And I don’t doubt for a second that he can make it happen.
I do the only sensible thing I can think of: I smack him right in the face. His head flies sideways, snow spatters off his hood. Even the Maudit, which could snap me like a twig in an instant, is surprised. But I too am stronger than I should be. I vibrate with the power that is awakened by the struggle to survive in the face of death.
It achieves the desired effect. Augustin gazes at me in stupefaction, and the mountain is gone . . . for now, at least. Driven by fear, I shove him with all my might, causing him to fall onto the rope with his full weight. I lower him over the edge and shout to him, “Remember your belay when you get down! Get off the rope!”
??*
During my endless minutes alone on the summit, lowering Augustin, my mind continuously balances on the edge of panic. The wind keeps knocking me more and more to the rim of the ledge, and I feel the invisible threat of this place building up all around me. If only Augustin will keep resisting the storm raging within; if only he will untie himself . . .
Finally, the weight is off the rope. I pay out some more, but it just becomes slack. Augustin has solid ground under his feet.
I wait.
I tug the rope.
It doesn’t give.
I do it again. Nothing.
I wait longer, an eternity, my heart in my mouth.
When I tug on it again, it is loose and I’m able to take it in.
Not much later, I reach him, and so begins our long, exhausting descent of the Maudit.
As opposed to the way up, I remember it clearly. What I suspected earlier turns out to be true: the mountain has lost its hold on me. This means I’m now leading this expedition, instead of Augustin, and both our fates are in my hands. It provides a feeling of fulfillment, allows for a cool levelheadedness in which only the rational decisions I make in conquering the next challenge count. It’s remarkably refreshing, and for the first time I feel hope.
Before we set off, I meticulously prepare our descent. Our only remaining provisions turn out to be a little water from a half-frozen bottle and a couple of power bars I find in the front pouch of Augustin’s backpack. I eat and drink half of it and force Augustin to take his share. We’ll need all the energy we can get. Augustin’s reactions are still slow and drowsy, but a little color has crawled up his face, and for now, at least, it seems I can move him around. His Seiko says it’s quarter past two, and I hope to reach the bivouac by nightfall. Not that we’ll stop there—we’re going to make sure we get the hell out of there, away from this valley’s clutches. But we have more provisions in the bivi and can power up some strength.
Just before I let go of Augustin’s arm, I see something that gives me such a shock that I almost seem to detach from my body. The Seiko’s GPS says we are at 16,519 feet.
Nearly 800 feet higher than the summit of Mont Blanc, the highest mountain in the Alps.
There are no summits higher than 16,000 feet in Western Europe . . . and I shudder to think what this implies.
We climb down over invisible chasms, while I secure Augustin on a running belay. Oh Jesus, the drops that shimmer through the clouds. Those flanks. Whenever the terrain gets tricky, I lower Augustin and then climb down or rappel with extreme caution. The west flank turns out to be an endless labyrinth. The ridge’s progression is barely distinguishable in the snowdrift, and I can only pray we won’t go amiss or be in for any surprises.
The further we get from the summit, the creepier Augustin behaves.
He talks agitatedly in German to someone who isn’t there.
Most of the time, he’s incomprehensible, like someone talking in his sleep, but suddenly he gestures wildly and starts screaming. Is this Augustin trying to fight whatever has possessed him, or are these the demons inside? I don’t know. As I hear his shout mingling with the howling wind to form an eerie duet, a chill goes down my spine.
At first, I believe that I still have a semblance of control over him, but at some point, his behavior becomes so unpredictable that I start fearing for my own safety. We aren’t in a place where we can afford to make a single misstep, but Augustin slips several times or accidentally kicks free boulders that rumble down the south face and disappear. I keep a sharp eye on his every move and lock the rope as shortly and tautly as I dare, with an occasional loop around a jutting rock to create anchors. Time and again, I become aware of the mad roulette I’m letting Augustin play with my life. If he falls here, he’ll drag me down with him.
And yet.
I don’t dare to correct him or to urge him on anymore. Because as soon as he’s reminded of my presence, he directs his wrath at me.
He doesn’t want to leave the mountain.
The division is showing. Part of him meekly submits to being led down, and another part wants to stay, because that other is this place.
To that other, I am the culprit.
[The looks he gives me, Sam. The vistas he opens before me. Of a completely desolate future, a precipice that cannot be put into words. It makes my blood curdle.]
And it makes me lose my balance. At first, I think it’s the pull of the abyss that keeps making me stumble, the void’s hypnotizing magnetism, which can set your mind dangerously close to wanting to jump in, to simply diving forward, without having a free will that can resist it. But it’s not that. It’s him.
Each time Augustin looks at me, it feels as if I’m on a balance beam and someone is pushing my back.
By this time, I’ve stopped worrying about whether he’s going to make a misstep that will seal our fate. I’m now convinced that he intends to hurt me. There’s a pitch where I have no option but to turn my back to Augustin as I climb down a delicate slab, over which I’d just lowered him. He’s waiting at the base, and I feel his gaze fixed on me. I feel him staring. I miss a grip with my foot, the spikes of my crampon scrape against the rock. I regain my hold. Grow dizzy. Any moment, I expect to feel hands on my shoulders that will throw me into the abyss, despite the fact that the rope between us will cause him to plummet as well.
The last steps. I’m within arm’s reach. I flinch; my movements tense up. He can do it. I’m completely vulnerable.
He doesn’t. But when I stumble past him and fix my eyes on the ridge, I’m convinced that it was close.
Despite everything, it doesn’t occur to me to unrope and stop tending to Augustin. In his state, it would be tantamount to a death sentence. And I feel responsible. I was the one who saw the Maudit. It’s my fault we’re here.