Page 12 of Katabasis
Peter asked, “How hard do you think that is to climb?”
They marched perpendicular to the queueuntil the crowds thinned away. Now they could approach the base of the wall undisturbed. The Shades, for whatever reason, seemed uninterested in climbing up—possibly because they had no incentive to rush, and possibly because their tenuous materiality could offer them no purchase against that surface.
A shame, thought Alice, because the wall really was ideal for climbing. Large bits of bone stuck out all over the place—lovely handholds, easily grasped—and the wall was littered too with grooves, perfect for digging one’s toes in. Alice was grateful that the wall was made of bone only—it seemed all the hair, fur, blood, and gristly bits had eroded long ago. There was no smell nor gore. Texture-wise, they were grand. Alice looked upon the wall and saw the Flatirons and Peak District; saw plentiful bottlenecks, chimneys, and cracks. The only problem, she surmised, would be endurance. But perhaps they could rest at the top.
She took a deep breath, stretched out her shoulders, then dug into her bag.
“What are you doing?” Peter asked.
Alice was crumbling a stick of chalk between her fingers. “For the grip,” she explained. “It keeps you from slipping when your hands get sweaty.”
“How do you know that?”
She dusted the chalk across her palms. “I used to climb in Colorado. I climb sometimes still—there’s a mountaineering club on campus.”
“How very American.”
“Hush.” She reached for the nearest bits of protruding bone, found her footholds, and hoisted herself up. “Follow my lead. Don’t look down.”
Up they went. To her delight, Alice found the climb deliciously easy. The grips were good, the wall full of friction. She yanked at every hold out of caution before she placed her weight against it, but every inch of bone held firm. Eons of accumulation had packed these materials so densely there was not a single loose bit.
For a while she climbed and climbed, relishing the sureness of her grip; how effortlessly she could swing herself from hold to hold. The strain and repetition felt good. It was meditative; it took up all her concentration, so that the anxious radio in her head quieted down. It also felt good to realize she could still do this. She hadn’t taken care of herself these last few months; she had been afraid all her muscles had atrophied. On the other hand, she was so much thinner now. Less weight to pull—which did make a difference, though she wasn’t sure whether this lovely lightness came from actual agility or from starvation fuzzing up her head.
After a while she stopped to glance about. She had loved doing this whenever she climbed in Colorado. She loved to appreciate the sheer distance to the ground. It never fazed her. At this height she was too far up to do anything about it but keep going, and this immovable fact helped to block out useless feelings like fear.
Hell stretched endless beneath her, plains of silt and rolling dunes. To her tired eyes, this side of Hell abstracted to two rippling blocks of color: silky gray below and an orange burning darkly above, punctuated by a sun that seemed perpetually on the verge of setting. It was quite beautiful.
“This is insane,” she said. “Lovely view, though. Are you doing all right?”
Peter did not answer.
“Murdoch?”
She glanced down. Peter was much further below her than she’d thought; he must have stopped moving some time ago. All four of his limbs trembled. His forehead shone slick with sweat. He blinked furiously at the wall, and he looked like he was trying not to vomit.
“Murdoch?”
For a moment Peter seemed not to register her voice. Then at last he replied, “I believe I am having a panic attack.”
It was wildly inappropriate, but Alice laughed. “Murdoch, are you afraid of heights?”
“I didn’t want to tell you,” he gasped. “Thought I could just—suck it up—”
“It was your idea to climb!”
“Yes, but I only meant it intheory,” he whined. “Oh, God, Law—”
“You’re fine, you’re fine,” she said quickly. “Look, you made it this far—”
“But now my brain’s caught up, and I can’t move.” He squeezed his eyes shut. “Oh God oh God—”
“Stop talking. Just breathe.” The gravity of the situation had caught up with her. Alice remained calm. She had talked undergraduates down from quitting Professor Grimes’s seminars before. She had, for better or worse, plenty of practice at talking away fear. “There’s a solid protruding block a few feet up. You can brace your feet against that and lean forward, which will give your arms a rest. Do you think you can make it just a few more holds?”
“I can’t let go.” Peter whined again. “My wrists...”
“Do it or you’ll die,” Alice snapped. “Move, Murdoch. Don’t think, just do it.”
Miraculously, Peter obeyed. His feet found purchase, and he leaned forward against the wall, hands splayed for balance. His chest heaved with exhaustion.
