Shadow of the Mountain (12 page)

‘G
eneva?’ The voice was hesitant but she knew it straight away. Relief set a foolish smile on her face.

‘Hi, Angus.’ Geneva perched herself on the edge of the table, then changed her mind and flopped into a chair, her fingers twisting through the phone cord.

‘I got your text.’ He hesitated. ‘It was good to hear from you. And … I’m sorry too.’

She’d thought about it all week, finally texting on
Wednesday
night — or Thursday morning, to be accurate. It hadn’t just been about the conversation with her father. She knew she hadn’t been fair to Angus; that he had every right to be angry. Then just not going to the club — it had been childish, running away. It was time she stopped running.

‘Simon said that he saw you last week,’ Angus said.

‘Briefly,’ she answered, wondering how Simon would have presented their exchange. Not in her favour, she suspected. ‘He’s probably annoyed with me as well,’ she said. ‘I told him to piss off.’

‘Yeah? That’s not quite how he put it.’

‘I bet. Angus?’ She paused. ‘I meant it, about being sorry. And about wanting to see you.’

He grunted. Grunts could mean a lot of things, but she decided this one was positive.

‘I’m dropping Mum and Dad at the airport on Saturday morning. They’re having a weekend away, to make up for all the time he hasn’t been here this year, and there’s some show Mum wants to go to. All of which means I’ll have the car for the day. We could meet up somewhere, maybe…’

Geneva swallowed. ‘Could we make it Sunday?’ she asked. ‘Only, I’ve got plans on Saturday. It’s something I really have to do, and —’

‘Sunday’s okay by me,’ Angus interrupted. ‘No car though. Kat’ll be home by then and she’s bound to claim it as
part-payment
for mother-impersonation duty. She can be fairly convincing: it’s a little scary. But we could rendezvous in town.’

Geneva grinned. It sounded like the old Angus. And as long as the weather held, by Sunday it’d be done. ‘I can bike over to your place if it’s easier,’ she said. ‘It’d be really good to see you.’

‘Ditto,’ Angus agreed.

She wondered, for a moment, about confiding her plans; maybe even asking — but no. She’d keep it till it was done. Once she’d said goodbye to Stephen properly, her way, she’d tell Angus; she’d be able to explain it all then.

‘Are you coming back to the club?’ Angus asked, breaking into her thoughts.

‘I might,’ she answered. ‘We can talk about it on Sunday. There’s lots I want to talk to you about,’ she added.

Geneva’s mood as she cycled to school on Friday morning was jubilant. Even a brush with Leonie in PE couldn’t
dampen
her happiness. Dayna noticed it too.

‘So, what’s happened to bring you out in smiles?’ she asked at lunchtime.

‘I had a call from Angus. We’re meeting up on Sunday.’

Dayna’s mouth formed an ‘o’. ‘I knew there was something bothering you over the past couple of weeks,’ she said,
sounding
tentative. ‘You never said it was him.’

‘It was my fault,’ Geneva said. ‘We had an argument. I said some dumb stuff —’

‘The way you do,’ Dayna interjected.

‘The way you do,’ Geneva agreed. ‘I really thought I’d blown it.’

‘But it turns out you haven’t?’

Geneva grinned and shook her head.

‘You really like him, huh?’

She nodded.

Dayna tilted her head to one side, considering. ‘Well, I hope he’s worth it.’

It occurred to Geneva that Dayna might resent a boyfriend intruding on their friendship. It wasn’t as if they had years of knowing each other to fall back on — but maybe that wasn’t relevant. It hadn’t meant much with Kitty, when you got right down to it. ‘I think you’ll like him,’ she said, watching Dayna’s face.

‘I hope so,’ Dayna grinned. ‘And I’ll be sure to tell you if I don’t.’

C
losing the door quietly behind her, Geneva hoisted her pack onto her shoulders and headed for the shed. She’d packed food and water bottles alongside her climbing gear, and the sky above the mountain was showing clear in the growing light. Today was the day. Excitement whispered in her belly.

On the ride she kept her thoughts in neutral, avoiding thinking about what lay ahead. It was enough to concentrate on the road and the ungainly weight on her back. There were no cars — it was too early for that, just hitting six-thirty as she locked the bike out of sight behind a shrubby manuka at the edge of the car park and rearranged her load.

An hour’s hike to the base of the first climb, and from there she’d follow the course Keith had set, the first few pitches ones she knew she could handle.

The sun was beginning to warm the rock by the time she reached the face where she’d freaked out, her emotions sent into a tailspin by a falling stone. Geneva rested against the wall of rock, feeling its contours against her back as she stared out across the pleats of distant farmland, and closer, the lower slopes of the mountain. She reached for her water bottle. She’d look at the pitch ahead when she was ready.

Sweat had gathered between her shoulder blades and her hair was damp with it. Wiping her face on her shirt, Geneva closed her eyes and breathed. Sun-warmed rock, lichen, the sharp tang of the air itself that you could only pick out once you got beyond the tree-line. The water ran in a cold rivulet to her stomach. She ate a snack bar and stretched her arms.

This time. Second time lucky. ‘It’s nothing to do with luck,’ Stephen said in her head. ‘You can do this. Easy.’

Adjusting her pack, checking her gear, Geneva prodded at her doubt. The first rule of climbing was that you didn’t do it alone.

‘It’s only alone that you really feel it,’ Stephen argued. ‘You felt it already, on the way up here. You felt that pull: just you and the rock.’

Geneva nodded. Somewhere below a cicada sang, heralding summer. Without asking herself why, she bent and gathered a handful of stones, scooping them into a miniature cairn. There was a proper cairn higher up, marking the place where Stephen had fallen. In her pack she had a stone she’d chosen from the old campsite at the river that she was planning to add to it. This was something different. This was her end of the conversation he’d begun. She wasn’t on her own.

Turning, Geneva laid her palm against the rock face and smiled.

She reached the top of the pitch without any difficulty and moved on, eager. She had it now: it felt right, just the way Stephen had described it to her. ‘Flowing with the rock,’ he’d called it.

There were chocks in place on the next two pitches. Geneva didn’t take any risks. She tested every hold but she
knew they’d be fine. Everything would be fine. She felt invincible.

When she reached the cairn she stared at it in surprise, wondering how she’d got there so quickly. It seemed only minutes since she’d left the ledge where she, Angus and Keith had turned back. When she looked at her watch she was amazed to find that more than an hour had passed.

Dropping her pack, Geneva dug out the stone she’d carried, unwrapping it carefully from the folds of her jacket. The cairn, when she approached it, didn’t seem to mean anything — there was no recognition, no voice, no mystical revelation. There was a plaque. She read it; the name, the dates. It didn’t feel real. She studied the river stone she’d chosen. It was rounded and grey with a swirl of concentric ovals shadowed charcoal-dark along one side. With both hands she laid it carefully on the cairn.

Nothing. No grief. No epiphany.

Shrugging into her pack, Geneva looked around. The mountain stretched languorously above, neutral in its
judgements
.

‘Okay,’ she said aloud. The surrounding slopes seemed to absorb her voice. Without being conscious of making a decision, Geneva found her feet carrying her along the track that ran in a thin line across the plateau where the cairn stood. When she reached the foot of the next pitch, she flexed her fingers and reached to find a handhold.

Hunger stopped her. The climbing had been easy: a few hard pinches, but she still felt unstoppable. Choosing a
sheltered
cranny she pulled a warm top over her sweat-dampened polyprop and settled down to eat. The wind had come up
slightly and clouds were drifting in, high up and
unthreatening
, but as their shadows touched her the temperature dropped.

Reaching for the lunchbox she’d filled to overflowing with sandwiches and snack bars, Geneva’s fingers found the necklace Stephen had given her last birthday. At the last minute she’d slipped it in with her gear, tucking it inside her pack to keep it safe. The polished stones felt smooth and cool. She held each one, counting them off like a rosary. One of the largest was similar in tone to the reddish pebbles by her feet. ‘But not from here,’ she said aloud. ‘You never made it this far.’

The words ran ahead of the thought that followed. Stephen had always been the leader, doing something new, something more, something she might never do. She hadn’t minded lagging behind. Now she was the one in front, beating him at his own game. ‘I’ll be beating you all my life,’ she said aloud. It didn’t feel like a victory.

Abruptly Geneva shoved her lunch back inside the pack and stood up. There was nothing for her here — probably Keith was right, and there never had been. Her decision to come back to the mountain felt suddenly foolish and naïve.

Hunger began to nag at her as she retraced her steps. She’d stop at the cairn to eat, then she’d go home. She’d done what she’d set out to do: it hadn’t been pointless. She was glad she’d seen the cairn, and brought the stone. But that was enough.

Adjusting the pack to a more balanced position, Geneva reversed her climb down the mountain’s hard-won faces. They were short and steep, as difficult down as up. By the
time she reached the pitch directly above the plateau her arms were feeling the strain. Hunger, she decided. One more effort and she’d stop to eat. Unclipping her harness she turned to survey the next drop. A loose stone slid
beneath
her boot and she lurched sideways, stumbled, almost regained her balance. She had it, but too late. As her
ankle
turned beneath her she staggered, the pack’s awkward weight pulling her away from the ledge. With a startled cry, Geneva fell.

When her eyes opened, all she was aware of was pain. She was lying awkwardly, twisted between the pack on her back and a large boulder. She had no idea how far she’d fallen. Taking a breath she tried to turn but the effort sent waves of agony racing like flames through her body. She lay still, the flames licking at her flesh, consuming her.

After a while, the pain seemed to ease, enough for her to think, even if only about the pain itself. If she didn’t move it seemed to settle in certain places so that, if she concentrated on the intensity, she could find the foci. Her left leg, oddly askew. Her left side. Her head — thank God she was wearing a helmet. Her whole body ached but the leg was the worst. It must be broken. Her side was all right if she didn’t move or breathe too deeply. She filled her lungs, testing herself, and flinched at the result.

No one knows where I am, she thought, and drifted into unconsciousness.

Something cool hit her face. Drizzle. It wasn’t supposed to rain today. Geneva opened her eyes. The sky had changed. Where it had been bright and startling above her, it was now dull, with clouds scudding quickly, high up. The drizzle was light. Not enough to slow her down if she was climbing or on the bike. Enough to kill her, lying injured.

Taking a breath, Geneva moved a finger. Two fingers. With an effort she tensed her right hand, lifted the arm. The pain wavered and jumped but she could manage it. Moving slowly, she unclipped the waist belt of her pack then, placing her hand against the nearest lump of rock, tried to lift herself slightly, angling the strap off her shoulder.

Knives sliced through her side but she persevered, her breath coming in short gasps, sweat pouring from her. She had an arm free. All her hope was focussed on the pack: if she could only get to it — her weight shifted, moving her injured leg. Geneva cried out. Blackness swept in around her and she collapsed, falling sideways, away from the pain, away from the pack.

The rock in front of her eyes was grey, with minute traces of lichen sketched in haphazard lines. They wouldn’t be haphazard, she knew. There would be a reason why they grew that way.

‘You’ve got to move,’ Stephen said.

‘Can’t,’ Geneva answered, watching the lichen.

‘You’ve got to, Gen. It’ll be dark soon. It’ll get cold. You’ve got to stay warm.’

‘Don’t feel cold,’ she said, realising as the words formed that they were true.

‘Come on,’ he answered. She felt him nudge her shoulder. ‘Get your pack open. You must have something warm in there?’

She nodded. She had a jacket. And a survival blanket.

‘Do it now, Gen,’ Stephen said. She wanted to see him: it was ages since she’d seen him, she couldn’t remember why. She lifted herself a little. Her head throbbed but the pain seemed to be filtered through a heavy wadding, like sound under water. With an effort she half turned, wedging herself part upright against a boulder. Her leg lay at an odd angle — she looked away feeling sick. She took a deep breath to steady herself then cried aloud as waves of hot pain lanced through her side. Breathing in sharp, shallow gasps she concentrated on getting enough air into her lungs, on getting control of the pain, on the thud of blood in her veins. Finally she risked opening her eyes: the mountain was still there. She was still there. She looked around for Stephen.

He was squatting against a rock near her shoulder. She had to twist her head to see him. ‘Get the pack open,’ he said. It was still hitched around her forearm. ‘Get something on. You have to stay warm.’

She did as he told her, moving slowly, drawing back from the pain each time it threatened her. Her fingers located her jacket and a water bottle, still half full. There were sandwiches and a chocolate bar but she wasn’t hungry. She drank, and slowly pushed her arm through the sleeve of the jacket. Moving her left arm brought the pain back to her side so she draped the jacket across her shoulder.

‘And the blanket,’ Stephen said. ‘Get the blanket.’

‘Bossy as ever,’ Geneva muttered.

‘It’s for your own good.’ For the first time, Stephen smiled. She’d missed that smile. She hadn’t realised how much.

‘Stephen,’ she said, reaching towards him, but he’d gone somewhere, and the blackness was coming back. Geneva floated into it.