by R. J. Grieve
Eimer, surveying his surroundings with disfavour, remarked flippantly: “Well, at least we have no complicated decisions to make. We either follow this path upwards and see where it goes, or we go back down to entertain the wolves.”
As they were preparing to leave, Sareth intercepted a strange, intense look from Vesarion. Not understanding it, she raised her eyebrows questioningly at him.
“You look as though you want to ask me something?”
Caught by surprise, he fumbled his reply. “Er….no….yes….that is, I was wondering how you felt about going further up this ledge?” he asked, improvising rapidly. “It’s quite a drop and by the looks of it, it’s only going to get worse.”
She smiled nervously. “Don’t worry. I’ll manage.”
“You’re sure?”
“No, but I’ve decided I’m going to be brave about it.”
He smiled back. “Very well. Just remember, don’t look down.”
She let out a howl of annoyance. “Why did you have to say that? The moment someone says ‘don’t look down’ that is the very thing one does!”
Eimer, who was edging along behind her, said; “Don’t worry, Sarry, I’m close behind you. You’ll be fine.”
His sister gave such an exaggerated sigh of relief that it had Vesarion grinning again. “Oh, that’s all right then,” she declared. “Why did I ever worry?”
But they were interrupted by a commotion at the back of the line.
Bethro was sending out a stream of protest that was rapidly rising to a crescendo. “No, you cannot get past me, Gorm! It’s too narrow! Stop pushing! We’ll both fall off, if you keep this up! For heaven’s sake!”
“Got to keep Sareth safe,” announced one small but determined Turog.
Bethro’s bulk meant that there was indeed no room to squeeze past him on the ledge, so resourceful Gorm dropped to his hands and knees and to the librarian’s outrage, burrowed between his legs – a process he repeated with a highly amused Eimer until he was directly behind Sareth, one leathery paw thrust through the back of her belt.
“Not fall now!” he announced triumphantly.
By this stage Eimer and Iska were both quite helpless with laughter and even Vesarion’s shoulders were shaking, but Bethro was purple with indignation.
“Someday, someone is going to murder that horrible little rodent,” he declared in vitriolic tones.
“Bah!” spat Gorm, contemptuously. “Let’s go.”
Alas, the moment of laughter did not last long, for almost immediately it began to snow again. Huge flakes, like the contents of a torn eiderdown, silently began to descend from the leaden sky, gently settling on the already snow-covered ledge. Softly they alighted on hoods and shoulders, on packs and boots, or spiralled lazily past them on their way down to the valley floor, now terrifyingly far below them.
Grimly, the company edged on, numb hands clutching at the rock face, trying to maintain the purely illusory sense of safety it gave. The snow was by now forming such a deep, concealing cushion on the ledge, that Vesarion, who was in the lead, drew his sword and started stabbing it into the snow ahead of him until he heard the reassuring ‘clunk’ that meant the tip had hit solid stone. Doggedly, they followed the steeply ascending ledge until almost without realising it, they found themselves engulfed in the wet embrace of the mist that hid the mountain peaks. It also hid the course of their path, for it reduced visibility to no more than a pace or two. The swirling vapour clung icily to their cloaks, soaking them and making them heavy. It formed droplets on eyebrows and lashes, further impairing vision, until eventually Vesarion was forced to stop to wipe the moisture from his eyes.
“I don’t get a good feeling about this path,” he muttered to Sareth. “This mist is only going to get worse the higher we go. I can barely see my hand in front of my face as it is. It’s likely that…..”
Whatever Vesarion thought was likely, none of the others were ever privileged to hear, for his sentence was cut short by a flash of lightning that lit the mist up eerily blue, followed by an enormous clap of thunder. Everyone, including the redoubtable Gorm, jumped with fright.
When silence had returned once more, a lugubrious voice behind Sareth said: “Many storms in these mountains.” Then unable to resist the usual litany, it added: “Don’t like thunder.”
“This is impossible!” Eimer exclaimed up the line to Vesarion. “Snow we can hardly wade though. Mist we can hardly see through - and now a storm. What should we do? Do we turn back?”
Again, Vesarion’s reply was cut off by such a dazzling flash that they were all forced to shut their eyes for a second. The storm was now directly overhead and there was no longer any gap between lightning and thunder. With a sound that started like ripping bone and ended in such a crash that the very rocks of the mountains trembled, it broke in full force upon the fragile little group clinging precariously to the ledge. But as the last powerful echo grumbled its way between the frozen peaks, Vesarion detected another sound that only he, accustomed to mountains all his life, could identify. A low roaring sound, like breakers on a beach, distant and small at first but growing in power. The rock ledge beneath their feet began to tremble and they all looked wildly at one another, unable to comprehend what was happening.
Only Vesarion was in no doubt.
“Quickly!” he yelled, turning back towards them, shoving Sareth before him. “Quickly! Get under that overhang we just passed! Move!”
They all turned, his tone brooking no argument and Bethro now found himself in the lead with five anxious companions pushing and shoving him willy-nilly along the ledge as if it were as broad as a highway. The mighty roar grew ever louder until the ledge was quivering in fear at what was coming.
The leading four made it under the over hang before the avalanche struck – but Sareth and Vesarion did not.
A roaring, ground-shaking cataract of white spewed off the cliff above them, shooting out beyond the overhang to plunge suicidally over the precipice to the valley below. The heavy falls of snow of the last few days, unable to withstand the vibration caused by the thunder, had lost their grip on the upper reaches and were now careering in an almighty tidal-wave of white down the path of least resistance. On and on it went, as the disturbance loosened more stretches of snow, fuelling the cataclysm. The travellers, cowed by such power, shrank against the cliff face, aware that only the presence of the overhang was saving them from being swept away. Bethro was moaning in terror, though no one could hear him, and Gorm was curled into a ball with his arms protectively over his head. Eimer held Iska in tight against the face of rock that should have felt solid but was instead vibrating like a leaf in an autumn breeze. Everyone was completely deafened by the noise that roared on, seemingly for an aeon.
Then, just when they thought they could bear it no longer, it began to slacken. The cacophony of sound eased until they were able to hear the last distant rumble of thunder as the storm drifted away to the north. The stream of white overshooting their rock-shield started to ease until it was no more than a trickle.
Ashen-faced and gasping, they began to raise their heads, cautiously looking around, listening nervously to the continuing sound of smaller after-slides from above. But it was then that they made a discovery that caused every heart to stand still - Vesarion and Sareth were missing.
They all looked along the ledge to the place where they had been. Beyond the protection of the overhang, huge heaps of snow were built up against the cliff face, burying the path in tons of impassable frozen debris. The pristine whiteness was sullied by chunks of grimy, grey ice and some sizeable boulders torn out of the mountainside.
Iska was standing wide-eyed and stricken, staring disbelievingly at the piled up snow where their companions should have been standing.
“Eimer,” she whispered, “ Eimer, tell me we haven’t lost them? Tell me!”
But the Prince could not reply, his mind unable to cope with what he saw.
Only Gorm seemed capable of action
. He wriggled along the ledge, pushing the others out of the way, until he reached the enormous pile of snow, then casting off his pack, he frantically began to dig using his large, leathery hands. Desperately, he shot snow out behind him, as he scooped and burrowed, tunnelling into the obstruction.
Eimer, finally able to move, came up behind him and grabbed his shoulder.
“It’s no use, Gorm. Look at the size of those rocks. Even if they have not been swept off the ledge, they could not have survived.”
But Gorm shook him off angrily and redoubled his efforts. “Got to find Sareth,” he muttered to himself. “Got to find Sareth.”
He was by now some distance into the heap, tossing lumps of snow over the edge, until suddenly he stopped with a cry.
Peering over his shoulder, Eimer saw that he had uncovered a gloved hand. He tried to shove the Turog out of the way, but Gorm would not be dislodged and as there was only room for one, Eimer, burning with urgency, was reduced to helping by pushing the debris over the cliff.
With manic energy, using hands that despite their toughness, were bleeding, Gorm excavated the snow until an arm and shoulder were uncovered, then he stopped abruptly and sat back on his heels.
“Not Sareth,” he declared in a flat voice. “Vesarion.”
“Here, let me at it,” ordered Eimer, finally squeezing past.
Labouring hard, with Iska helping, he finally unearthed Vesarion lodged in a cavity in the snow created by his pack. His eyes were closed and he appeared to be unconscious but he was clearly alive.
Eimer reached his shoulder and shook him.
“Vesarion? Are you hurt? Wake up!”
A pair of rather dazed eyes opened. “What happened?” Vesarion asked hoarsely.
“You got caught in the avalanche and were buried in snow. It’s a miracle you were not swept over the cliff. Are you hurt?”
Vesarion struggled up onto his elbow. “I don’t think so – apart from my head. Hard to tell because every part of me is numb with cold.” Casting his eye along the line of anxious faces, he said sharply: “Where’s Sareth?”
“We don’t know,” replied Bethro baldly. “She was with you when the avalanche struck.”
Vesarion struggled onto his hands and knees and pulled his pack from the cavity. He looked back into the hollow.
“She’s not with me now,” he said in a constricted voice.
But Gorm, who had lost interest in the rescue mission the moment he had established that it was not his beloved Sareth, had been sniffing along the ledge, hunting back down the path until he finally leaned dangerously out over the edge and gave vent to a very un-Turog-like squeak.
“I see her! I see her!” He began to leap up and down in the sort of reckless manner calculated to deprive the company of one of its members. “ Look! Look! Down there! Hurry!”
They all leaned out, thankful that the mist had thinned a little, and following his pointing finger, saw a small dark figure lying face down on the snow that had piled up on a large spur of rock projecting from the mountainside some distance below them.
Rather ominously, the figure was not moving.
Vesarion, galvanised into action, and completely forgetting his own hurts, spun round to Eimer.
“Have we any rope?”
“Yes, a little. I found some in my pack.” He pulled out a length of rather thin-looking rope. Vesarion looked at it dubiously. “It will have to do.”
Eimer began to rapidly uncoil it. “I’ll go,” he declared.
But Vesarion had other ideas. “You will not,” he snapped in a tense voice.
Eimer, emotions raw with worry, turned on him. “She’s my sister,” he announced angrily. “You broke the engagement, so, with the greatest of respect, it’s none of your damned business any more.”
Vesarion’s dark brows drew together. “Like hell it’s not! Just get out of my way!”
Iska, knowing the male psyche, intervened pacifically. “Eimer, this is a job for Vesarion because it’s going to take brute strength to get Sareth up here again. She’s almost as tall as you, and you are of slighter build than Vesarion, not to mention the fact that he is more skilled at climbing. I think we should go with whatever plan has the best chance of success and not waste time arguing.” Although the two men were still staring rigidly at one another, she turned to Bethro. “We are going to need you, Bethro, to help pull them back up the cliff again. Secure the rope around your waist and you will be our anchorman.”
Bethro, a bit white around the gills, complied, and the others, including Gorm who insisted on being at the front, took up their positions on the rope. Vesarion, divested of cloak and any other encumbrance, grasped the rope and prepared to descend.
Eimer looked him awkwardly in the eye. “I...er…know I was a bit short, but it’s just that…..”
“I know.”
“Bring her back, that’s all.”
Vesarion merely nodded in reply and cautiously, inch by agonising inch, began to descend the sheer rock face.
He was desperately cold and his head was still swimming a little from being knocked unconscious but his determination never waivered. Ignoring numb hands and the tight little knot of fear in his stomach, he cautiously made use of every crack and foothold he could find, knowing that two lives depended on him descending safely. Resolutely, he disregarded the insidious whisper at the back of his mind that she could not have survived such a fall. He could hear Eimer’s hasty words echoing in his ears – it’s none of your damned business any more – and without realising what he did, he began to whisper over and over: “Please let her be alive. Please, just let her be alive.”
When he had descended to the point where he was suspended by the rope a few feet above her, his feet braced against the rocks, he urgently called her name.
“Sareth? Can you hear me? Answer me, Sareth!”
But she neither replied nor stirred in any way.
Rapidly he assessed what needed to be done and realised that she was poised precariously on top of a pile of fallen snow heaped up by the avalanche that looked far from stable. Its steeply sloping sides tailed away into nothingness and one false move on his part could cause her to slide off the spur of rock into the void. He glanced up to see Gorm’s anxious face peering down at him.
Carefully, he pushed himself outwards from the cliff, allowing the rope to swing free, until he was poised directly above her. He then lowered himself very gradually until his boots lightly touched the snow on either side of her.
She was lying face downwards with her pack still on her back. Twisting a loop of rope around his wrist to steady himself, he bent closer and drew back the strands of wet hair that had been concealing her face. Her skin was deathly pale and he could not see her breathing. The knot of dread wound tighter in his stomach as he leaned forward, and fearfully placed his cold fingers against her neck. For one long and dreadful moment, he could feel nothing, then faintly he detected a pulse. A wave of relief swept over him that was so intense it made his head swim again. Shaking off the feeling, he tried to revive her, gently shaking her by the shoulder and calling her name, but the figure between his feet was utterly unresponsive.
He tilted his head back once more and called up to the others, his voice carrying clearly in the still, frozen air.
“She’s alive.” He heard a whoop from Gorm. “But I can’t wake her. I’m going to have to bring her up on the rope. I’ll send her pack up first.”
He untied himself from the rope and knelt astride her as he gingerly undid the straps of the pack and despatched it up to the others. Still he could get no response from her. Briefly, he ran his hands over her arms and legs to see if there were any breaks but he could find nothing and when the rope returned, he formed the end into a rough harness that he had seen the shepherds of Westrin use to rescue stranded animals. Praying that his knots would hold, he tied it around her and called up to the waiting rescue party.
“I’m going to have to climb beside her as you pull her up,
to prevent her striking the cliff face….”
“What! Without a rope!” squeaked Iska, looking in horror at the drop.
Ignoring her, he continued: “You must bring her up slowly, and when I call ‘stop’ you must do so immediately. Are we clear on this?”
Eimer leaned over. “Vesarion, your hands must be numb with cold, you cannot risk yourself without a rope.”
“We both know that the rope is too thin to take the weight of two people. I’ll be all right. You forget that I am in my natural element in mountains. Now, remember, if I say stop, then stop at once and hold steady.” He gave his knots a last tug, then called: “Ready. Take up the strain.”
Eimer took his place on the rope behind Gorm, while Bethro, well aware that his weight was key to the whole matter, got a surprisingly determined look on his plump countenance and drawing on his gloves, clamped his hands to the rope in a death-like grip. The rope tensioned and Bethro, who could not see over the edge to the two figures below, concentrated single-mindedly on each hand’s length of rope as it appeared over the edge, on each heave that brought Sareth a little closer to safety.
At the front, Gorm, eyes popping with effort, had a good view of the limp figure at the end of the rope, the mist swirling around her. He saw Sareth rise upwards in a series of little jerks and watched Vesarion climbing beside her with no other safeguard than his own skill. Occasionally, he would reach out a free hand and fend her off when the rope showed a tendency to swing inwards. And even though the Turog was no admirer of the Lord of Westrin, he was honest enough to admit that not for all the treasures in the world would he have changed places with him.
Twice Vesarion called a halt as the rope became snagged but at last, just when Bethro thought he was going to burst, a head appeared above the edge. Eimer, leaving the puce-coloured librarian to hold steady, let go of the rope and leaning over the edge, grasped the harness. In a moment the cold, seemingly lifeless body of his sister was in his arms.
