Rock, Paper, Fire

by Marni Jackson

  * * *

  1 Ives, Katie, “Afterimage,” Alpinist 11 (Summer 2005).

  2 Chouinard, Yvon, Climbing Ice (San Francisco: Sierra Club Books, 1978).

  3 Crouch, Gregory, Enduring Patagonia ( New York: Random House, 2002).

  4 Bergamaschi, Don Arturo, “Home: The First Ascent of Latok II,” Alpinist 30 (Spring 2010).

  5 Bergamaschi, Don Arturo. Email message to author, February 7, 2010.

  6 Coffey, Maria, Explorers of the Infinite: The Secret Spiritual Lives of Extreme Athletes—And What They Reveal about Near-Death Experiences, Psychic Communication, and Touching the Beyond (New York: Penguin, 2008).

  7 Blanchard, Barry, “Dragons in the Mist,” Alpinist 29 (Winter 2009–2010).

  8 Merriam-Webster Online. merriam-webster.com.

  9 Lane, Belden C., The Solace of Fierce Landscapes: Exploring Desert and Mountain Spirituality (New York: Oxford University Press, 1998).

  10 Ullman, James Ramsey, Straight Up: John Harlin: The Life and Death of a Mountaineer (Garden City, New York: Doubleday & Company, 1968).

  11 Ibid.

  12 Basho, Matsuo, The Narrow Road to the Deep North and Other Travel Sketches, Trans. Nobuyuki Yuasa (New York: Penguin Books, 1966).

  Erin Soros

  SURGE

  An extract from Hook Tender, a novel in progress

  THE BUS windows rattled as the engine farted and sputtered to life. Olaf plunked down next to his sister, Greta. The leather seats smelled of old man. The big boys sat together in the back of the school bus where they were shouting now about how they were going to climb the surge tank all the way to the top, this time they wouldn’t turn chicken and creep back down.

  Olaf knew only one other boy who had climbed the surge tank. Now that boy was overseas, fighting in the war.

  They called at Olaf. Someone tossed a roll of caps at his head. His friend Ralph was back there with the teenagers even though he only had six months on Olaf. Ralph was imitating the guttural noises Greta made when she was trying to talk. He got all the boys laughing. Olaf pretended he couldn’t hear. The wet splat of a spitball caught his neck. He pulled at the collar of his shirt, as if the fabric was scratching his skin, and then opened his book to stare at the lines of black on white. The bus was a cage full of noise. Greta stretched over his shoulder to look back at the older boys, but Olaf knew they’d be talking too fast for her to read their lips.

  She slipped back into the seat. Each time the bus rounded a corner, her hip dug into his thigh.

  He turned to face her, stretching his lips into huge ugly shapes. “What did you do at school today, Greta?” he asked, taunting her by exaggerating each word. Before she could respond he began to sign. This time he wasn’t making words. He was fluttering his fingers as fast as the wings of an insect. Greta stopped swinging her legs. Her mouth formed a small knot.

  “It’s a bee,” he said, his voice warmer now, as if he’d been waiting all along to share this trick with his sister. “Just a bee. See Greta? The letter B.” He pinched her under the arm until she squealed and pulled away. She giggled. Even her laugh sounded wrong.

  The driver soon dropped off most of the children, who lived near town. Only Ralph was left. The bus creaked and huffed up a hill and around the next bend. When it braked, metal joints complaining, Ralph walked to the front, saluted the driver, then was gone. The bus rocked over gullies and bumps, deeper into the woods, Olaf and Greta its only passengers. They sat with their hands in their laps, surrounded by the rows of green seats.

  Olaf stared out the window. Greta’s breath had clouded the glass so the trees were smeared into an unbroken green wall. Skirt tree, Olaf signed in his lap as they passed the giant red cedar that marked the halfway point to home, its base stretching out like the sweep of a lady’s skirt. His hands took the shape of what passed: the abandoned truck, the white pine burned black by lightning, the break in the woods that showed a slice of ocean, the pile of rocks where Greta scarred her knee. Each landmark he signed and Greta matched his sign.

  Behind these trees, closer to the shore, were the houses the Japanese families had been forced to leave. Beside the busy stink of the mill town, beside their own lives in the boisterous logging camp he knew so well, the woods were full of people who were gone. From here no one could see the empty buildings, but he still felt uneasy whenever he passed this part of the road, as if the houses themselves were what had made the families disappear.

  Greta gestured in their sign language to ask him what was inside—beds and tables, like their own house? But Olaf just shook his head. He didn’t want to imagine the rooms, each one dim as a shadow.

  The houses were perched on the rocky bank right next to the ocean, where the air was damp and cold with sea spray—closer than any white person wanted to build. Each building was as small as a fishing boat, and the Japanese took small steps when they walked, or that’s how he remembered them. The children were quieter than normal children, at least they were quiet when they were in the mill town with their parents, the summer before they were carted away. If a storekeeper shouted at them—get off the railing, put that down—they did what they were told. They didn’t say a thing. Greta used to stare at them and smile and even wave, but without lifting her arm, like she didn’t want her and Olaf’s mother to see. Sometimes a child waved back.

  The whole lot had lived near the beach, boys and girls and parents and grandparents all together in their own houses as if they were innocent—and yet at any moment one of them could have jumped onto a boat to take secret information out to a Japanese warship. That was the threat. Olaf was old enough to know all about it. They had been living right there, separate from the camp but so close. Any one of them might betray the whole country. You couldn’t tell but even the children might be dangerous, all of them with their shiny caps of black hair like matching helmets.

  One of the houses was off on its own. By the door stood two small trees, round trees that lose their leaves, the kind people plant on purpose. He’d only seen those kinds of trees in schoolbooks. With Ralph he’d stood right outside that house and he told Greta to keep back, no telling what they might discover. It was no place for a girl. So she went to find a turtle on the beach while he and Ralph launched pine cones at the roof. The house had shutters—the white paint scabbed off—and matching chimneys on either end. It looked surprised. He was sure there would be guns in the rooms and maybe even battle plans written in code. But he and Ralph never went inside to look. Through the glass the kitchen was just a kitchen. One window was blocked by a white shirt. The mother must have washed and ironed it, and then it had hung there, waiting, tinged green with mildew, still neatly buttoned. The outside walls were growing moss and the shutters were loose so he and Ralph tugged a couple of shutters free and ran around holding them like shields, brandishing sticks for swords, and they shouted the metal sounds of Jap talk. For some reason they avoided breaking the windows. It seemed important to keep the glass intact.

  Ralph wanted to go back to that house with matches and buckets of oil and set it on fire. They’d have to wait until the summer, Olaf said, when the wood would be dry as kindling. You’re scared, Ralph said, you’d never. I dare you. Olaf said he’d do it. And maybe one day he would, and then the Japs couldn’t return and frighten his mother with more of their plans for war. Really it was Olaf’s responsibility, since Ralph wasn’t even from around here and he had straight black hair just like the Japanese children. Olaf planned to sneak out at night and leave Greta at home. It wouldn’t be safe, for her. One of the Japs might still be there in hiding.

  Before the families were taken away, Greta had given one of the Japanese boys a ball of red yarn, just like that, something she’d stolen from home. That boy could speak English, Olaf had heard him, but he’d just stood there grinning at Greta. Then he said a gruff word that Olaf couldn’t understand. He said it again and Greta matched the shape of her lips to the boy’s lips as if she knew what he meant when she didn’t. Then they bot
h nodded. What would he need yarn for, Olaf had asked her—a boy? The Japanese boy had held it tenderly, away from his body, the way one would balance a full bowl of soup. Olaf remembered his cupped hands, the knuckly fingers that were calloused from fishing like a man’s would be, not just sweaty and dirty from games of Run, Sheep, Run.

  Greta did that kind of thing. She did it without thinking who was the enemy.

  Now Olaf didn’t sign their word for house. He looked up the road to find something else he could name.

  The road narrowed and branches scratched at the windows, trying to speak. Greta leaned her head on his shoulder. They rode higher for three miles, the trees getting closer, the road darker. Then the bus stopped and they climbed out. The driver told Olaf to look after the little girl.

  No buildings lined this road—it was just a strip of dirt splitting the forest in two. They rustled under the scrub where they’d left their bikes. The logging camp was two miles farther, up the mountain on a road too steep and rough for the school bus, a single lane used for empty trucks heading up and loaded trucks heading down, the vehicles blasting warnings with their air horns at each bend in the road. Greta couldn’t hear their horns. His mother always warned him that Greta should never be left to do this stretch on her own. The children pushed their bikes a bit, then they got on to pedal, Olaf listening for oncoming trucks.

  In the summertime, they stopped for huckleberries, squirting them between their teeth. They sat at the crib dam and spat the sour ones into the tumbling water. But today the cold air bit their knuckles. He needed to get Greta home. He tried to yank his sleeves down over his wrists. Greta followed him a few yards back, moaning at the wind. When they reached the hill, she climbed off her bike to walk.

  “I’m not walking with you,” Olaf twisted around to say. “You’ve got to pedal.” He kept his grip tight.

  She propped the bike against her hip so she could sign that she was tired.

  “Keep going,” he said. “Get back on.”

  He was not going to get off to push both their bikes, not this time. There was nothing wrong with her arms.

  All the way to the crib dam she trailed behind him, walking her bike with one hand. He pedalled as slowly as he could. His bike rocked side to side, and he had to keep dropping one foot to the ground to keep it steady.

  “It’s getting dark!” he shouted, turning back to her, even though she probably couldn’t see his lips in the dusk. Soon they wouldn’t be able to talk at all.

  He crossed the crib dam ahead of her. The water clamoured far below. The concrete buttress was smooth under his tires and he could have raced ahead if he were with one of the boys. By now they were all down at the beach. Even Ralph would be with them and he’d climb to the top of the surge tank and then tell Olaf about it, or maybe not tell him, just nod a bit if he asked, as if someone like Olaf wasn’t even worth the bother of the whole story.

  He stopped to let Greta catch up. Then he ducked into the bush where she couldn’t see him. At first he planned to jump out and scare her. But as she trudged along he stayed where he was. When she passed him, she didn’t look up, just kept her gaze on the slow spin of her bicycle’s wheel. She started humming that deep-throated noise like a grouse.

  She turned the bend. She must think he was up ahead. He had never left Greta on her own. But it was only another halfmile or so before she’d be safe home. Instead of following behind, he turned his bike around and pedalled back down the logging road, away from her, his legs spinning as furious as the sound of the water. He would be at the bottom of the hill by the time she turned around to look. The bike picked up momentum as the wheels skidded over pebbles that flew into the brush. He was going too fast for the brakes to work and he knew he’d spin into whatever truck was coming his way. He soared past the last clump of trees, then, with a quick shove, he pushed the bike out from under his body, the metal clanging and the handlebars twisting as he dove and landed on his chest.

  His lungs clenched at nothing. He gasped for air, coughed, then rested his lips and forehead on the cold damp earth as he felt his wind return.

  He rolled over, sat with his knees up. He brushed the rocks and dirt from his trousers and shook his feet—he was fine, not even a twisted ankle. Trembling, he got up to check the bike, straddled the frame to twist the handlebars into place. He got on, moving slowly to test it, then faster, turning south onto the main road. He wondered how close Greta was to their home.

  When he reached the dirt bank, he found a tangle of bikes where the boys had tossed them aside. The twilight made the chrome glisten like a clump of metal bones. He dragged his bike up the bank and dropped it on top of the pile.

  Olaf ran into the trail that led to the beach. Pine gave way to the stench of seaweed. He could see the tank, the metal tower rising 300 feet. Under the darkening clouds it was whiter than usual. Down by the boom the boys were tossing rocks into the ocean. Not skipping them—just lobbing handfuls of rocks into the air and letting them drop. The boys made bombing sounds.

  “Hey,” Olaf called out as he ran to meet them.

  At first the five didn’t move.

  “Hey,” he called out again, relieved when Ralph gestured for Olaf to join the group. Ralph walked ahead and stood on his own, arms akimbo, surveying the shore. Ralph’s dad had died last spring and now he didn’t need anyone.

  “Let’s go,” said Joel. The boys scrambled up the beach single file, each kicking rocks ahead, trying to hit the boy in front.

  Ralph found a good flat stone, and they all waited for him to skip it. They counted as it bounced off the water.

  “Nine,” Karl said, and whistled. They started walking again, crunch of mussel shells under their soles, none of them willing to try to beat Ralph. Olaf slipped his boots into the others’ footprints, his face hot against the cold air. He could see the surge tank clearly now. Against the night sky, the white paint glowed like phosphorescence.

  “Climbed it before?” Ralph asked in a loud whisper. Olaf hated him for asking in front of the other boys. “With Greta? You climb with your little sis?” Even in the dark Olaf could tell he was smirking.

  The wind rose up from the ocean and twisted past the surge tank’s slick surface, making the metal ring out. Sometimes the tank was full of the river. The men could stop the turbines at the dam by funnelling the water into this tank where gravity absorbed the surge. But now the tank was empty. A great blank dividing the sky.

  Once, last summer, Olaf had walked up to the base of the tank with Greta, and they’d touched it to see if the metal was warm or cold, but they never even tried the ladder. It ran from the height of the tank and then stopped eight feet from the ground.

  “To the very top?” Olaf asked.

  “You climb the tank first, you get to drop out of school,” Ralph said.

  He bet Ralph had at least climbed part of the way. Maybe his father had taken him, before the accident. But Ralph was the kind of boy who could spring up that ladder without anyone urging him to do it.

  “You can’t look down,” Ingmar yelled. “That’s what kills you.”

  The boys all jumped onto a line of rain-wet logs and walked along them, silent again, hands in their pockets to prove they didn’t need arms to balance. The rotting wood crumbled under their steps. When they reached the tank, they crouched together and pulled a small log under the ladder. One by one they balanced on the log and pulled themselves up to the first rung, scurrying fast so the next boy could join them.

  Ralph stood back, picking up rocks. Olaf nodded toward the tank. Ralph tossed a rock at it, a high ping. The boys above them stopped, looked down, then started again. Olaf and Ralph eyed each other awkwardly, Olaf tearing at a fingernail with his teeth, Ralph sliding his tongue along the cracks in his bottom lip.

  Olaf was the youngest, so he should be the last. He cupped his palms together to offer a holster for Ralph’s foot. With a grunt Ralph ignored the gesture and hoisted himself up onto the log, leaning over to grip the ladder. He
started to climb.

  Olaf wanted to shout something out to his friend. He scrambled until he had his own feet on the ladder. Salt air pushed open his lungs. Then he peered down. It was dark already, only the moon casting pale light across the beach where they’d left their prints in the sand just minutes ago.

  He’d been up ladders before. The first forty feet were easy. He felt a burst of energy as his boots pattered from rung to rung with a hollow clang. Olaf knew his father could climb up this thing easier than walking into his own kitchen.

  But halfway up, the surge tank flared like a goblet, the top wider than the bottom. The sides jutted out at a thirty-degree angle. Olaf had to climb not just up, but out. With his arms stretched above him, his back hung parallel to the dark sea that crashed on the shore a hundred feet below.

  The weight of his body pulled at his hands. His fingers were raw. He glanced down at the water. The view swayed too fast, lurching forward then retreating as his stomach turned. He clenched his eyes shut. His left foot slipped from the ladder and flailed. This leg suddenly felt longer than the other, heavier, the muscle pulling as the foot dangled in the air. He swung forward to hook the wayward heel over the rung, found his footing, pressed his face against the ladder’s cold metal edge. He breathed. The rung of the ladder felt good under his boots.

  If Greta were with him, she’d want to go down. But she was home by now, warm and safe.

  Someone up above was laughing. At first Olaf thought one of the boys was laughing at him. Ralph had almost reached the section of the ladder where it ran vertical again. But he was clinging to the ladder without moving. It was Ralph who was laughing, only it didn’t sound like Ralph. The laugh was highpitched and fast, and it echoed off the surge tank’s metal walls.