And then he reached rope number nine. Whereas all the previous ropes had overlapped to some extent, the ninth rope lay
above
the eighth.
But it was only a little ways above, just an arm-length. He could handle an arm-length of bare wall, couldn't he?
He climbed to the very top of rope number eight, wrapping his hands around the metallic loops that anchored the rope into the wall, and reached up with one hand.
His gloves had worn down enough so that even his unexposed fingers could feel the protuberances in the rock. He ran his fingers along the surface, searching for something that could take his weight. There. A rather large knob of stone. He found an appropriate higher foothold for his boot, then slowly transferred his weight to the handhold. The first joint of his finger flared in protest, but he found another foothold with his other leg, and he was able to haul himself high enough to grab the next rope.
When both his hands were secure around that rope, he exhaled in relief. He'd done it.
Nine ropes down. One more to go.
He climbed mechanically now, more than anything else. Raise one hand. Then the other. Raise one foot. Then the other. His arms and legs felt like stones. He'd thought they'd drop off if he stopped. He kept his focus on the wall in front of him as always.
Raise one hand. Then the other.
And then it was done. He arrived at the loops and cords that anchored rope number nine, and he glanced upward, searching for the final rope.
He saw only the dizzying Forever Gate, reaching skyward in its unending infinity.
There was no tenth rope.
And it had begun to snow.
What is a mind?
Why does it betray us at those times when we need it most?
Why does it fill us with fear, and emotion, at those times when we most need to avoid fear, when we most need to be emotionless?
Perhaps the better question might be, what is reality?
Is it some cog in a giant wheel? A smaller part of a grander fabrication, of which we all play our bit parts? Are our lives merely parts of this wheel? Predetermined and preset? We live out our days, and time passes, inexorably, slowly building up to one key, quintessential climax, where all the choices we think we've made and the paths we think we've taken converge beyond our control, and we find ourselves on a rope along a wall a mile above the city we were born in. With another quarter-mile to go.
And that rope has just run out.
Hoodwink leaned his head against the rockface, and closed his eyes.
"No, no, no nooo," he said.
It was over. He'd have to climb all the way back down. He'd have to tell Ari he couldn't do it.
The rope had run out,
he'd say
. The rope had run out.
And he could see her, looking back at him, the disappointment in her eyes, as she set out to climb the wall in his place.
I wouldn't have needed a rope,
she'd say. And she'd fall and die.
Fall and die.
Hoodwink opened his eyes, and he did what he'd promised himself he wouldn't do.
He looked down.
The city looked almost unreal at this height. It was like he stood again beside the vendor with her miniature replicas and maps, and casually observed one of her wares. True, this was far more detailed than any map he'd ever seen, but the illusion of perception made the city seem much closer, like he could just reach out and pick it up.
But then his eyes focused on the whirling snow closer at hand, those flakes descending from the heights like an endless vortex of doom, and the reality of what he saw hit him. He felt suddenly nauseous, and dizzy.
The duffel bag abruptly slid down his shoulder. He let go of the rope with that hand and caught the bag in the crook of his forearm. Two bundles of salted meat tumbled free and spun away on the breeze as the upper winds picked them up. Entranced, he watched the bundles fall. The fingers that gripped the rope began to slip. It would be so easy to follow those bundles down...
He snapped his head away, slid the duffel bag back into place, and placed both hands firmly on the rope. He concentrated on the bare rockface just ahead.
I can climb without a rope. I can climb without a rope. I can climb...
But could he really?
It was cold. So damn cold. The dead of winter in the coldest winters yet, a mile up from the earth. The snow fell more heavily. If this kept up, he doubted he'd be able to see farther that a pace or two. And the sun would set soon. If he was caught on the wall in the dark, he'd freeze to death.
Yes. Better to go back now, while he still could. He couldn't climb this. He wasn't trained. He was thirty-five years old. Sure, he was fit because of his job building barrels, but hammering nails into wood was far different than pulling one's body up a rockface.
He had to go back.
He had to admit when defeat had slapped him in the face.
He had to.
Just like how he'd admitted defeat when the gol took away his daughter. Just like how he'd given up and buried himself in his job, and spent the nights in the tavern, going home miserably drunk, and hating himself.
Hating
. He'd
wanted
his wife to leave him. He'd wanted to be punished, for allowing his daughter to be taken. Every morning he'd passed Ari by on the way to work, and he'd never said a word. He'd given up. Like he gave up now.
He had a rare moment of absolute lucidity right then.
The rockface wasn't his enemy.
It never had been.
It was cliche to think it, but
he
was his most ruthless enemy.
He
was the one he had to fight.
He could climb this wall.
And he
would
.
He was through giving up.
He shut his eyes, and breathed deeply, remembering why he was doing this.
I won't let you die Ari.
Opening his eyes, he let one hand leave the rope before he could change his mind. He felt along the rough surface, seeking a handhold. There. He forced his fingers into a slight crevice, and raised a boot, finding a foothold. He pulled with arm and leg at the same time, and flinched as the finger joints bore the weight of his body.
He planted the opposite boot on a small ledge, and straightened the leg, reaching up to find a handhold for the corresponding arm. He squeezed his fingers onto a tiny shelf, and paused for an instant.
The only thing holding him up was the strength of his own body. There was no rope. No second-chances should he make a mistake. He rode death's horse by the tips of his fingers and the tips of his toes.
He tried not to think about that for too long.
Focus, Hood.
The fingers of both hands throbbed at their first joints, but it was a manageable pain.
He lifted his knee, planted his boot on a new foothold, and pressed upward. His torso came up, and he scrambled his fingers along the wall, searching for a handhold.
But the newly-placed foot slipped.
He slammed down against the rock, and lost his other footing. He hung there by one hand, the finger joints bearing the brunt of his weight. Only the tensile strength of a couple of knuckles stood between him and oblivion. Knuckles that throbbed in torment.
He scrambled with his left hand along the rockface, searching for a hold, any hold. Incredibly, he couldn't find one. Nothing would support him. A tiny ledge there. Too slippery. A crevice here. His fingers wouldn't fit.
The knuckles of his hand had held thus far, but it was the arm muscles that now started to fail. His entire arm had begun shaking uncontrollably.
Frantic now, he lifted his forgotten feet. Had to find a foothold. A foothold!
There. A small jutting piece of rock. Just a fragment. But he was able to jam the toes of both boots onto it, sharing the weight with his arm. The pain in his knuckles subsided a little, but the arm was still shaking rapidly, near exhaustion. He searched the wall again with his free hand, finding a hold he'd missed the first time.
Carefully, he released that shaking hand from the wall. The fingers were curled into a permanent claw, and he found himself unable to straighten the fingers through the pain.
He allowed a little electricity into the hand, massaging the tendons and bone, terrified that he'd never be able to open his hand again. But with an effort he was finally able to coax each finger open. And then he found the next handhold, and had to curl those sore fingers up again.
In this way he proceeded up the last section of the wall, battling against himself, battling against the rock. First one foot, then the hand. Then the other hand. The other foot. Rising one small handspan at a time. Conquering infinity bit by bit by bit.
There was snow in places. And ice. And he slipped, or almost slipped, in countless small battles. But always he climbed on.
It's not real
, he told himself often during that climb.
None of this is real
. A part of him even believed it. Some other world existed atop his own, one that he couldn't see, couldn't feel, but was there nonetheless, where he resided at the same time as this one. And it was from that other world, that other self, from which he drew his strength and focus.
It's not real.
Tiny bits of matter called muscle rubbed against each other and the tiny bits of matter called rock, powered by a mind comprised of similar tiny bits. All of those tiny bits formed the fiction called reality. Spitting in the face of this reality, denying that it and his own mortality even existed, that's what kept him going.
He climbed, constantly reminded that there was no rope supporting him. That the only thing keeping him from the long fingers of oblivion was his own intensity of will. It was strange, having death so close to him in that climb. He'd never felt such clarity. He'd never felt so full of life.
He'd never felt so free.
And then it was done. One moment he was raising hands and feet with all the intensity of his will and focus, and the next he was pulling himself onto the wall's upper lip, a ledge little wider than his waist. He cleared away a small layer of snow, and settled himself onto the ledge.
It came as sort of a shock to have actually made it. But here he was in a snowstorm at the top of the world, the wind whipping his cloak around him, and he'd just climbed the last leg without a rope.
He held out his arms and loosed a shout of joy. Tears streamed down his face.
He crouched down against the rim, utterly exhausted. He peered down the other side of the wall. The landscape below was blotted out by the snowstorm and he saw only white-out.
Of course.
It was with more than a little relief that he spotted the rope that led down into the depths, a short ways to his left. He couldn't see where the rope anchored—the top was hidden by the snow on the ledge. But that didn't matter. The hard work was done. And he had a way down.
For now he needed a little rest.
He remained where he was, staring over the ledge, staring into eternity, and the downward vortex of windswept snow.
He'd never felt so drained in his life. The sheer intensity of focus needed to climb that wall had drained him to the core. So he just lay there on that wall, letting the snow fall around him, and the wind pick at his bones.
He almost fell asleep.
But a voice at the back of his mind stopped him.
Fall asleep and you die.
He batted the voice away. A short nap wouldn't hurt anything. Besides, dying didn't sound so bad right about now. It would be an end to this incredible weariness, at least.
Fall asleep and YOU DIE.
He forced himself upright.
"I'm getting up," he told to himself. "Got to get up."
He refused to die now, after all this work. He
refused
.
Clearing snow as he went, he crawled along the ledge, toward the rope that led down the other side. He was about to begin the long climb down when he remembered he was supposed to update the Users on his progress. He could imagine Ari, sitting by the twin of the rigged diary he carried, staring at the blank pages, waiting for a word, any word of his progress. Or maybe he was just feeding his fatherly ego. Did she even care about him anymore? She said he wasn't her father anymore. She was right. All she was had been destroyed when the gols revised her. She had memories of a different father. Another man brought her to the market square every weekend. Another man comforted her when she'd scratched her knees on the cobblestone. She wasn't his little girl anymore.
But she was. No matter what memories she had, she
was
his little girl.
He resolutely took off the duffel bag and fetched the book.
Sprawled there on the ledge, he wrote,
I've made the top of the Gate
. His script was terrible. He could barely grip the pencil after a climb like that, and the numbing cold didn't help, even though he sent a surge of electricity through his joints. This entry would be short.
Snow hides the view of the other side. Climbing down now.