Touching the Void (21 page)

The voice kept urging me on, ‘
Place-lift-brace-hop…keep going. Look how far you’ve gone. Just do it, don’t think about it…
’

I did as I was told. Stumbling past and sometimes over boulders, falling, crying, swearing in a litany that matched the pattern of my hopping. I forgot why I was doing it; forgot even the idea that I probably wouldn’t make it. Running on instincts that I had never suspected were in me, and drifting down the sea of moraines in a blurred delirium of thirst, and pain and hopping, I timed myself religiously. I looked ahead to a landmark and gave myself half an hour to reach it. As I neared the mark, a furious bout of watch-glancing would ensue, until it became part of the pattern…place-liftbrace-hop-time. If I realised I was behind time I tried to rush the last ten minutes of hopping. I fell so much more when I rushed but it had become so damned important to beat the watch. Only once did I fail to beat it, and I sobbed with annoyance. The watch became as crucial as my good leg. I had no sense of time passing, and with each fall I lay in a semi-stupor, accepting the pain and quite unaware of how long I had been there. A look at the watch would galvanise me into action, especially when I saw it had been five minutes and not the thirty seconds it had felt like. The boulders dwarfed me. The moraines were as lifeless as the glacier. Drab rock colours all around. Mud, and rocks, and dirty scree. I looked for insects and found none. I saw no birds. It was silent. Outside of the patterns, and the voice, my imagination wandered feverishly from one inane thought to another. Songs rustled through my head, and pictures formed in the stones I lay upon. The snow formed in patches between the rocks. It was dirty and full of grit but I ate it continually. Water became an obsession. Pain and water. That was my world. There was nothing else. I heard water trickling between the rocks. How many times had I heard it trickling? I lay on my chest after the fall, and there was the sound of running water. I inched sideways and the noise increased. I felt myself smiling wolfishly—‘This will be a big one.’ I had said it every time, but they were always thin trickles melting into the mud. I moved again towards a crumbling boulder on my right. There!—Ha ha! Told you!—A thin line of silver threaded by the side of the boulder. Bootlacethin, but bigger than the others. I shuffled nearer on my stomach and peered at the water intently. I had to think about this one.

‘Don’t touch it! It may sink down again.’

I poked my finger into the gritty mud and the water pooled into the finger hole and flowed on. ‘Ah! Gotya!’

The hole was ever so carefully widened until a shallow hollow, the size of a saucer, glistened with water. I bent over it until my nose tickled the surface and then sucked greedily through pursed lips. Half a mouthful of gritty water. I swilled it round, feeling it unstick my palate. I thought that if I swilled it instead of gulping it down I would absorb the water better. It was a daft idea, but I did it nevertheless. The saucer filled slowly. I sucked at it when it was half full and took in too much grit and mud. It caught in my throat and I coughed explosively, spitting the precious fluid back at the pool and destroying the saucer.

I rebuilt the pool but it wouldn’t fill. I dug a deeper hole and still it remained dry. It had sunk away. I didn’t question where it might have gone. There was no more water until next time. The voice interrupted me, and I stood up shakily.

The afternoon stayed clear. There wouldn’t be a storm in the night. The sky would stay clear and starry, and it would be cold without the clouds. I looked ahead for a landmark and saw the moraines fall in a steep drop fifty feet away. I recognised it immediately. This was where the ice beneath the moraines stood out in a steep cliff. We had left Richard after passing these cliffs when we had come up before. I was hugging the right bank of the moraines where the boulders were least chaotic, and here the steep water-smoothed rocky sides pinched down on the moraines to form the cliffs. Eightyfoot-high mud-covered glassy smooth ice. I remembered now. We had climbed a twisting path up them, carefully avoiding the many large rocks that had been left in precarious balance as the sun melted the ice away. I felt strangely excited to have reached the cliffs. They were the last obstacle which could kill me. Once past the cliffs I had only to keep crawling. There would be no more crevasses or cliffs to threaten me. I timed myself and hobbled towards the top of the cliffs. I sat at the start of the path down the cliff, trying to assess the best method of descent. Should I sit facing outwards and shuffle down on my bum, or lie on my stomach and lower myself with my axe? I regretted having left my crampons behind. One crampon would have made all the difference. I decided to face out, sitting on my bum. At least that way I could always see where I was going. Half-way down the cliff I began to feel cocky. It had been so easy. What had I been so scared about? The answer came abruptly as the rock I was holding came unstuck and I jerked sideways and started sliding. I clawed at the muddy ice, trying to grab at the rocks embedded in it. I rolled over and pressed my chin against the ice, bumping my head repeatedly, desperate to slow the slide. Suddenly I stopped. My left boot had jammed against an edge of rock. I shook violently. A couple of times I looked back at the ice cliffs as I hobbled away down the rocks. Each time they grew smaller and I felt that I was shutting the door on something intangible but menacing that had been with me for so long. Those cliffs were the doors to the mountains. I grinned when I glanced at them. I had won a battle of some sort. I could feel it deep inside. Now it was just the patterns, and the pain, and water. Could I reach Bomb Alley tonight? Now that would be something to grin about! It wasn’t so far from here, twenty minutes’ walk, and that couldn’t be so hard! And that was my mistake. I stopped timing landmarks and set my sights on Bomb Alley and the silver floods of icy melt-water pouring down its flanks. When it became dark I had no idea how far Bomb Alley was, nor did I know how far I had crawled. Without checking my watch I had lain in stupefied exhaustion after every fall. Lain there and listened to endless stories running through the pain, watched short dreams of life in the real world, played songs to my heartbeat, licked the mud for water, and wasted countless hours in an empty dream. Now I staggered blind in the dark, obsessed with Bomb Alley, ignoring the voice which told me to sleep, and rest, and forget the alley. I got my head-torch from my sack and blundered on until the light died. It was a moonless night. The stars threw bright patterns across the sky, glimmering faint light on to the moraines. At ten o’clock I tripped and fell heavily on to the rocks. I had fallen on almost every hop since the torch had failed three hours earlier, and I knew in the back of my mind that I had made only a few hundred yards in all that time. Now, I couldn’t stand up. I tried, but somehow I couldn’t make enough effort to raise myself. There was an over-ride stopping me. The voice prevailed. I shuffled into my sleeping bag and immediately fell asleep.

Time Running Out

I flung my sleeping bag across the tent roof and walked over to the shade of the cooking rock. The deep tiredness I had felt yesterday was gone. Indeed the only remaining evidence of my ordeal was the sight of my blackened fingertips. Already I was forgetting that they were damaged and was surprised when I couldn’t fiddle with the small key to the petrol stove. Richard took it from me and lit the stove. He was quiet as he prepared breakfast. I sensed what was on his mind but chose not to talk about it. Last night he had broached the subject of returning to Lima. There was nothing to keep us at camp, and he had to renew his visa within the next five days. I told him that I still needed to rest and recover. It might have been true last night, but not now. I was fully recovered. My voracious appetite attested to it, and Richard must have noticed the improvement. The bitter feelings, however, hadn’t diminished. To leave the place would free me from an unrelenting presence which accused me, and the chaotic bustle of Lima would erase the silence which seemed to bear down on me each time I was alone in camp. In my heart I knew I should go but I couldn’t make the break. The mountains held me in thrall. Something prevented me from leaving. I wasn’t afraid to return and face the music. I had done the right thing; no one could challenge my conviction that I was as much a victim as Joe. It wasn’t a crime to have survived. So why not go? I gazed across at the icy white sweep of Sarapo. Perhaps tomorrow? ‘Feeling better?’ Richard interrupted my thoughts.

‘Yes. Yes, much better. It’s only the fingers now…’ I trailed off and stared at my fingers, anxious to avoid his eyes.

I think we should leave.’

I had expected him to take his time. His blunt statement shocked me.

‘What?…Yes. I suppose you’re right. It’s just…I’m not ready. I…’

‘Staying isn’t going to help. Is it?’

‘No, probably not.’ I peered more closely at my hands.

‘Well then, I think we should see about organising the donkeys. Spinoza is down at the huts. I can go down and sort it out with him.’

I said nothing. Why did I feel so strongly against moving? There was nothing to gain. To stay was stupid. Why…?

‘Look,’ Richard said softly, ‘he’s not coming back. You know it. If there was a chance you’d have gone back up yesterday. Right? So leave it. There’s a lot to do. We have to inform the Embassy, and his folks, and go through all the legal hassle and get flights booked, and all that. I think we should go.’

‘Perhaps you could go on ahead. I can follow later. You go tell the Embassy and stuff, and get your visa. I’ll follow in a few days.’

‘Why? Come down with me. It’ll be better that way.’

I didn’t answer, and he stood up and went to his tent. He came out with his money belt. ‘I’m going down to see Spinoza. I’ll try to persuade him to come with the donkeys sometime today. We can get to Huayallapa if we leave at midday. If he can’t manage it I’ll get him to come early tomorrow morning.’

He turned and set off for the huts at the foot of the valley. As he began to cross the river bed I got up and ran after him:

‘Hey, Richard!’ He turned to face me. ‘You’re right,’ I shouted. ‘Get Spinoza to bring the donkeys tomorrow, not today. We’ll go first thing in the morning. Okay?’

‘Yeah, okay. See you soon.’

He turned and walked briskly across the dry river bed. I had the tea ready when, two hours later, I saw him returning.

He gave me some cheese which he had bought from the girls, and we sat on our Karrimats to eat it in the sun.

‘He’ll be here at six in the morning,’ he said, ‘but you know what their idea of time is like.’ ‘Good.’

I felt happy now that the decision had been made. The weight of brooding lifted from me at the prospect of things to do, and there was much to be done. We had a two-day walk ahead of us. The camp needed to be dismantled and packed into loads of equal weight. How many kilos to a donkey was it? Two loads of twenty on each side? Doesn’t matter. We’ll have half the weight going down. We’ll have to pay Spinoza as well. Perhaps we could negotiate some barter. There are lots of things here that he would want; ropes, pans, penknives. Yeah, we can make some bargain out of them. Then we have to book on the bus at Cajatambo, and tell the police we’re returning to Lima. Now that’s a problem! They will want to know about Joe. Don’t tell them. It’ll avoid a lot of stress. We can do all that in Lima, and the Embassy will be there to help us. I’ll have to ring Joe’s parents. Oh God! What am I going to say? Just tell them he died in a crevasse, and give them the whole story when you get back. Yes, that would be best. I hope we get an early flight back. I don’t fancy hanging around Lima for very long. I won’t see Bolivia now. Joe wanted to go to Ecuador, and I wanted to see Bolivia. Ironic that we won’t see either of them.

‘Hey.’ I looked up to see Richard bending over a boulder behind the dome tent.

‘What?’

‘Didn’t you hide your money before going to Siula?’

‘Jesus! I forgot about that.’ I got up and hurried over to where he was standing. ‘It’s not there. I hid it under a rock near the gas store.’

We searched near the store but couldn’t find it. I racked my brains to remember exactly where I had put the small plastic bag with zoo dollars wrapped inside.

‘Perhaps it’s over there,’ I muttered dubiously. Richard burst out laughing.

‘This is great! If we don’t find it we’re going to have trouble getting back to Lima. Come on, surely you remember the place?’

‘Yeah, well, I thought I did, but I’m not sure. It was a week ago!’

As I said it I recognised a rock at the back of the gas store, and when I lifted it there lay the bag of money.

‘Got it!’ I shouted triumphantly, holding the bag above my head.

Richard bobbed up from behind a boulder.

‘Thank God for that! I was just beginning to think that the kids might have found it.’ He then started preparing a meal while I counted the bills to see how much I had left: 195 dollars. It was enough. I wondered how long we would have to stay in the city sorting things out with the Embassy and the police. There was bound to be a lot of bureaucratic time-wasting. ‘What about Joe’s money?’ I said abruptly, and Richard stopped stirring the pan. ‘What money?’

‘Well, he hid his stash as well, remember?’

‘He never told me about it.’

‘He certainly told me. In fact he was quite adamant about it. He dragged me over to show me exactly where he was hiding it.’

‘Go and get it then.’

‘I can’t. I’ve forgotten the place.’

Richard guffawed loudly. I laughed too and wondered at myself. The spontaneous humour of the last hour surprised me—and the way I had said ‘Joe’s money’ without once feeling it had anything to do with him. I had burnt his ghost yesterday. The money was simply money, not his. Ours, if we could only find it.

‘How much did he have?’

‘Quite a bit. More than me, anyway.’

‘Well, we’d better find it then. I’m not leaving zoo-plus dollars to rot under a rock.’ He stood up and walked over to the gas store and began peering under the surrounding boulders. It was my turn to cackle uproariously.