Monument

by Ian Graham

  ‘There are more aspects to a man’s character,’ said Heresh, ‘than his vices.’

  ‘True. But none as dear to him.’ He sprinkled salt upon the beef. The white crystals glittered.

  Ballas ate contentedly.

  ‘You seem in good spirits,’ observed Heresh.

  ‘I’ve a bellyful of wine,’ he said, ‘and I’m eating like a Master. Of course I’m happy.’

  ‘I take it that Laike has agreed to help you?’

  Ballas nodded.

  Heresh tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear. ‘He believes Belthirran exists?’

  ‘He knows it does.’

  ‘And that you can find a way there?’

  Ballas shook his head. ‘He reckons it’s beyond my grasp. Or anyone’s.’

  ‘Yet still he helps you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Absurd,’ said the red-haired woman.

  ‘And what are you going to do?’

  ‘Laike is making arrangements for me to travel to my uncle’s home,’ said Heresh, quietly. ‘He has assured me a safe journey.’

  ‘He is a wealthy man,’ said Ballas, taking a slice of beef. ‘He’ll be able to bribe you a passage across Druine.’

  After several more flagons of wine, and much food—the servant brought a roasted pheasant and a selection of cheeses that Ballas ate greedily—Ballas allowed the servant to lead him to a frugal yet comfortable bedchamber. Between clean sheets, Ballas slept soundly. His slumber was deep, untroubled. When he woke, he felt utterly refreshed.

  He went to the banqueting hall.

  The servant brought him a large breakfast. With the unself-conscious urgency of a pig at a trough, Ballas gorged himself upon a countryman’s breakfast: bacon, eggs, sausages, fried bread, mushrooms—all sprinkled with pepper and salt. He had not eaten such a breakfast in a long time. When he had cleared the plate, a second was brought, heaped high with the same food once more.

  ‘My master believes you’ll need to keep your strength up,’ explained the servant Beirun, ‘if you are to climb the Garsbracks.’

  ‘Where is Laike?’ asked Ballas, around a mouthful of egg—a trickle of yolk seeped on to his chin.

  ‘He has matters to attend to. And he has elected to breakfast alone this morning …’

  ‘On what? Nuts, berries—a field mouse’s rations?’

  ‘He is eating as you eat,’ replied Beirun.

  Ballas snorted. ‘The scents of such grub—’ Ballas waved an eating dagger over the plate ‘—must have overwhelmed him. Who can resist fried pig meat? Laike may be an ascetic. But he’s still human:

  Ballas continued eating. He could see the Garsbracks through the window. In the dawn-fresh light, he could make out quarry men toiling on the lower slopes. They were breaking the rocks with sledgehammers and chisels—laborious, back-breaking work. He thought of the Garsbracks’ summit.

  Of the rock face that, according to Laike, made it impossible to reach Belthirran.

  The old man exaggerates, thought Ballas. He has already admitted he is prone to half-truths. And outright lies. Perhaps, up on the mountain, he was tired and disheartened—and the rock face only seemed unclimbable. Maybe he had lost his nerve …

  The servant returned. After asking Ballas whether he had eaten his fill, he led him to a large room. On the floor lay a selection of mountain climbers’ equipment. Ice axes, tough-soled leather boots, fur jackets and legging covers, rucksacks, ropes … The instruments of altitude survival. Athreos Laike kneeled among them, his back to Ballas. He folded blankets into a rucksack.

  ‘He is here, master,’ said the servant.

  ‘I know, I know,’ replied Laike softly. ‘You are dismissed, Beirun.’

  The servant left.

  ‘I trust you enjoyed your breakfast?’ asked the old explorer.

  ‘I’m glutted,’ replied Ballas. ‘The best morning-meal I’ve had in years.’

  ‘A mile to the east,’ said Laike, ‘there is a farm, where every creature thrives. They eat well, they forage, they breathe clean air. They grow strong; their taste is a thousand times finer than that of most animals that meet the table. Tell me: have you enjoyed the wine I served?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And it rendered you drunk?’

  ‘Drunk enough,’ agreed Ballas.

  ‘Good,’ said Laike. ‘It is essential that, before any long journey, a man must purge himself of his lusts. Come night-fall, we shall be deprived of all comfort. We might as well indulge ourselves while we can, yes?’

  ‘We?’ Ballas stared hard at Laike. The explorer fingered an ice pick: the point was savagely sharp.

  ‘Yes,’ said Laike, nodding, ‘we. I have decided to travel with you.’

  It took Ballas a moment to absorb this. ‘I didn’t come here to find a travelling companion,’ he said.

  ‘I did not think so,’ replied Laike. ‘You wanted a map?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then you know nothing of the Garsbracks. The mountains cannot be transcribed on to parchment. Not with any precision. Why not just vaguely write, “Go up”—and leave the rest blank? That would be as useful as any elaborate chart. The route is treacherous. More than that, it is intricate. One might as well try to tabulate the hairs on a lion’s back as attempt to record the way up the mountains.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ Ballas said dismissively.

  ‘All in good time,’ said Laike. ‘But do not be concerned. I will act as your guide.’

  Ballas looked at Laike’s white hair, the leanness of his body, and heard the hoarseness of his voice. ‘You are too old to be climbing mountains,’ the big man said bluntly.

  ‘My faculties are undimmed.’

  ‘Your servant said you think clean living will keep you young—’

  Suddenly, Laike hurled the ice pick across the room. The movement was fluid, natural: the pick stabbed into a wall beam, and hung there, vibrating.

  Ballas blinked.

  ‘My faculties are undimmed,’ Laike repeated. ‘I am still strong. Still alert. I am a rich man—yet I have lived like one who, each day, must beat hunger.’

  Then Laike did something odd. Something that, after the thrown ice pick, was unexpected. He reached for a blanket, rolled up on the floor. And missed the object, his fingertips pattering on the floorboards. He reached again. Again, he missed. Only on the third attempt did he succeed. He bundled the blanket into the rucksack. There was something self-conscious about his movements. Something simultaneously hurried yet deliberate.

  Grasping his shoulder, Ballas twisted the explorer around. For the first time, Laike’s face became visible. Once more Ballas saw the aquiline nose and sleek jaw. Now, though, he saw something else.

  Athreos Laike’s eyes twitched in their sockets. The blue-grey irises, the sight-absorbing pupils … They flickered this way and that, oblivious to the world of light.

  Laike was blind.

  The explorer sighed. ‘My secret is out, yes?’

  Ballas did not reply.

  ‘Do not be perturbed,’ said Laike. ‘Look upon the ice-pick. Look where it has lodged.’

  ‘You struck a beam. A fluke, rather than skill. Once I saw a crossbow bolt, loosed by accident, knock a starling from the air—’

  ‘I will guide you,’ interrupted Laike. ‘I will take you up the Garsbracks.’

  Ballas snorted—a cold, cruel laugh of derision. ‘You cannot see,’ he said. ‘I dare say you couldn’t guide your piss into a hole …’

  ‘I love the mountains,’ said Laike. ‘I love them more than I love myself.’

  ‘So what?’

  ‘When I climbed the Garsbracks and reached the impassable point, I had no choice but to come back down. By then, winter had set in. Snow lay knee-deep—the purest snow I’ve ever seen. And in those heaped crystals lay my blindness.’ Laike became very still. ‘An icy winter sun shone. The snow reflected its light, dazzling me. I squinted, I stepped cautiously—yet I did not cover my eyes. Gradually
, the light glared-out something within me … some subtle mechanism of my eye. I did not realise it was happening. I saw only a gathering darkness. I rested, expecting it to pass. But …

  ‘It did not pass.

  ‘I had been stricken with snow-blindness. My sight had been killed by second-hand light. I could see nothing. The brightest day was night. I was only halfway down the Garsbracks, and I was unable to see where my feet fell …’

  ‘Yet you made your way down,’ said Ballas, quietly.

  Laike nodded. ‘I made my way down,’ he said, ‘by the same means I will make my way back up. I have a strong memory. I can recall every crease, tuck and fissure in the mountains. Every false path, every dead trail. For thirty years, I have seen nothing—nothing except my final, near-fatal route up the mountains. It lingers here—’ he tapped the side of his head ‘—as vividly now as when I first saw it. It is surprising what one can recall when a true effort is made. Upon the Garsbracks, my life depended upon it. I had to draw out in my mind every step I had taken. While climbing, I hadn’t attempted to remember everything. Nonetheless, it had soaked in. That was fortunate. By thinking hard—by groping deep into my memory—I was able to retrace my steps.

  ‘And I can do it now.

  ‘Since the Garsbracks, I have lived in blackness. The only light comes from my imagination—and from my memory. Every day, I retrace my steps up the mountain. I have forgotten scarcely one thing. I still see it, Ballas: and it is all I see.’ Ballas stared incredulously at Laike. ‘I won’t be guided by a blind man … by a blind, old man.’

  ‘My abilities are undiminished,’ began Laike. ‘I am still capable—’

  ‘You are capable of nothing—except getting me lost.’

  ‘That is not true!’ snapped Laike, leaping to his feet. ‘And you must stop speaking as if you have a choice. For who else will lead you up the Garsbracks? Do you suppose there are others like me, who have reached the summit? And do you imagine they would help you? Remember what you are, Anhaga Ballas. No one will assist you … no one except me.’

  For this first time, Ballas grew curious. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘perhaps that is so. And it puzzles me …’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Why are you helping me?’

  Laike opened his mouth—then shrugged. ‘I shall not deceive you. I miss the mountains. For a long time, I’ve wished to climb once again … to struggle towards the top. But who would accompany me?’

  ‘You are rich,’ said Ballas. ‘You could pay someone to go with you.’

  Laike shook his head. ‘No one is interested. I’ve asked a few climbers, but they always refuse. They believe the Garsbracks are too dangerous. And they don’t wish to make things more difficult, by guiding a blind man—a blind, old man, as you say—up the slopes. I have offered great sums in exchange for help. But always I receive the same reply: money is no use to a dead man.’ He interlaced his fingers. ‘I would go alone, but the mountains have changed. Certain ledges will have crumbled. Some scree slopes will have slipped, leaving everything unfamiliar. To a man of sight, such things are but small hazards. But to me? For all their insignificance, they might still prove fatal.’

  Ballas gazed at the ice pick, hanging from the wall beam. He touched fingertips to the cold metal. A thought struck him. What would Laike do, once they reached the summit? Once they came up against the impassable rock wall?

  And, knowing such a barrier existed, why did he wish to climb at all?

  Ballas shook these questions away. Such matters were irrelevant. He had found himself a guide—that was all that mattered.

  Laike had spoken correctly. There was no one else who would lead him up the mountains. No one with the knowledge. Or the inclination.

  Ballas licked his lips. It was farcical, he thought: a sightless man acting as a mountain guide. Still Ballas had no choice but to accept his offer.

  ‘When do we leave?’ he asked.

  ‘Nightfall,’ replied Laike. ‘Better we go unseen, through darkness.’ Grinning, the explorer slapped a palm down on the door. ‘At this hour, tomorrow we shall be up there.’ He gestured through a window towards the mountains. ‘Is it not the finest feeling? And is it not the greatest ritual—’ he swept a hand out over the climbing equipment ‘—to gather what one needs for a long journey? Does it not inflame the blood? It has been many years since I last experienced such sensations. I had forgotten how sweet they are.’

  The day passed slowly. Ballas sat in his sleeping room, drinking from a wine flagon and gazing at the mountains. He felt nervous, restless. An edgy desire to start climbing immediately gripped him. He feared that, at any moment, Wardens would raid Laike’s home. Or Nu’hkterin would appear, the curve-bladed dagger in his hand.

  Yet everything remained quiet.

  Ballas’s thoughts drifted. He contemplated the climb, sensing there would be hardships. But for many years, discomfort had been his constant companion. No matter how extreme the difficulties were, he would cope.

  He thought of Belthirran, over and over again. The dream-fragment glowed in his mind: the lush fields, grazing cattle, distant cook-fire smoke … They beckoned him. The bone map Laike had found provided much encouragement. It signified a single thing: Belthirran existed. Ballas knew that if he grew doubtful, he would only need to think of the map.

  As evening approached, the servant took Ballas to the banqueting hall. Laike and Heresh were present, seated at the long table. Food was served: a platter of cooked meats, sprinkled with herbs and glistening in gravy and grease. Ballas sat down and filled his goblet from a fresh wine flagon. He ate greedily, knowing he’d be deprived of such treats for a long time. Laike also seemed intent on consuming as much as possible—but if Ballas gorged himself in a bestial fashion, the explorer took his food methodically, passionlessly, as if it were a medicine. Heresh scarcely touched her food. She seemed preoccupied with the wine, drinking goblet after goblet. Ballas noticed that she smelled different. Her faint, feminine scent had taken on the tang of a tavern whore. She had been drinking throughout the day, Ballas realised. Now, wine-laced sweat seeped from her pores.

  No one spoke.

  The servant scuttled back and forth, bringing more food and drink. Eventually, when the meal was almost over, he lingered beside the table. There was something cautious, and expectant, about his manner. Like a dog expecting scraps.

  Laike became still. Setting down his eating dagger, he turned his blind eyes towards the servant. ‘Something troubles you, Beirun?’

  The servant wrung his hands. ‘I wish only to discuss practical matters.’

  ‘Then do so.’

  ‘Very well,’ said the servant uncomfortably. ‘I am merely wondering how long you will be absent.’

  ‘However long it takes.’

  Beirun grimaced. ‘However long what takes? I see no purpose in going up the mountain. It is absurd. I truly cannot—’

  ‘Do not concern yourself,’ said Laike. ‘Please: rest easy. You have served me for many years. You have come to understand my nature. Indeed, can you not predict my needs? Do you not sometimes execute an order before it is even given? You must know, therefore, that I never act rashly. Is that not true, Beirun?’

  ‘It is, master,’ conceded the servant. ‘But you have never done anything like this before.’

  ‘Are you concerned for my welfare?’

  ‘No, master, for I know such a preoccupation would offend you.’

  ‘Then … ?’

  ‘I am worried for the quarry. What will become of it while you are away?’

  Laike laughed. ‘My agents will tend to it, of course.’

  ‘And you trust them?’

  ‘Naturally. I appointed them myself. I wouldn’t surround myself with rogues. And I pay them enough to ensure their honesty.’

  ‘Men are greedy,’ murmured the servant. ‘And what will become of here?’ A gesture encompassed Laike’s home. ‘What should I do?’

  ‘Perform your duties as normal,’ said Laike bl
andly. ‘Things will be a little easier for you. You will have no need to feed me, and—’

  ‘What if you do not return?’ interrupted Beirun. ‘What … what if you suffer some mishap?’

  ‘This talk is starting to bore me,’ said Laike, irritated. ‘I do not wish to approach the mountains with your questions ringing in my ears. I shan’t let your fretfulness pollute everything.’

  ‘Pollute, master?’

  Laike slammed his hand flat on the table. ‘I wish to enjoy the mountains. From start to finish, the experience must be pure. On the Garsbracks, the spring-water is unimaginably fresh. The air is so clean it glitters. The light is uncorrupted, it gleams like a spark in the creator-god’s eye. The only thing that can befoul such a place is Man. Do you understand? So, I must leave all such thoughts behind. The quarry, my home, my commitments—the bleak trappings of my species … they must vanish from my mind. Otherwise, all will be tainted. Now: begone, Beirun. If you are needed, you will be summoned.’

  The explorer turned the eating dagger over in his fingers— as if contemplating some violent action.

  ‘Forgive me, master,’ said the servant, leaving.

  Laike tapped the knife-tip on the table.

  The evening lengthened. Leaving Heresh in the hall, Ballas returned to his sleeping-room. Travelling clothes had been laid upon his pallet-bed. Removing his present garb—the sweat-fouled, blood-specked tunic and leggings—he dressed in his new attire. There was a silken vest, and under-breeches of the same material. These would retain his body heat while he climbed through the mountains’ cold. Then there was a jumper and a pair of trousers, both of black wool. Ballas pulled them on. They fitted him perfectly. Next there was a pair of boots. They were large, heavy, fashioned from thick leather. These were slightly too tight. In time, though, they would stretch.

  Ballas went looking for Athreos Laike. The old explorer was on the veranda, his posture identical to that during their first meeting. Ballas moved alongside him. It was a clear night: a half-moon shone, stars sparkled. Yet it seemed that the Garsbracks absorbed much of their light. Ballas remembered his earlier impression of the mountains. He had thought them the source of darkness. Now he realised this was untrue. They didn’t birth darkness. They swallowed light. They drew the moon’s quicksilver glow on to their slopes and, like rainwater, it trickled away into the gullies and fissures.