Towering

21





Rachel

Wyatt first attempted to show me how to climb up. He told me that everyone learned to climb a rope in something called gym class at school. I knew about school because of schools in books—David Copperfield, Jane Eyre, Little Women . . . even Ebenezer Scrooge went away to school. Yet, none of the books I read made the slightest mention of rope climbing as a skill learned there. Clearly, this was another instance, one of many, in which my education had been deficient.

After several failed attempts, I said, “Wyatt, I wish, more than you can imagine, that I had gone to your school and learned how to climb a rope. However, it seems that this is not the skill of a day, particularly a frigidly cold day such as this one. Is there perhaps another way you could get me up there?” I was growing worried, not to mention cold. I needed to be in my tower, after all, to keep me free from the dangers of the world. I had managed to persuade myself that Wyatt was safe. After all, he probably hadn’t even been alive when my mother was murdered. And he had kind eyes. But what if someone else came? What if someone had followed him? What if Mama came earlier than usual and saw me on the ground?

“Yeah, I was thinking it wasn’t going to work,” he admitted. “You’re not really dressed for it.”

I smiled at his attempt to make me feel better. “Yes, I am certain it is merely my apparel that is preventing me from scaling the height!”

“Well, that could be part of it. Anyway, girls as pretty as you don’t usually have massive biceps, and I’d like to get to that fire.” He shivered.

I smiled a bit more at his comment on my beauty, for it was similar to my thoughts about his. But when he mentioned the cold, I realized he was right. He was wet and cold, and it certainly wouldn’t do for him to freeze to death, right when I had just rescued him. Rescuing him was the first definitive thing I had done in years.

Besides, I liked him.

“Perhaps you could climb the tower yourself, then hoist me up?”

“Do you think you could hang on that long?”

I nodded. I felt a bit inadequate about not being able to climb, but just holding on seemed safer. “I hope so.”

“I mean, you wouldn’t have to hang. There are a lot of footholds on the way up, those shingles. Watch me as I go up. Plus, I have leather gloves on. I could throw them down when I’m up. They might help you grip.” He examined the rope. “What kind of rope is this? It’s really static.”

“Oh, that.” I looked down, not knowing what he meant. “It is hair.”

His eyes widened, somewhat comically. “Your hair?”

“Um, yes. I have been here a long time. It grew; I cut it. One makes do with what one has. Do you not think we should try to climb instead of talking? I’m cold.” Probably, the less said about my hair, the better. He probably thought I was so strange. I was strange. I could not believe I was actually here, talking to someone, a man, anyone other than Mama. I knew I should be afraid of him. Yet, I was certain he would not hurt me, no matter what Mama would think.

“Sure,” he said. “It’s just . . .”

“What?”

He shook his head. “Nothing. It’s just . . . cool. And, man, your hair is . . . something.”

“Thank you.” I thought that was a compliment.

“And it will hold you?” He stared at it.

“It held me, when I came down.”

“Good point. And hey, I’ve already fallen through the ice today. What else can happen? Here’s what we’re going to do.”

He took the rope, the length that coiled on the ground, and wrapped it firmly around my waist several times. Then he tied it very tightly. He was so close to me and his hands were very strong.

Now, I was tied to the tower. But what was he doing?

“It’s a sort of harness. You’ll have to hold on too, because it’s not very good. I mean, it should really be separate, not the same rope. But it’s better than nothing.”

“What will you do?”

He looked up the height of the tower. The wind whistled through the trees. “Watch me. Do what I do.”

He placed his foot on one of the shingles, testing it. Apparently finding it adequate, he grabbed a higher shingle and pulled himself up, then finding a knot in the wood, on which to put his other foot. He repeated this process, climbing higher. “I’ll try to lift you,” he said, “but you should try to climb too. You’ll be tied to me, so you won’t fall.”

I nodded, shivering. I was cold too. Yet, despite it, I felt a thrill of excitement, watching him, rather the way I imagined it felt for ladies at court to watch their champions at a jousting match. His wet shirt clung to his muscles, which flexed with each new grip upon the tower. He was so handsome!

Higher and higher he climbed, and when he chanced to look back, I waved and smiled.

Finally, after what seemed an eternity, he reached the windowsill. He threw his leg over, bobbling slightly. I gasped. He caught himself and climbed inside.

“You made it!” I yelled.

He said something I could not make out.

“What?” I yelled.

He stood there, breathing heavily. He must be tired, too tired to lift me up right away. I nodded, to show I understood. He pointed to me, then threw down an object. His glove. Then, the other. I slipped them on to my hands. They were big on me, though they had probably shrunk some from being in the water, and they were cold.

They were his.

I studied the rope around my waist. He yelled something else, but it was lost in the wind.

“What?” I cupped my hand to indicate I couldn’t hear.

“Try to climb up yourself. If you fall, the rope will catch you.”

“I will try.”

Remembering what he had done, I searched for a foothold. I found one and stepped on it. It held me. I pulled myself up with my hands on another shingle. I found another foothold and stepped upon it.

I was doing it.

From above, I felt the rope around my waist go slack. I looked up to see Wyatt holding the rope, making it taut so that, if I fell, I would not fall all the way.

“That’s good!” he said. “Look up at me! Don’t look down.”

Of course, as soon as he said that, I looked down. But the ground was not so far below me, and the snow looked soft.

“Rachel! Up here!”

I looked up, but he was still so far away.

“Come on! You can do it.”

My foot began to feel uncomfortable. I searched for another foothold and found one. I pulled myself up, then my other foot. I shivered, fearing I would lose my grip. Yet, the exertion made me feel warmer. I found another foothold and pulled myself up again.

“Good for you! Keep going!”

I was closer. At least, I could hear him better. I was doing this! I was doing it!

The rope was taut above me. I took another step up but lost my grip on the tower. My tower. I clung to it with both arms but felt the rope holding me tight. I was worried I would end up hanging like a spider. But no, my tower was angled.

“Careful!” His voice was closer. “You can do it.”

I found a handhold, and then, another foothold. The cold air rushed across my dress. I heard birds. I smelled the snow and almost tasted it. I was cold, yet sweating too. I pulled myself up.

“Do that again! All at once!”

I did. It was getting easier, though I was tired. First one foot, then the other, pulling myself up with my hands. I saw him, reeling in the rope, my hair. I heard his voice. “Come on, Rachel. You’re doing great!”

It occurred to me that I was doing great. I was, for he wasn’t lifting me. I was climbing. It was like something from a book, but this time, I was the heroine! Suddenly, I knew what I had to do. I found another foothold, then another, going much faster than before.

Ouch! A rough piece of wood jabbed my arm. I cried out, but my cry disappeared into the woods.

“Almost there!” he said. “Come to me!”

I had to go on. Ignoring the pain in my arm, I took two more steps, pulling myself up. I felt his hand, reaching out for me, but I was afraid to take it. I wanted to climb inside by myself.

I reached for the windowsill, and found one last good foothold, a tiny outcropping. I pulled myself up. I lifted myself inside. My heart felt as if it might burst, but good.

“I made it!”

“You did. You’re okay!”

I saw, now, that we were tied together. If I had fallen, would he have tumbled out the window as well?

I was breathing hard, my heart pounding. I threw my arms around Wyatt and felt his heart throbbing beside my own. “You saved my life,” I said.

“Did I?” His voice was in my ear. “That’s perfect. You saved mine, so I owe you.”

We stood there a moment, both panting, both shivering. I knew he was the man I had dreamed about. How could he not be, for he was the only one who had come? But did he know?

Finally, we broke apart. I said, “Perhaps you should warm yourself by the fire. I’ll get a blanket. Then, you can tell me what you are doing here.”

He walked to the fireplace and sat beside it, then took the poker and used it to rearrange the logs. His shirt was wet and clung to him. I thought, perhaps, I should suggest that he remove it, to hang it by the fire. But would that be too presumptuous? Yes. I noticed him touching it, and I wondered if he was thinking the same thing. Yet, there was nothing I could do, nothing but gaze at him with the fire’s light caressing his face, unable to believe he was actually there.

“Will you tell me what you are doing here as well?”

I came out of my trance. “What? Oh, the blanket. I forgot.” I rushed to the closet and took down the bright green blanket. I returned and draped it over his shoulders.

“Thank you.”

“Perhaps . . .” I stopped.

“What?”

I looked away. “Perhaps now that you have the blanket to cover you, you should . . .” I felt my cheeks grow warm. I spit it out. “Your shirt would dry more quickly if you draped it by the fire.”

He didn’t respond for a moment. Then, he said, “Oh. Oh, I suppose it would.”

“I will not look,” I whispered. I crossed the room, back to the window. Outside, the air was cold, so I closed it up, to keep the heat in. Then, I gazed out. The hole in the ice had filled with snow, so it was barely visible.

“Rachel?”

The sound of my name startled me. Yet, I loved it. “Yes?”

“Since you saved my life, and I saved yours, I feel really, like I’ve known you. Like we’re sort of closer than other people who’ve known each other an hour. Will you tell me how you got here? I’ve been hearing you, or something. A voice from the woods. I’ve been hearing it for days. But I don’t think anyone else can hear it. I didn’t know if you were real.”

I turned to face him. He was wrapped in the blanket, his shirt draped on the mantel, warming. He had removed his shoes, but he still had on his pants. The green in the blanket brought out the green in his eyes. I walked closer.

“I think I am real,” I said, though I wondered. Could you be real if no one saw you, if no one knew you were there?

He reached out his hand to me. “I think you are too.”

And the next thing I knew, I was sitting beside him, and his lips were on mine. Mine were on his, and all the loneliness of my life was over, evaporated, as if it had never been there at all. He tasted like the breeze, the snow, the pine trees, and I worried that I would wake to find that it was all a dream, all a lovely dream. But his hands on my hair, his lips on mine let me know he was real. He was real.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to. It’s just . . . I feel like I was meant to come here, to find you.”

I kissed him again. “I feel that way too.”