Kiss the Sky

by MK Schiller

  “Yes, well it is fiction.”

  “True.” The corners of his mouth curled. She wondered for a brief moment how that mouth might feel on her skin. She clutched the frayed ends of her scarf tighter. His green eyes brightened with a devilish glint. Whatever thoughts he was having were inappropriate, but at least she wasn’t the only one.

  “Maybe you should stop.”

  He held up his hand. “Wait, here we go. I found a passage.” He cleared his throat. “She wanted to soothe the burns. To take away the pain. Slaying dragons was dangerous work.” Tristan looked up, his mouth twisting into a smile. “There are dragons?”

  “There are dragons.”

  “Just when I thought this wasn’t for me, then you give me dragons.”

  She jerked her head to the side as heavy footsteps approached.

  “Ready?” Malcolm asked Tristan. He rolled a suitcase in one hand and clutched several shopping bags in the other hand. Ahmed followed him with a suitcase of his own.

  Farah’s chair scraped against the stone patio as she straightened. “What are the suitcases for?”

  “We’re moving our extra luggage to the storage area,” Ahmed said. “I’ve made arrangements with the hotel staff, since we’ll be coming back this way after we get back.”

  “Oh, that’s good.”

  “Always wise to be precautious in my opinion,” he replied, looking between the two of them with disapproval. She ignored the warning in his expression.

  “Rana just sprung this great idea at the last minute,” Malcolm said. “I thought we were going to keep a room here for our luggage?”

  “Why spend the extra money? The storage will be a much cheaper alternative.” He turned to Farah and Tristan. “You two should gather your things as well.”

  “I’ll do it this afternoon,” Farah said.

  Malcolm unzipped his bag and shuffled a few items. He tried to cram the shopping bag inside the suitcase. The man was quiet, a stony expression on his face, but it was clear the task frustrated him. Surprising, since he had experience packing for expeditions, something that required careful thought and preparation to maximize every centimeter of space.

  “Let me help,” Farah said.

  She bent and took one of the shopping bags by his side. She pulled out a large object wrapped in a bright lime green scarf. The scarf slipped away, sliding across the stone pavement. The object, a snow globe, held her attention. It was larger than most and inside the glass was a replica of the Karakorum mountain range with tiny flecks of snow raining down on the jagged mountain landscape.

  “This is beautiful.”

  “A souvenir for my niece,” Malcolm said.

  “It’s so lovely. Where did you get it? I don’t think I’ve seen anything like it.”

  “Don’t touch it.” Malcolm seized the globe from her. It was so large and awkward it almost slipped out of his hand. “I can pack my own stuff.”

  “Take it easy, man. She’s trying to help you,” Tristan said, the serrated edge of a warning in his voice.

  Malcolm lifted his head. His gave Tristan an assessing stare. Maybe it was the way Tristan towered over him or his own embarrassment, but when he spoke his voice was a bit softer. “I got it at this little shop in the market. I don’t remember where. My niece… She collects snow globes.”

  “That’s great,” Farah said. “How old is she?”

  “She’s twenty.” This had been the most he’d conversed with her since the start of the trip. Malcolm wrapped the scarf around the snow globe and placed it in his bag. He muttered something about meeting them out front.

  “Friendly guy,” Tristan said.

  Ahmed stared after him. “He is a cold fellow, but there is such a thing as being too friendly.” He pressed his lips into a frown.

  Tristan stood, his eyes narrowing. “If you have something to say to me, Rana, just say it.”

  Oh, this wasn’t good. They weren’t even on the mountain, and there was already strife.

  She stood in between the men, plastering a bright smile across her face, one she did not feel. “You should go. The match will be starting soon.”

  Ahmed sighed, but his shoulders relaxed. He even smiled at her. “If you wish to attend, I’ve made special arrangements for you to sit in the women’s section.”

  She should have politely refused and stayed at the hotel. She was heated enough. Watching Tristan mount a horse and gallop across a field was probably the stupidest thing she could do under the circumstances

  She opened her mouth to thank Ahmed and politely refuse, but the words rushed out without the benefit of thought. “Let me get ready.” Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

  An hour later, she was seated on a rickety bench, the temperature about thirty degrees hotter, even in the shade. He rode on a white horse. Of course, he did. He galloped gracefully across the field. All he needed was a green tartan kilt and a few dragons to slay. There was a moment when the men were first assigned horses and the teams were going over rules when Tristan gently patted the animal’s head and leaned against him, whispering something. What did he say?

  Was he making the horse fall for him, too?

  If he were just handsome, her emotions wouldn’t be as vested. After all, she’d thought he’d be superficial based on the things she’d read.

  Bloody hell. She could handle the physical attraction. It was not an issue in itself. It was all the other things about Tristan Sinclair that weakened her resolve. Yesterday in that tiny hut, he seemed so grateful for the experience. He instinctively knew without her telling him that he should not eat more than a few bites and was genuinely interested in learning about Asmaar Auntie.

  She’d brought her camera to take a few shots of the game. Somehow, his tall profile made it into every photo she snapped. On the way back to the hotel, she walked with Ahmed. Tristan walked ahead with Malcolm. The physical activity seemed to have mellowed the men, and everyone was in good spirits.

  Ahmed walked so slow the distance between the two groups expanded. “You hardly watched the game,” Ahmed said, his voice low with a hint of accusation.

  “What do you mean? I watched all of it.”

  Ahmed shook his head. “All of it or just him?” He reached for her camera. “I bet your pictures will reveal the real story.”

  She took back the camera. “I don’t have time for riddles.”

  “Attraction for people like us is dangerous.”

  “Don’t lecture to me.”

  “I would never presume to tell you what to do.”

  “Why is it I have the feeling you’re about to do exactly that?”

  “When we’re high up in the clouds, make sure your thoughts are grounded. I’ve seen mistakes made when the heart competes with the mind.”

  “I’m a professional.”

  “I hope so because, understand this, if I feel things are getting out of control, I will kick him out.”

  Her blood boiled. What right did he have to impose rules on her? She wanted to tell Ahmed off. But she didn’t.

  He was right. There were too many external dangers on the mountain. Only a fool would create an internal one too.

  “You have no reason to worry.”

  Chapter 9

  Tristan finally understood why the brightly painted trucks in Pakistan often had the words Good Luck etched on the back. A person needed a whole lot of luck when maneuvering these roads. He’d figured the next part of their road trip couldn’t possibly be as bad as the first leg.

  He was dead wrong.

  Their porters were in the truck ahead, ten men crammed into one vehicle, several of them hanging off the sides and the roof as they veered around sharp curves. It might have resembled a clown car except there was nothing comical about it.

  A torrent of glacial water fell on both trucks, the muddy water coming in through the op
en window soaking them all. Farah clutched her seatbelt. Tristan tried to remember his rosary. The driver and Rana repeated “inshallah”—the Arabic expression for “God willing.” It seemed to fit because the only way they were getting off this road was if God willed it. In fact, every time they hit a bump or section of particularly treacherous road, the driver atoned “inshallah.” It became so frequent, all the passengers joined in. Fairly soon, the entire van broke out into a chorus of “inshallah.” Tristan honestly believed the single word protected them. After all, they made it safely.

  When they arrived at Askole, everyone got to work, strapping on packs and heading out for the long hike ahead, wanting to take advantage of the last few hours of daylight. Tristan loved these hikes. He used them to reflect and appreciate the nature around him. In a way, they were like active meditation. He’d always been an overactive kid, his teachers constantly complaining about his distracting behavior in the classroom. It wasn’t until he learned how to harness his energy into hiking and later climbing that he’d been able to focus. Ironically, he found a sense of peace in some of the most dangerous places in the world.

  Today was especially difficult. His focus kept shifting to the girl beside him. She had a serene look on her face, one that said, Leave me alone, I’m in deep contemplation. Yes, that means you, Tristan Sinclair. He tried to pry his gaze from her. After all, any diversions were exponentially more dangerous on a journey like this.

  Farah Nawaz was a study in duality. Her features were delicate and feminine, but she had a strength that rivaled most men. She laughed like a child, but had a sense of wisdom about her. She was open and free, yet she guarded herself too. Maybe not everyone could see that, but he could. He sensed very few people scaled the walls she put around her.

  One thing was for sure—he hated coco butter. He’d decided its sole purpose was to torture him.

  Not that it mattered. That would change after a grueling hike.

  He spent the next twenty kilometers of solitude remembering excerpts from Look Homeward, Angel, and recalling famous chess openings. He replayed the game with Elliot. He realized his crucial mistake occurred about four moves before he’d originally thought. He breathed in pure mountain air and made idle chat with Lino and Bjorn. The men were life-long friends and climbing partners. They were complete opposites though. Lino was short and stout with leathery skin. He’d often pause in conversation as if measuring his words, whereas Bjorn was jovial and quick-witted. Even physically he resembled an Appalachian mountain man with his white beard and hearty laugh.

  “I knew my Isabella was the one and only when she accepted my mistress,” Lino said.

  Tristan almost choked on his water. “Your wife accepted your mistress?”

  Lino laughed. “She did.” He pointed to their surroundings. “The mountain is my mistress, no?”

  “Yes, I understand.”

  Through all the conversations and solemn thoughts, one thing stayed consistent. Farah still smelled like a fucking chocolate bar. It never changed, not that night or the coming days. Or maybe it did and Tristan didn’t notice because he stank, too.

  Ignoring him didn’t change either.

  At least he had the others to keep him company.

  Malcolm had brought along a small travel chess board. In the evenings, Tristan, Malcolm, and Ahmed would play a few games in their downtime. They all had to get along for the good of the climb, but Tristan didn’t really care for Malcolm.

  He couldn’t pinpoint it until he heard the change of tone when he spoke to Farah. It differed from the tone he used with the others and was slightly demeaning. Tristan fought the urge to step in more than once. But each time he did, she would give him a look that said, “Back off. This is my fight.” Reluctantly, he honored her wishes.

  The dynamics of a climbing group were always precarious, though this expedition seemed troubled from the start. She made it clear she could handle herself. Still, Tristan watched and waited for Malcolm to cross any lines.

  When they gathered after the long days of hiking, setting up camp after camp, Farah would often go for a walk on her own, taking along her camera and a dog-eared paperback. He longed to follow her, but stopped himself. She wanted to be alone. He would not intrude on her privacy, but he checked his watch so often while waiting for her to come back that Rana told him to chill out a few times.

  He learned a lot about her during their hikes. Most of their time was spent in silence except for the sound of their slow, steady breaths and the crunch of rocks beneath their boots. He’d found during the silent moments you could learn the most about another person.

  He stole glances at her, gradually learning the small nuances that were part of her makeup, like figuring out a complicated recipe one ingredient at a time. She paced herself well, knowing when she needed to push harder or slow down to conserve energy, a trait even the most experienced climbers hadn’t mastered. When she got frustrated, she blew out a solid breath, long and hard enough to lift the wisp of curly hair that fell against her forehead. She gestured with her hands often. Her fingers, long and slender, were elegant despite being calloused by ropes and rough surfaces. He longed to talk with her as they had back to Hunza. But he decided to let her set the pace. He never initiated conversation.

  When they did speak, it was often about the route they were taking, the rough terrain ahead of them, or their previous climbs. Once, he caught sight of the way her heavy pack cut through her skin, leaving a mark on her shoulders. The Savage Mountain was not a place of chivalry. He had to remind himself, when it came to K2, she had more experience. She would be insulted if he offered to take on some of her load. So instead he just placed a few of the cooking utensils she usually carried in his own pack. When she asked where they were, he made it seem like an accident. An accident that happened every day.

  They crossed rickety manmade foot bridges over raging water and rock. The structures swung violently, creaking and groaning as if they might snap at any moment. She managed to keep her balance better than him. When they came to a glacial river, one of the porters, an older man with a white beard, offered his back to her so he could carry her across. She’d politely refused, insisting on doing it herself. Tristan stayed close to her. The waves rolled with such force he almost wiped out a few times. But she managed just fine.

  He didn’t approve of the way his mind wandered to her. He did his best in the coming days to keep busy gathering firewood, looking over weather reports, kneading dough, and checking supplies. When someone asked for a hand with their tools, Tristan was there. When one of the porters became ill, it was Tristan who carried the man over the rickety foot bridge to safety. If they had to scout out a new camp, Tristan volunteered to go. He needed a reprieve from her too.

  Rana’s warning rang in his ears. She’s not for you. Some of that had to do with the man’s own feelings for Farah and his jealousy, but the accusation in the statement was a truth Tristan could not deny. He wasn’t staying here. The last possible thing he was searching for or needed was someone like her. He knew that, just as he knew how to attach rope to a wall of ice so he could scale it or use the crampon points on his boots to get leverage when climbing the side of a mountain. But knowing something and acting on it were two different things. Emotion had a way of clouding judgment. When it came to Farah Nawaz, he had emotion to spare.

  Today, he hiked with Bjorn and Lino. The three of them told stories of other climbs. Lino boasted of his wife’s pasta, going into long descriptions of sauce made from sweet garden tomatoes and stirred for hours. Tristan could almost taste it. Finally, he demanded a topic change. He was craving carbs like an addict looking for a fix. Bjorn spoke of more pragmatic issues. Mainly his finance business in Sweden and the time he spent as an expatriate in Brazil.

  Edelweiss, Rana, and Malcolm were behind them while Farah and the porters were far ahead. As usual, she’d packed up early, hoping to get some still shots.
She was just a small figure in the foreground surrounded by men twice her size. She spoke to them like old friends, gesturing wildly with her hands.

  “So, what are your feelings on taking the south-southeast pillar?” Tristan asked, using the technical name for the Magic Line.

  Lino shrugged. “I fought against it and lost. I’ve been on other expeditions with Rana and was the first one to sign up. A few months ago, he sent an e-mail saying there was a change of plans for our route. I won’t lie, it came as a surprise. Who changes direction after the route is set? Especially here?”

  “Why did it change?” Tristan asked. He jerked his head back. “Does it have to do with the burial service on our agenda?”

  “Rana says that’s not the total reason, but the fact remains that it’s where Edelweiss’s ancestor’s corpse happens to be,” Lino said. “At least we have the exact location.”

  It wasn’t uncommon to find remains on the mountain. Hell, they’d found George Mallory’s remains seventy years after his death on Everest. Still, the thought of it haunted Tristan. “So Rana took this way to appease Edelweiss?” Tristan asked.

  Bjorn shook his head. “He is paying more than the rest of us combined. This means a great deal to the man. Rana is right. The other route has not proven successful. At least not for him. We’ll be making history in a way.”

  “I’d rather make the summit and not risk it with monetary decisions.”

  “It’s not about money,” Bjorn said. “Rana is not a greedy man.” He dragged a hand across his beard. “This isn’t about the summit either. I trust Rana. He is a good man and a strong leader. Do you know he has four sisters?”

  “I did not.”

  “Three of them were in France at medical school. One of them wanted to marry a man above her station.”

  “Why are you using the past tense?” Tristan asked.

  “Dowries and tuition cost money. Rana lost his father ten years ago. He’s been shouldering everything. He takes care of them and his mother. Last year, when his equipment took a hit, they all lost their dreams. He’s been kicking himself since. He feels he gambled with their futures. This trip is meant to set things right. I worried about the route myself until I really studied it. If anyone can do it, Rana can pull it off.”