Not long after the hail had stopped, the man was back on the trail. Bright rays pierced through the thick blanket of atmosphere high above, illuminating patches of ground—patches the size of the village square—where the dew glimmered and danced in beckoning. It was chilly, but the man expected nothing more for a morning in these regions. Glancing now at these patches lining the trail, the man could almost see the frail timber houses, and the ghastly faces which stared out at him from the windows. A cloud of breath drifted across his gaze, and through the fog he no longer saw any village. On this, the man chuckled. A village of shivering cowards. What more did I expect?
That morning before he had left the sherpa’s house, the man had put on a thick vest over two undershirts, leggings and a new pair of wool-lined trousers, along with leather moccasins packed with knitted socks. A fleece coat wrapped all of this, and on his head, he wore a turtleneck and a wool cap. The only item he had accepted from the sherpa was a pair of mittens, after his had disappeared from his rucksack the previous night. He had taken additional care in preparation for this trip; last week he had read something in the paper about a man his age found, solid as a block of ice, fingerless and toeless up in the mountains of Yukon. Marvelling at the warmth of his moccasins, the man moved briskly up the trail, intermittently gazing up at the bulk of Annapurna I which was not hidden by the clouds. He envisaged the jutting ledge where his climb would end, his job finished.
By midmorning the man had begun his ascent, the trail sloping in a steady gradation until he no longer could call it a trail. Noticing the particular rock formations he had welded into his mind from the map, he smiled in satisfaction. This search will be over in no time, the man thought. He thought again of the sherpas in the village who refused to accompany him on this climb, staring as if he was a ghost, whispering It will claim you. The thought was washed away by a wave of pride. They’ve grown weak and cowardly over the years—their own mountain now scares them. He hadn’t told them that he was here, not to conquer the summit alone, but simply to retrieve a journal which belonged to his mate, a quarter of the way up. Even still, he believed sherpas should have no fear of their own mountain. He had told the elder sherpa, however, who had accompanied his mate on his final climb, who had welcomed the man with sorrow, who had refused to be his guide. The man couldn’t understand why the sherpa refused to lead him to the ledge and search the area with him for the truth, held in the journal. After all, the sherpa was the only witness during his mate’s fall, and the moments which led up to it. The journal, which carried his mate’s secret research during the past decade, including the “truth” to be proved in Annapurna I, was lying somewhere. We’ve waited so long. You won’t take it to the grave after all this time. Whatever you have found, will not have been in vain. Rest in peace, Griff.
By noon the man could see the looming silhouette of that jutting ledge. He knew that points on the mountain were always closer than they seemed, and he pushed through the ice and the strain in his shoulders, confident in his arrival. He looked behind him to see how far he had come; expanding from the base, he saw the vast, sunlit Himalayan landscape, and a few miles West, the entire village. As his eyes traced the trail and his path, he found no footprints, only fresh snow. He trudged on, but was unable to shake off the image of the elder sherpa, watching him from his porch, waiting disapprovingly for him to fall. He recalled the sherpa’s words, with warnings of “the guardian,” feared by every sherpa, who did not hesitate to claim intruders of his domain, including his mate. A poor choice to come during this time of year, the sherpa advised, when “the guardian” is most defensive. The man exhaled in tenuous dismissal. Your “guardian” has been conquered by men less experienced than I. You were wrong about the storms; I will be gone before you see those clouds again. The man looked up. Within an hour he would reach the ledge, he judged.
With meters left on the slope, the man’s mind had filled with visions of finding the red journal lying smack in the middle of the miniature plateau, untouched and filled with notes of—the man did not know what to expect of the “truth.” Nor was it much of a concern to him; he was more keen on returning home to his mate’s family to provide assurance of a respectable legacy and resolved death. He pictured the sherpas’ faces upon his return, shamefully unable to meet his eyes. He smiled as he lifted his leg onto the plateau.
The man blinked and took in the area. Aside from the howling wind, he appeared to be alone in this foreign world. Still in ambivalence at the sherpa’s unease, he saw the journal, half-buried in a shallow layer of snow, unmistakably intact. A surge of warmth flooded through his body. The howls celebrated the completion of his objective, and he crossed the distance with rejuvenated fervor. The view from here must be the most beautiful in the world, if not for this fog. He breathed in deeper than he had ever before, foreign air filling his body. The howling, closer now, was all he heard. He bent and grasped the journal.
A rustle from above, and the man was suddenly aware of a low, constant rumble. Before he could react, he felt the upper portion of his right arm jerk upwards, gripped by something enormous, and he was lifted off the ground. The plateau vanished, as did Annapurna I—endless grey enclosed him from every direction, littered with innumerable specks of white. Was he still holding the journal? He could not tell—his body had disappeared. From where his right arm used to be, he felt an inexplicable emptiness in his shoulder region. On that thought, the man fell forever—floating, drifting, alongside the secret of Annapurna I.
