don’t know how much life is in it. Fox’s Path is faster, but more dangerous, as you know. One good thing is that the Land Rover’s at the bottom by the lake.”

  Alec wondered how many times they could tempt fate in one day. But descending the Pony Track in the dark was at least as dangerous as another descent by the Fox’s Path.

  Phillips said, “I’m with the boy; you gents look like fit climbers. I’d take the steep path over the darkness any day.”

  “Fox’s Path it is, then,” Alec said. “Besides, I’m getting to know it pretty well.”

  Alec thanked Phillips and the team and suddenly remembered David’s chemical sensitivities. Brian said he’d radio the RAF team and the hospital as well so the room could be prepared. The men began moving southwest, the direction from which they’d come. Alec grabbed his pack and he and Owen set off east. Soon they were at the top of the scree slope, ready to begin the steep descent.