Authors: Ronald Malfi
“I know.”
“Anyone else could have done it, and it wouldn’t have been as bad. It’s worse that Andrew did it. Somehow that makes it worse.”
“We need to keep watch,” Petras said. “We need to take turns watching for him. We shouldn’t all fall asleep at the same time.”
I looked at him. “You think it’s … that serious?”
“Let’s just stay on the safer side of chance.”
“All right.”
He nodded. “All right.”
My gaze turned back to the blue slab of tarpaulin and trailed up the snow-packed boulder that leaned at an angle against the nearest ice wall. My eyelids felt stiff and heavy, my body sore from head to toe.
Beside me, Petras began snoring like a lumberjack, his nostrils flaring with each powerful exhalation.
I caught a glimpse of Hannah’s reflection in one of the mirrored walls of ice and sat up. Her image glided along the wall, undulating with the imperfections in the ice, and disappeared behind the solid white pylon of snow and ice that had crushed Chad.
I stood and walked across the chamber, passing under that circular spotlight of light, and over to the finger-shaped pylon that had shattered Chad Nando’s pelvis. I stopped walking when I heard an unnatural crumpling sound beneath my boots and realized, with sickening lucidity, that I’d stepped onto the tarpaulin.
Taking a step back, I walked around the tarpaulin to the other side of the massive pillar that canted against the ice wall. I ran one bare hand across it. It was solid ice underneath, coated in just a fine powder of snow, and the thing must have weighed as much as a Volkswagen.
Jesus Christ
. Toward the bottom it was splattered with blood.
Across the floor, Petras snorted and rolled over in his sleep, startling me.
I continued running my hand along the surface of the pylon, pausing only when I noticed what appeared to be the faint impression of a boot heel in the thin crust of snow. Above, the icicle-fanged ledge looked dangerous and foreboding, the narrow little ice cave against the wall hardly negotiable. But still …
Like a gymnast preparing to mount a pommel horse, I placed my hands against the bulk of the pylon and, lifting one leg over, pulled myself up. I didn’t budge, didn’t make a sound … although my overactive imagination heard the snapping of Chad’s bones, grinding them into powder.
Don’t think about it
, I told myself.
Stop thinking about it
.
I lifted my other leg and planted both feet flat against the pylon’s surface. I attempted to dig my fingernails into the ice, but it was no good. I slid one boot up the length of the incline, but the moment I put all my weight down on it in order to raise my other leg, I started to slide back down.
“Shit.”
I hopped down, rubbing my cold palms together. Pulverized stones and gravel lined the mouth of the cave. I collected two handfuls and carried them back to the pylon, showering the surface with grit for traction.
A second attempt at climbing the pylon proved successful; I managed to crawl all the way to the top, where the jagged teeth of broken ice protruded from its base and where the pylon lay against the ledge of the ice wall. Using the crisscrossing spires of ice as handholds, I lifted myself onto the ledge and noticed a number of the icicles had been busted away from the opening of the ice cave. There were more boot prints in the snow here as well.
Crouching, I peered into the narrow opening in the chamber wall. It was a tight squeeze for a man of average girth. Petras, I surmised, would have much difficulty crawling through. But I was much slimmer than John Petras. On my hands and knees, I crawled forward and poked my head into the ice cave.
I expected to find a womblike niche punched in the snow … but what it turned out to be was a winding wormhole that gradually went up through the center of the mountain. The snow inside was ribbed and made for easy handholds. I climbed through the throat of the snow tunnel, pausing in the crook of its turn to see just how far up it went. It was impossible to tell due to a second bend farther in the tunnel, but I thought I saw faint daylight reflected along the wall.
I continued climbing while the wormhole continued to tighten around me. The impossibility of this tunnel’s existence was not lost on me: this was a
man-made
structure, as things this perfectly symmetrical do not exist in the natural world—and a
recently
man-made structure at that. Where had it come from? Who’d been here before us to dig it?
Halfway up, I got stuck. Arms pinned in front of my face like those of a praying mantis, I found I couldn’t budge, couldn’t struggle and work myself free. My breath made the air stale. Suddenly I was dying in the dark, lost and alone in a cave somewhere in the Midwest.
If I closed my eyes, I was certain I’d smell the moss and dampness of rank soil and stagnant pools of fungal cave water. If I closed my eyes—
8
— I COULD CONVINCE MYSELF IT WAS ALL A NIGHT-
mare. But when I opened them again, I was alone in our bed, the achy shades of twilight blues and purples filtering through the bedroom windows.
Downstairs, I heard the front door squeal open.
“Hey,” I said, appearing at the bottom of the stairs.
“Jesus, Tim,” Hannah said. “You scared the hell out of me. Why aren’t you at the studio?”
It had been three days since the incident at David Moore’s house and three days since I’d last seen or spoken to my wife. Standing before me now, she looked better than I thought she had any right to look.
“You cut your hair,” I said. “It’s so short. I like it.”
She turned away from me, a hand going to her mouth. “I didn’t want to do this with you here.”
“Do what? You said we’d talk.”
“I know what I said.”
“So let’s talk.”
“We can’t.”
“We never talk, Hannah.”
“I can’t do this.”
“So why’d you come back?”
She had her floral suitcase with her; the reason was apparent.
“We had our time to talk,” she said. “We had our time to try and fix things. But some things can’t be fixed.”
“No,” I said. “That’s not true.”
“You’re a good man and a talented artist. You care about what you do. I love that about you, but I need someone who puts me first.
You don’t do that. I’ve never felt like you’ve put me first.”
“Don’t say that. It’s not true. You’ve always been first. Always.”
“You say it, but you don’t show it. You say it, but then you get drunk, and you forget about me and what’s important to me. Your art makes you drink, and your drinking makes you put me in second place.” She shook her head, tears rolling down her face. Her hair
did
look beautiful. “I’m tired of being second place.”
“Hannah—”
“No.” She carried her suitcase toward the front door. “Never mind. I don’t need to pack anything. I shouldn’t have come here.”
“Let’s have dinner tonight.” It sounded petty, but it was the first thing that came to my mind.
“No—”
“Then tomorrow night.”
“No, I can’t.”
“I don’t see why—”
“I’m leaving tonight,” she said. The way she said it was like a confession, and I knew that it hadn’t been her initial intention to tell me. “I’m going to Europe. There’s a collector there who’s interested in a few pieces from the gallery. I thought it would be good to take some time to myself away from this place.”
“Are you going with
him
?”
“That doesn’t matter.”
“Just answer the question. Are you?”
“It doesn’t change what’s happened between you and me.”
“Do you love him?” I asked.
“Tim—”
“Do you love
me?
Did you ever?”
Her tears had stopped, and there was a look of disappointment on her face now. “Why are you doing this to yourself?”
“I’m not,” I said. “You’re doing it to me.”
“That’s unfair.”
“It’s true.”
“No, it’s not. That’s just more proof of how you don’t understand me. You don’t understand any of this.”
“Then explain it to me,” I said calmly. I felt myself going numb right there in front of her.
“There’s nothing to explain,” Hannah said, “and I don’t have the patience anymore.”
“How long will you be gone?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“Can I see you when you get back?”
She closed her eyes. I could almost hear her thinking from across the room. Finally she said, “Yes. Okay. When I get back.”
I stepped aside and leaned against the wall. “You can get some of your things. I’ll stay out of your way.”
“No. It doesn’t matter.”
“I love you, Hannah.”
“I know you do.”
“Be careful.”
She left without a response. And since her funeral was closed casket, it was technically the last time I saw her.
9
I WAS JARRED BACK TO REALITY WHEN THE TUN-
nel loosened and I slid down several inches. The heat from my body had widened the opening while I hung there, daydreaming. Reaching above my head, I worked my fingers around one of the ribbed corrugations in the snow. My feet pushed off the ribs below me, and I continued ascending the tunnel.
When I reached the bend, I climbed around it and froze when the tunnel opened to dazzling daylight no more than five feet in front of me.
“Here we go,” I said, my breath whistling through my restrictivethroat, and began crawling toward the opening.
10
THE TUNNEL OPENED UP IN THE WALL OF A CAN-
yon—the Canyon of Souls. I crawled from the opening onto a narrow ledge of black stone. Above me, the walls of the canyon yawned to a gunmetal sky. Below, they ran on forever, the canyon’s bottom nonexistent, my eyes surrendering to the optical illusion. The other side of the canyon was a tremendous distance away. I’d hiked the Grand Canyon a number of times, and this was no less impressive.
Pebbles pushed against my fingertips. I flicked a few over the edge. They fell but seemed to float, never landing, as if gravity had no authority here. It seemed to take whole minutes before they disappeared into the abyss below.
The ledge I was on ran the length of the canyon, both to my right and my left. It went on farther than my eyes could follow, and the ledge never seemed to get any wider. An attempt to walk its length on foot would be nothing short of suicide, as foolish as walking along the windowsills of a skyscraper.
Something shimmered behind the ice along the opposite wall. I winced, staring hard at it, and saw colors swirling behind the ice like oil on water. They moved as if alive, spiraling and intertwining with one another, these living snakes of uncataloged hues, commingling and bleeding together only to separate again.
It was then that I realized the
entire canyon wall
was alive with these streaks of color, pulsing like blood through veins and arteries, colors that went straight to the heart of this sacred land. The colors themselves were nostalgic, like they were solely associated with specific events from my past. Looking at one would cause me to weep; looking at another would cause me to laugh; yet another projected a soul-rattling melancholia I associated with childhood …
Two red splotches of blood fell on the back of my left hand. I touched my nose and found it was bleeding again. My headache was back, too, and my respiration had grown increasingly labored.
“The Canyon of Souls,” I whispered. Even under my breath, my voice carried over the arroyo and hung there suspended like a cadre of angels taking flight.
11
BACK IN THE HALL OF MIRRORS, PETRAS’S SNORING
was like the idling of a pickup truck. I clambered down the icy pylon and strode across the chamber, my spirits still lifted from the sight of the canyon. Andrew’s intention was to cross it. Crossing it, I knew, was impossible. But moreover, something like that was not
meant
to be crossed, was not
meant
to be overcome. It was just what Petras had said—some hidden lands, some
beyuls
, were not meant to be found and conquered. Quite often they only revealed themselves to those pure enough to see them.
I crawled into my sleeping bag, my eyes slamming shut, my body racked with exhaustion. Then I realized something and sat bolt upright, my eyes flipping open.
Hollinger was still gone.
I leaned over and poked Petras on the shoulder. “Wake up.”
“Hmm …”
“Hollinger never came back from taking a leak.”
Petras’s eyes fluttered open. He coughed into one fist, clearing his throat, and sat up against a large stone. We exchanged a glance; the look in his eyes did not make me feel any better.
“How long has it been since he left?”
“Maybe forty minutes,” I guessed.
“Come on,” Petras said, standing.
We crossed the chamber toward the mouth of the tunnel, passingbeneath the pastel light sliding down through the eyelet above our heads. We passed the massive finger of packed snow that sat at an angle against one of the mirrored walls, the crinkly blue tarpaulin spread out at its base. Chad’s blood had spread and frozen into the cracks in the ice.
Together we paused before the mouth of the tunnel. Midway through, it banked at an angle so it was impossible to see the opening at the other end. Petras cupped his hands about his mouth and shouted Hollinger’s name into the tunnel. The echo seemed to go on forever.
Hollinger did not answer.
Entering the tunnel, I extended both hands to feel my way along the wall. My shins barked against calcified spires of stone rising in various angles from the ground. Petras followed close behind me, the sound of his respiration like sandpaper against concrete. Only a dozen steps into the tunnel and we were in absolute darkness. I held my hand just an inch in front of my face and wiggled my fingers. I couldn’t see a damn thing.
“He could have—,” I began but cut myself off as my right foot struck something loose and metallic. I froze.
“The hell was that?” Petras whispered.
Crouching, I patted the ground like a blind man. Whatever it was I’d kicked it somewhere ahead of me. I crawled, hearing the knees of my cargo pants chafe against the stone and the distant sound of cave water dripping from rocky overhangs. Finally my hands fell upon the object, causing my breath to catch in my throat. I knew what it was without picking it up. “It’s Hollinger’s lantern.”