by Isaac Hooke
One segment down. Nine more to go.
He bounce-tested the second cord with a quick pull, and when he felt the faint answering vibration, he slowly transferred his weight until the rope carried his entire body.
He climbed onward, hesitant at first, and then faster as his confidence grew. He was growing tired, true, but he covered the second segment almost as vigorously as the first.
He started slowing down on the third rope, when the climb began to wear on him. The rock face became at times encrusted in ice, for which the spikes on the crampons proved especially suited, the sharp metal points digging right into the ice so that the tips of his boots found purchase.
By the fourth rope, he felt like going back. His shoulders ached. His biceps throbbed. The sides of his back behind his armpits felt numb. The warmth he had felt in those down-feather clothes was long gone, so much so that his extremities throbbed painfully from the cold. He released small spurts of electricity into his fingers and toes to warm himself, knowing that he had to be careful not to exhaust his charge.
By the fifth rope, he was thoroughly beaten. He couldn't go on. By his reckoning, he'd been climbing at least three hours. But he forced himself. He promised that he would stop for a rest at the sixth.
At last, rope number six came into view, and he climbed until he reached it. He took his promised rest.
Feeling utterly spent, he knelt against the rockface, and, keeping one hand firmly on rope number five, he reached the other hand behind his lower back and grabbed rope number six. He threaded the end of number six around his waist and tied it in a knot, a tricky task with one hand—especially a gloved hand at that—but he eventually managed after slipping open the fingertips of the glove and braving the numbing wind.
He tentatively released his hold on rope number five, and when he was satisfied that the knot on number six would hold at his waist, he rested. He resealed his glove, and balled his hands to warm his fingers. He released a trickle of electricity into his extremities, and it was enough to improve the blood flow to his fingers and toes and prevent frostbite. He moved very slowly the whole time. He wanted to eat some of the salted meat from his duffel bag, but then he'd have to lift the balaclava and expose his face. Also, he was afraid that any movement would cause him to fall, which is why he kept his knees braced firmly against the rockface the whole time, unable to shake off the feeling that the rope at his waist would unravel any second.
The urge to look down proved almost overwhelming. Just one peek. What was the worst that could happen?
He'd lose heart, that's what. Not to mention the vertigo would probably overwhelm him. The same vertigo he felt if he looked up too far, and saw the hopeless, infinite grade above. By focusing on the icy rockface before him and nothing else, he made the climb doable. And by not knowing how far he'd plummet, by pretending he was only a few feet off the ground, well, that helped calm nerves that would otherwise paralyze him, or lead to a fall.
But while he didn't look down, he didn't climb up either.
He just stayed there, gloves gently wrapped around rope number six in case the knot unraveled.
He stayed there, waiting, listening to the howling wind.
For what?
Resting, he told himself.
He was cold. So cold. It would only grow colder the higher he went. Another incentive to just stay here a little longer.
Halfway. Come on Hood. You're halfway there.
He sighed, got a good grip on the sixth rope with one hand, and reluctantly untied the knot at his waist with the other. He felt the sudden pull as his arm was forced to bear the weight of his body once more. He quickly joined his other hand to the rope, and properly placed his feet to share the load.
He jerked himself up the rope, one hand and foot at a time, his body rebelling with every step. Resting had proven a mistake because he just wanted to stop again. His muscles ached all over. He had no energy. He wasn't a climber. What was he doing out here on the Forever Gate, a mile above the city?
Saving Ari, that's what. Now climb damn it.
He climbed, not daring to overthink his motivation, knowing how easily he could poke holes in it. He climbed for Ari, and that was good enough.
Each handspan became a small battle. Though it was a battle he was determined to win.
The air became thin, and he found himself panting constantly now. Or was he just tired?
Somehow, he reached rope number seven.
Then rope number eight.
The frigid wind tore into him incessantly, and at times it felt like he wasn't even wearing a jacket. Despite the gloves, the gusts bit into his fingers. His toes were numb inside his boots, as were his cheeks under the balaclava. He had to constantly expend some of his charge just to keep the frostbite at bay.
Finally he reached rope number nine. Whereas all the previous ropes had overlapped to some extent, the ninth rope lay above the eighth.
But it was only a little ways above, just an arm-length. He could handle an arm-length of bare wall, couldn't he?
He climbed to the very top of rope number eight, wrapping his hands around the metallic loops that anchored the rope into the wall. There was no ice here, just pure, unadulterated stone.
He considered opening the tips of the gloves, but then decided against it. Instead he reached up and ran the fingers of one hand along the surface, searching for something that could take his weight. There. The base of a tiny fissure. He found a higher foothold for his boot, letting the jagged crampons grab hold of the rock, and then he slowly transferred his weight to the handhold. The first joint of his finger flared in protest, but he found another foothold with his other leg, and he was able to haul himself high enough to grab the next rope.
When both his hands were secure around that rope, he exhaled in relief. He'd done it.
The ninth rope was in hand. After this, there was only one more rope to go.
He climbed mechanically now more than anything else. Raise one hand. Then the other. Raise one foot. Then the other. His arms and legs felt like stones. He thought they'd drop off if he stopped. He kept his focus on the wall in front of him at all times.
Raise one hand. Then the other.
And then it was done. He arrived at the loops and cords that anchored rope number nine, and he glanced upward, searching for the final rope.
He saw only the dizzying Forever Gate, reaching skyward in unending infinity.
He had reached the Death Zone, where every moment counted.
And there was no tenth rope.
Worse, it had started to snow.
10
What is a mind?
Why does it betray us at those times when we need it most?
Why does it fill us with fear, and emotion, at those times when we most need to avoid fear, when we most need to be emotionless?
Perhaps the better question might be, what is reality?
Is it some cog in a giant wheel? A smaller part of a grander fabrication, of which we all play our bit parts? Are our lives merely parts of this wheel? Predetermined and preset? We live out our days, and time passes, inexorably, slowly building up to one key, quintessential climax, where all the choices we think we've made and the paths we think we've taken converge beyond our control, and we find ourselves on a rope along a wall miles above the city we were born in. At the Death Zone, with another quarter-mile to go.
And that rope has just run out.
Hoodwink leaned his head against the rockface, and closed his eyes.
It was over. He'd have to climb all the way back down. He'd have to tell Ari he couldn't do it.
The rope had run out, he'd say. The rope had run out.
And he could see her, looking back at him with disappointment in her eyes as she set out to climb the wall in his place. I wouldn't have needed a rope, she'd say.
Hoodwink opened his eyes, and he did what he'd promised himself he wouldn't do.
He looked down.
The city looked almost unreal at
this height. It was like he stood again beside the street vendor with her miniature replicas and maps again, and casually observed one of her wares. True, this was far more detailed than any map he'd ever seen, but the illusion of perception made the city seem much closer through the goggles, like he could just reach out and pick it up.
But then his eyes focused on the whirling snow closer at hand, those flakes descending from the heights like an endless vortex of doom, and the reality of what he saw hit him. He felt suddenly nauseous, and dizzy.
The duffel bag abruptly slid down his shoulder. He let go of the rope with that hand and caught the bag in the crook of his forearm. Two bundles of salted meat tumbled free and spun away on the breeze as the upper winds picked them up. Entranced, he watched the bundles fall. The fingers of the hand that gripped the rope began to slip. It would be so easy to follow those bundles down...
He snapped his head away, slid the duffel bag back into place, and placed both hands firmly on the rope. He concentrated on the bare rockface just ahead.
I can climb without a rope. I can climb without a rope. I can climb...
Could he really?
It was cold. So damn cold. The dead of winter in the coldest of winters yet, and he lay miles up from the earth. The snow fell more heavily. If this kept up, he doubted he'd be able to see farther than a pace or two. And the sun would set soon. If he was caught on the wall in the dark, he'd freeze to death.
Yes. Better to go back now, while he still could. He couldn't climb this. That howling wind would either freeze him to the bone, or tear him from the rock. Or the lack of oxygen in the Death Zone would take him. He wasn't trained for this. He was thirty-five years old. Sure, he was fit because of his job building barrels, but hammering nails into wood was far different than pulling one's body up a rockface.
He had to go back.
He had to admit when defeat had slapped him in the face.
Just like how he'd admitted defeat when Jeremy and the gols took away his daughter. Just like how he'd given up and buried himself in his job, and spent the nights in the tavern, going home miserably drunk, and hating himself. Hating. He'd wanted his wife to leave him. He'd wanted to be punished, for allowing his daughter to be taken. Every morning he'd passed Ari by on the way to work, and he'd never said a word. He'd given up. Like he gave up now.
He had a rare moment of absolute lucidity right then.
The rockface wasn't his enemy.
It never had been.
It was cliche to think it, but he was his most ruthless enemy. He was the one he had to fight.
He could climb this wall.
And he would.
He was through giving up.
He shut his eyes, and breathed deeply, remembering why he was doing this.
I won't let you die Ari.
Opening his eyes, he flipped open the fingertips of both gloves by sliding them one at a time against the rope. The wind assailed his numb fingers, but he let a small spark of electricity flow into them, warming the flesh.
Before he could change his mind he let one hand leave the rope. He felt along the rough surface with his bare fingers, seeking a handhold. There. He forced his fingers into a slight crevice, and raised a boot, wedging the crampons into a foothold. He pulled with his arm and leg at the same time, and flinched as the finger joints bore the weight of his body.
He planted the opposite boot on a small ledge, and straightened the leg, reaching up to find a handhold for the corresponding arm. He squeezed his fingers onto a tiny shelf, and paused for an instant.
The only thing holding him up was the strength of his own body. There was no rope. No second-chances should he make a mistake. He rode death's horse by the tips of his fingers and the tips of his toes.
He tried not to think about that for too long.
Focus, Hood.
The fingers of both hands throbbed at their first joints, but it was a manageable pain.
He lifted his knee, planted his boot on a new foothold, and pressed upward. His torso rose, and he scrambled the fingers of one hand along the wall, searching for a handhold.
But before he could find that handhold, the newly-placed foot slipped, the crampons breaking away a small section of the wall.
Hoodwink slammed against the rock and his other boot lost footing. He hung there by one hand, the finger joints bearing the brunt of his weight. Only the tensile strength of a couple of knuckles stood between him and oblivion. Knuckles that throbbed in torment.
He scrambled with his left hand along the rockface, searching for a hold, any hold. Incredibly, he couldn't find one. Nothing would support him. A tiny ledge there. Too slippery. A crevice here. His fingers wouldn't fit.
The knuckles of his other hand had held thus far, but it was the arm muscles that now started to fail. His entire arm shook uncontrollably.
Frantically, he lifted his forgotten feet. He had to find a foothold.
There. A small jutting piece of rock. Just a fragment. But he was able to jam the spikes of both boots onto it, sharing the weight with his arm. The pain in his knuckles subsided a little, but the arm was still shaking rapidly, near exhaustion. He searched the wall again with his free hand, finding a hold he'd missed the first time, and trusted his weight to it.
Carefully, he released the first shaking hand from the wall. His fingers were curled into a permanent claw, and he found himself unable to straighten them through the pain.
He allowed more electricity into the hand, massaging the tendons and bone with that spark, worried that he'd never be able to open his hand again. With an effort he was finally able to coax each finger open.
He reached up, found the next handhold, and had to curl up those sore fingers all over again.
In this way he proceeded up the last section of the wall, battling against himself, battling against the rock. First one foot, then one hand. Then the other hand. Then the other foot. Rising one small handspan at a time. Conquering infinity bit by bit. Warming his extremities with electricity.
He came to a section of rock that was covered in ice. He extended an arm and searched with his bare fingertips, seeking a handhold. His fingers slipped everywhere he placed them, and he couldn't find a grip. He was beginning to despair when he remembered the two ice axes he had stowed away in the duffel bag.
This would be a tricky maneuver. He carefully opened the drawstring of his duffel bag with one hand, and then groped inside until he found both ice axes. He made sure they were side by side, and oriented the same way, and then he wrapped his fingers around the handles and delicately slid the axes out. He reached up, and slammed both axes into the ice above him. The serrated picks dug deep. He pulled on the handles, testing the hold. It seemed firm enough. Shifting his weight to the axes, he released his other arm from the wall and grabbed the leftmost ax so that he held one handle in each palm now. He released the rightmost ax momentarily to pull the drawstring and shut the duffel bag.
He proceeded up the frozen layer, striking the wall with the ice axes, letting the picks find a hold. The crampons on his boots proved their worth here, allowing him to easily pierce the ice and make his own footholds. All in all, the going was actually much easier than when he had to pull himself up by his fingertips alone. His only worry as he climbed was that an entire sheet of ice would break away while he was on it, perhaps caused by the very motion of striking the wall with the picks. But he compelled himself onward nonetheless, winning countless small battles, not backing down from adversity.
It's not real, he told himself often during that climb. None of this is real. A part of him even believed it. Some other world existed atop his own, one that he couldn't see, couldn't feel, but was there nonetheless, where he resided at the same time as this one. And it was from that other world, that other self, from which he drew his strength and focus.
It's not real.
Tiny bits of matter called muscle rubbed against each other, powered by a mind comprised of similar tiny bits. This muscle manipulated
tiny bits of matter called axes, which in turn struck tiny bits of matter that formed ice. All of those tiny bits made the fiction called reality. Spitting in the face of this reality, denying that it and his own mortality even existed, that's what kept him going.
Warmed by the electricity of vitra, he climbed, constantly reminded that there was no rope supporting him. That the only thing keeping him from the long fingers of oblivion was his own intensity of will. It was strange, having death so close to him in that climb. He'd never felt such clarity. He'd never felt so full of life.
He'd never felt so free.
And then it was done. One moment he was raising his hands and feet with all the intensity of his will and focus, and the next he was pulling himself onto the wall's upper lip, a ledge little wider than his waist. He cleared away a small layer of snow and settled himself onto the ledge.
It came as sort of a shock to have actually made it. Here he was, in a snowstorm at the top of the world, the frigid gusts whipping his hood, and he'd just climbed the last leg of the Forever Gate without a rope.
He held out his arms, raising the ice axes, and loosed a shout of victory that was lost in the wind. A few tears spilled from his eyes, and he felt the droplets solidify against the bottom edge of his goggles.
He crouched down against the rim of the Gate, utterly exhausted. He peered down the other side of the wall, wondering what wonders or horrors lay beyond the Forever Gate.
But the white-out of the snowstorm veiled the landscape below.
Of course.
It was with more than a little relief that he spotted the rope that led down into the depths a short way to his left. He couldn't see where the rope anchored—the top was covered in snow and ice from the ledge. But that didn't matter. The hard work was done and he had a way down.
For now he needed a moment's rest.
He remained where he was, staring over the ledge into eternity, at the downward vortex of windswept snow.
He'd never felt so drained in his life. The sheer intensity of focus needed to climb that wall had drained him to the core. So he just stayed there on the wall, letting the snow fall around him, and the wind pick at his bones.
