by M. K. Wren
He felt a resurgence of panic. He wasn’t equipped for this. He had set off this morning dressed for a brisk autumn day in the mountains, not for a blizzard.
He had to get back to the lodge.
And tell the people waiting there that their father, brothers, husbands, and friends were buried under that tumulus of fallen rock? That they had been murdered?
Oh, Lise, this family needed more than a friendly outsider.
A rush of wind rocked him, so intolerably cold that it forced a groan from him. The lodge. He had to reach the lodge.
He made his way back down to the trail, then switched off the flashlight, but the eerie glow in the sky was gone, and he was blind without the light. Five miles to the lodge; an hour minimum, probably more in this storm. He wondered how fresh the batteries were. If they died before he reached the lodge, it was likely he would, too. He wouldn’t survive the night in a mountain blizzard if he got lost.
At least it was downhill most of the way. He aimed the flashlight beam along the trail, and began jogging toward the clear-cut, setting a pace he hoped he could maintain for five miles. He counted his steps, one count every time his right foot hit ground. On the beach at home, that meant six feet for every count. One. Two. Three. Four…
His count had reached two hundred when he came to the clear-cut. Halfway across it, he stopped, feeling the brunt of the wind. From the southwest. Had to keep it at his back to hold a northeast heading.
Where was the trail? In the forest behind him, the trail had been a discernible aisle cut through trees and underbrush, but here the accumulating snow obliterated the line between trail and bared ground. Couldn’t see where it entered the forest beyond the clear-cut.
A sign. He remembered seeing one at the edge of the clear-cut—one of the multitude A. C. put up to post the woods against hunters. The beam sliced through white veils, trembled with his shivering.
And struck the sign. Unreadable with the snow adhering to it, but the rectangular shape was enough. He ran toward it, followed the open lane of the trail into the trees, then slowed to reestablish his jogging pace. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six…
He focused on the count because it provided something to occupy his mind besides fear. In this context, fear would be lethal if it escalated into panic. So he counted his monotonous, ceaseless footfalls.
By the time he reached four hundred, he was in old growth. He remembered this stretch of forest, remembered how richly beautiful it had been this morning, filled with spun-gold light. Now it was steeped in bone-deep cold, and the towering pillars of trees groaned as they swayed in the wind. Hard to see the trail here. Not enough underbrush. He jogged on, the snowy beam jerking back and forth. The falling snow wasn’t as thick here with the forest canopy to catch it, yet the ground was white, snow heavy on the arched fronds of ferns, weighing them down. Down. Downhill all the way.
His count reached a thousand, and his legs were beginning to ache. Wasn’t enough oxygen at this altitude, not when the cold sapped his energy, when the wind kept sucking the air out of his lungs.
But he couldn’t stop. The fear. An invisible shadow, pursuing him, driving him on, footfalls thudding as he counted them. Sometimes he felt like Alice and the Red Queen. It takes all the running you can do, to keep in the same place. No measure of distance in this fog of snow. He might have traversed half a mile or two or none; he couldn’t tell. All he knew was that he couldn’t stop.
A startled cry. His own. He stumbled, crashed against the white earth, and lay shivering, head pillowed in snow. Wheezing. Just like A. C. Must’ve deviated my septum, and he began to laugh. Or perhaps he was trying to weep.
Someone should weep for Albert Charles King, seventy years old, and just now beginning to learn what questions to ask about his life. Might’ve found some answers, too. Stubborn enough to keep looking. Always kept the wind at his back.
Conan abruptly raised his head, shook the snow away. Can’t go to sleep. Sleep and death were synonymous here. Get up! Now!
Flashlight. Where’s the damn flashlight?
He saw it ahead, casting its beam into the snow. Was it dimmer? He crawled to it, grasped it with aching fingers, staggered to his feet.
The trail. He threw the beam around him. He’d lost the trail again.
There. A snow-pasted rectangle on a stake. Another NO HUNTING sign. He had wandered at least fifty feet off the trail. He fixed the light on the sign until he reached it, then goaded his recalcitrant muscles into a swaying jog, starting the count anew. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. The snow crunched under his boots like pieces of Styrofoam rubbing together.
His feet had grown inexplicably heavy, the ground treacherous with roots and rocks hidden in the snow that constantly tripped him up. The cold burned his hands, his face, his feet; ached in his trembling muscles, and the air was like a slush of ice in his chest.
But he kept going. The fear wouldn’t let him stop. One hundred ninety. One hundred ten…
No, that was wrong. Start all over. One. Two. Three. Fourteen. Fifteen. Sixteen. Sixty-one…
He was out of the old growth now, but he couldn’t remember when he left it. Might have been hours ago. These Douglas firs had been seeded no more than twenty years ago, and the trail’s clear aisle was easy to follow. Fourteen. Fifty. Fifty-one. Had to keep moving. If he stopped for an instant, the shivering took over. And the fear.
The flashlight was dimmer. Couldn’t deny that now. He could only go on forcing his legs to pick up his feet, move them forward, again and again and again….
But his teeth were frozen. If he wasn’t careful the chattering would crack them. He laughed, remembering that old buckaroo at the Ten-Mile Ranch. Harlan? Hanson? Hampton. That was it. Called him Hamp for short. Never would wear his false teeth when he was riding in the winter. Said if he came down too hard on ’em, they’d break to smithereens. Kept ’em in his shirt pocket, and ever’time he rode in over Cayuse Ridge, where you could first catch sight of the ranch house, he’d take his teeth out of his pocket and pop ’em in.
Long way up to the top of Cayuse. Didn’t remember it being so long, but he didn’t usually walk it. Couldn’t manage more than putting one foot in front of the other, pulling himself up with branches, sliding a step back for every step forward with the snow up to his knees.
Why wouldn’t Hamp wait for him? He knew better than to leave him here, the boss’s only boy. Henry Flagg’d eat ol’ Hamp alive if anything happened to…
Finally. Ground leveled out, and that meant he’d reached the top of the ridge. The ranch house would be down below.
Nothing. Blackness thick with roiling snow. And with an inward jar that paralyzed him, Conan understood where he was.
No. He understood with terrifying clarity that he didn’t know where he was, that he had wandered off the trail again, and he had no idea how to find it. The flashlight had faded to yellow, reaching no more than a few feet into the whirling snow fog.
He turned it off, stood shivering in the dark, gasping for breath, mouth open, lips cracked and numb. Think. Think or you’re dead.
Might be dead anyway, but not for lack of trying.
The wind. It was at his right, and it was like leaning into a wall of ice. He turned, put his back to it. Downhill all the way. That’s all he could do now. Head downhill.
He switched on the flashlight as he started down the other side of the ridge with long, sliding steps. Too steep, too fast. Feet couldn’t keep up with the slope, and suddenly he was rolling, plunging, shouting hoarsely all the way until he splashed into rushing water a foot deep.
He thrashed out of the water as if it were bubbling acid, knelt on the bank, muscles cramped and twitching. He could feel his soaked Levi’s and gloves already beginning to freeze. The parka was waterproof, but water had poured up the sleeves, under the collar. The boots—he couldn’t tell whether the water had gotten into his boots. Couldn’t feel his feet, even when he got himself upright.
He started to strip off the
wet gloves, then shook his head. Wet or not, they were better than bare, wet flesh. He thrust his hands into his pockets. That unanticipated dip might be the death of him.
But the creek…
He heard himself laughing. The creek could be the life of him.
King’s Creek. Yes, it had to be. He couldn’t be too far from the footbridge, and if he found that, he would have found the trail.
The flashlight! Where was the flashlight?
Not in his pocket. Dropped it when he tumbled down the hill into the creek. Oh, God, not in the creek.
No. A gleam of pale, yellow light twenty feet up the slope. He slogged toward it, panting, picked it up. Pulled his sleeve down over his wet glove, then stumbled back toward the creek and set off upstream along the bank, pushing through the snow-burdened vine maples.
Every few yards, he traded hands with the flashlight, keeping his free hand in his pocket. Sometimes that exchange ended in his dropping the flashlight, stopping to pick it up. Never going to make it with both hands intact. Don’t need two hands, anyway. One was plenty.
Eventually a pallid, horizontal line caught in the light. It took him a while to understand that it was the railing of the footbridge, sleeved with snow. He shambled forward, and it was a moment of exalting triumph when he reached the bridge, leaned on the railing with the waters of King’s Creek rushing beneath his feet.
He had found the trail. How far to the lodge now? He tried to remember, but whatever his clouded memory turned up meant nothing. Half a mile? How many steps was that on freezing feet: Half an hour? He had left time behind him somewhere. The bell was tolling for him. He didn’t have to send to ask. Sweet, gentle tolling, so faint it was drowned in the troughs of the waves of wind.
But he wasn’t ready to give up yet. Perhaps he would be if he had reached the point where surrendering would stop the pain. Not yet.
He turned the fading beam on the trail that curved away from the bridge. He followed the light. An open aisle bordered by flocked Christmas trees. Too early. He’d already had ten catalogues advertising Christmas gifts. Wasn’t even Halloween, and they were starting on Christmas, ringing a bell in the last night.
He tried to revive his jogging pace. Tried and failed. No way he could keep up the jogging. Lucky to maintain a lurching walk. The drifting snow dragged at his feet like white ’dobe. All he could do was plead with his body for one more step. One more. One more.
Listen! The bell. He stopped and pushed his hood back to hear the distant tolling. A. C.’s come-and-get-it bell, the bronze bell that hung on the deck at the lodge. No human hand rang it now. The tolling was too erratic. The wind rang the bell tonight, but it still called him. Called him to the closest thing to life he could imagine at this moment.
But if he could hear the bell, why couldn’t he see the lights of the ranch house? His mother always left lights in every window downstairs if anyone was out at night.
He pulled the hood up, got his legs moving again. Had to keep going, had to listen to the bell. Come and get it, son.…
She’d have a cup of hot tea ready for him. Some tangy, bitter concoction meant to give him strength. Annie Whitefeather had been separated from her genetic family and the surviving remnants of her cultural heritage as an infant, so where had she learned to brew all those herbal medications? Tribal memory. So she said, and always laughed softly, black eyes shimmering with light.
Another sign. Snowy rectangle with no words, but it told him he was still on the trail. The flashlight was fading fast. Let it rest. Turn it off and let it rest. That was Henry Flagg’s first response to failed mechanisms. Let it rest, then try it again. Still fading. If resting didn’t help, try a good swift kick. Or falling down. Falling down in knee-deep snow, that’d fix it. But then you have to find the damnfool thing.
Hell, how’s a man supposed to find a light buried in the dark? Feel around on hands and knees. Only trouble was, his hands had turned to stone, petrified, and a man damn sure can’t feel anything with his hands petrified.
But this time his right hand knocked against the flashlight. Hold on to it. Both hands, that’s fine. A golden circle of light. Didn’t even have to kick it.
Now get back on your feet. Listen. That bell’s still tolling for you. Stand up and listen!
Right. Move, get moving. Good. Downhill from here on out. Sometimes he hardly had to touch his feet to the ground. Was the bell closer? Had to be. He was still heading downhill. Probably. The flashlight made the driving snow look like pellets of pure gold. Kept coming at him, all that gold, and he couldn’t catch a grain of it.
No more Christmas trees. Someone must’ve taken them down. New Year’s Day already. Missed Christmas. Nothing around him except swirling snow, golden snow, all closed in this little glass sphere. Turn the brass key and the bell rings; tip the sphere and the snow keeps coming. But the little snowman inside the sphere has fallen over. Let it rest. Just let him rest awhile.
No! Have to pick him up. A good swift kick, but he probably couldn’t feel it.
He’d fallen again, lost the flashlight again, and when he levered himself to his knees, felt through the snow with his hands of stone, he couldn’t find it. Snow was too deep out here in the open. If he didn’t stand up, it would bury him.
He listened to the mourning toll of the bell, gazed into blackness. Keep the wind to your back. But he couldn’t even feel it now. He turned his head, leaned into the wall of ice.
And saw the light.
Golden gleam, suspended in a film of snow. He reached for it, but his hands closed on nothing. How had the flashlight got so far away?
How had it got to be so many, and every one so square?
His eyes came into focus, and perhaps it was the sudden adrenaline rush that brought his mind into focus, too.
The light came from the windows of the lodge. He had nearly stumbled past it. No more than fifty yards away. He staggered to his feet, shuffled stiff-legged through the mire of snow.
Help…
Couldn’t make sound of the word. He tried again, got out a rasping whisper. Had to make someone inside the lodge hear, because his legs weren’t working anymore. He slumped to his knees.
“Help…”
No one in the lodge could hear that. Try something else. Any ranch hand who couldn’t whistle through his teeth loud enough for the cow dogs to hear him half a mile away wasn’t worth his salt.
But he’d never tried whistling when he couldn’t feel his lips.
Try. Deep breath, take a deep breath….
What came out sounded like a variation on the theme of wind.
Again. Deep breath, and give it whatever you’ve got left. Better. Yes, better, but the sound seemed trapped in his head.
Again. Start high, drop a note or so, end with an upward fillip….
And he heard a new sound, a sound sharp and crisp enough to cut through the wind.
Heather’s audacious, high-pitched bark. He pulled in another breath, forced out another whistle. Poor excuse for a whistle, but Heather could hear what the humans in the lodge could not.
A new rectangle of light. The front door opening, and Heather hurtled into the darkness, bounded toward him, barking a challenge. She hadn’t recognized him by those pitiful whistlings, only heard a sound outside the house that might be a threat. It occurred to him that such bravery should never be taken for granted. She was a small creature racing out into an opaque, frigid storm, through snow up to her shoulders, to face she knew not what.
Yet face it she did, and find him she did, and she led the way. Two figures shuffled toward him, shouting, the white beams of their flashlights blurred with snow.
Chapter 9
Lise and Will. Conan recognized their voices. They supported him, one on each side, wading through the snow toward the lodge, and Lise kept asking him what had happened. Conan shook his head. He could only answer that once, and the others were waiting in the lodge.
Will asked him how long he’d been out in the storm.
He muttered through numb lips, “Don’ know. What time’s it?”
“About ten.”
It took him a while to remember what time it had been when he last looked at his watch, and by then they had reached the deck. The front door was open, and there in a haze of light he saw Mark, Tiff, Kim, Loanh, Demara. Wives and lovers, brother and son.
“Two hours,” he said. It didn’t make much sense.
Lise asked, “But where’s Dad? And Lucas and Al?”
He shook his head. Again.
The light in the atrium was blinding. He heard the door close behind him, heard the rattle of voices around him, felt the blurred, questioning faces pressing toward him. Will said firmly, “Be quiet, everybody! Give him a chance.”
Conan said hoarsely, “There was a rock slide. The camp…it buried the camp.” His eyes were adjusting to the light, and he could see their faces now, and in every one was the same stunned bewilderment.
Demara whispered, “Lucas…” Kim pressed a hand to her mouth, blue eyes wide. Tiff, repeating the single-syllable oh, put her arms around Loanh, but Loanh seemed oblivious to her embrace, staring at Conan with no hint of comprehension. Mark blinked and frowned as if he’d been presented with a riddle he couldn’t find an answer for.
But Lise—she stood directly in front of Conan, so pale she seemed on the edge of fainting. “You mean they were—were buried in the rock slide? All of them? But you’re here! How did you get out alive!”
“I wasn’t—I went out to look for…” To look for stars. That didn’t make sense, either. Not now.
Her hands convulsed into fists, pounding at his chest, her face warped in despairing rage. “You’re here! Why are you here? Why? Why? Why?”
Conan understood her pain, but it overwhelmed him now. He sagged against Will, shaking uncontrollably and closer to weeping than he had been for years.
“Mark!” Will’s voice, sharp and peremptory. “Take-care of her. Damn it, I’ve got a case of hypothermia here. Somebody give me a hand. Conan? Just hold on.”
