higher.
By noon they were far up—they had reached a snow-covered ledge that formed the top of the apron. From here the main wall began. Rays of sun, far above, were pouring past the invisible summit. Sitting on a narrow outcrop they had something to eat.
“Not too bad, so far. Can I have some water?” Cabot said.
Somehow in taking it there was a slip—the plastic bottle dropped from his hand. He tried to catch it, but it was gone, glancing off the rock below once, twice, three times and dwindling into the white of the glacier which after a long pause it hit.
“Sorry,” he said calmly.
Rand did not comment. There was another bottle but now only half the supply remained. The mountain magnifies. The smallest event is irreversible, the slightest word.
A sequence of vertical cracks began. Rand was moving upward. At the top of the first one it was necessary to go to another off to the left. Between, it was nearly blank. The holds sloped downward. He tried, retreated, tried again. He had to reach a nub eight inches farther out. The smoothness threatened him, the lure of a last half foot. His face was wet. His leg began to tremble. Ready, he told himself. He leaned out. Reached. His fingers touched it. He moved across. From beneath, it seemed effortless as if he were skimming the rock and barely needed holds. Cabot merely saw him put in a piton and go on. Just then the sun passed from behind the face and blinded him. He shielded his eyes. He could not be sure but he thought he saw the bloc coincé far above.
From Montenvers that afternoon they were visible by telescope. Large sections of the mountain were pale in the sun. Some distance beneath the great, overhanging block, two specks could be made out, motionless. A white helmet glinted.
The afternoon had passed, they were still in sunshine. The warmth was pleasant. There is always endless waiting, looking up, neck stiff, while the leader finds the way. The silence of the face surrounded them, the greatness of the scale.
Suddenly, from nowhere, a frightening sound. The whine of a projectile; Rand hugged the wall. Something unseen came down, thudded, careened and was gone. He looked up. Above him, an awesome sight. The brush of a great wing seemed to have passed over Cabot. As if in obedience, slowly, he was bowing. His legs went slack, his arms slipped away. Without a sound he performed a sacred act—he began to fall.
“Jack!”
The rope went taut. Cabot was hanging above him and off to one side.
“Jack! Are you all right?”
Cabot’s head was bent, his legs dangling. There was no reply.
One man cannot lift another with the rope, he can only hold him. Rand had a good stance but consequences were already seeping into his mind. He let some rope pass through his hands. Cabot’s foot was moving slightly. It touched a hold, perhaps to use it for support, but slipped off. His head hit the wall.
“Are you okay?”
Silence.
“Jack, below you,” he called.
There was a better place farther down. Talking to him as he did, Rand let out more rope. As a piece of clothing can catch on a sliver, something seemed to snag Cabot and he stayed, unseeing, clinging to the rock.
Rand finally worked his way up to him. Cabot’s head turned slightly. His chin, the whole side of his face, was bathed in blood. His eyes were closed like someone fighting drunkenness. Blood drenched his shirt. Rand felt suddenly sick.
“How bad is it? Let me see.”
He half-expected the wet gleam of brains as he removed the helmet. The blood rushed forth. It was dripping from the jaw.
“Do you have a bandage?”
“No,” Cabot barely muttered.
He made one with a handkerchief that darkened as he tied it. He wiped the jaw to see if the flow was stopping. His heart pounded. He tried to see if blood was coming from the ear which meant serious concussion or a fractured skull.
One thing seemed certain even at that moment: Cabot was going to die.
“Does it hurt?”
A slow nod. The blood would
By noon they were far up—they had reached a snow-covered ledge that formed the top of the apron. From here the main wall began. Rays of sun, far above, were pouring past the invisible summit. Sitting on a narrow outcrop they had something to eat.
“Not too bad, so far. Can I have some water?” Cabot said.
Somehow in taking it there was a slip—the plastic bottle dropped from his hand. He tried to catch it, but it was gone, glancing off the rock below once, twice, three times and dwindling into the white of the glacier which after a long pause it hit.
“Sorry,” he said calmly.
Rand did not comment. There was another bottle but now only half the supply remained. The mountain magnifies. The smallest event is irreversible, the slightest word.
A sequence of vertical cracks began. Rand was moving upward. At the top of the first one it was necessary to go to another off to the left. Between, it was nearly blank. The holds sloped downward. He tried, retreated, tried again. He had to reach a nub eight inches farther out. The smoothness threatened him, the lure of a last half foot. His face was wet. His leg began to tremble. Ready, he told himself. He leaned out. Reached. His fingers touched it. He moved across. From beneath, it seemed effortless as if he were skimming the rock and barely needed holds. Cabot merely saw him put in a piton and go on. Just then the sun passed from behind the face and blinded him. He shielded his eyes. He could not be sure but he thought he saw the bloc coincé far above.
From Montenvers that afternoon they were visible by telescope. Large sections of the mountain were pale in the sun. Some distance beneath the great, overhanging block, two specks could be made out, motionless. A white helmet glinted.
The afternoon had passed, they were still in sunshine. The warmth was pleasant. There is always endless waiting, looking up, neck stiff, while the leader finds the way. The silence of the face surrounded them, the greatness of the scale.
Suddenly, from nowhere, a frightening sound. The whine of a projectile; Rand hugged the wall. Something unseen came down, thudded, careened and was gone. He looked up. Above him, an awesome sight. The brush of a great wing seemed to have passed over Cabot. As if in obedience, slowly, he was bowing. His legs went slack, his arms slipped away. Without a sound he performed a sacred act—he began to fall.
“Jack!”
The rope went taut. Cabot was hanging above him and off to one side.
“Jack! Are you all right?”
Cabot’s head was bent, his legs dangling. There was no reply.
One man cannot lift another with the rope, he can only hold him. Rand had a good stance but consequences were already seeping into his mind. He let some rope pass through his hands. Cabot’s foot was moving slightly. It touched a hold, perhaps to use it for support, but slipped off. His head hit the wall.
“Are you okay?”
Silence.
“Jack, below you,” he called.
There was a better place farther down. Talking to him as he did, Rand let out more rope. As a piece of clothing can catch on a sliver, something seemed to snag Cabot and he stayed, unseeing, clinging to the rock.
Rand finally worked his way up to him. Cabot’s head turned slightly. His chin, the whole side of his face, was bathed in blood. His eyes were closed like someone fighting drunkenness. Blood drenched his shirt. Rand felt suddenly sick.
“How bad is it? Let me see.”
He half-expected the wet gleam of brains as he removed the helmet. The blood rushed forth. It was dripping from the jaw.
“Do you have a bandage?”
“No,” Cabot barely muttered.
He made one with a handkerchief that darkened as he tied it. He wiped the jaw to see if the flow was stopping. His heart pounded. He tried to see if blood was coming from the ear which meant serious concussion or a fractured skull.
One thing seemed certain even at that moment: Cabot was going to die.
“Does it hurt?”
A slow nod. The blood would
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