Rising Abruptly (5 page)

Catching the thrill, a little, Rachel also kneels on the magic carpet. Then, the girls stand up, pretending to surf like those boys in the Hawaiian TV show. Only, they lose their balance and fall into the snow as into the sea. Sharks! they shriek. Still in the shelter of the fir trees, they make snow angels before trudging toward a fallen log to catch their breath. They look up. Spot one star. Fancy it is the Star of Bethlehem.

With one whip of wind, clouds pack into the parcel of sky visible above the trail. The star vanishes. Raving through the trail, the wind throws bullet-hard snow pellets at the girls' faces. The blast latches on their mouths, stifling breath. To draw air, they must turn their backs to the wind. Around them, the treetops now swing wildly, their trunks creaking.

Jeanne, this is omin… This is not good!

To be heard in this hurricane, Jeanne has to shout: You're right. Let's go back down.

Unlike Jeanne that, to agree so quickly. Which should have sounded an alarm. But doesn't. Instead, Rachel sees herself back home in one hour. Tops. The cold makes her want to pee, but hating public toilets, and hating even more to pee in the open, she will hold the flow. Once home, she will rush into the privacy of the warm bathroom to relieve her bloated bladder. Sighing with pleasure, she will dissect the hike in cold and snow, the challenge, taken up and won.

The girls walk, heads dunked into coat collars, eyes fixed on their boots, as if the footwear could show them the way. No longer a shelter, the trail has transformed into a wind tunnel filled with a wall of snow. Red dots dance in front of their eyes and they can no longer see the firs that, up to now, guarded their adventure.

Rachel bumps into a tree hidden in the whiteness. Stunned, she collapses, calls out to Jeanne, but the wind eats her words before they reach her cousin's ears. Jeanne disappears from view. That's it. Rachel will die here, as her father died in those faraway mountains. She whimpers and crawls on the toboggan as on her deathbed: Father! I'm coming up! And so, already deep into playing the game of her death, it takes her a moment before she feels Jeanne's red face against her own. Lightheaded, she loses her balance.

Jeanne helps her cousin to her feet: I'll pull the sled now.

No! It's my toboggan. I'm okay. Rachel touches the hurt on her forehead. Blood, like red gelatin, sticks to her mitt: I'm dizzy. We'll die.

We're not gonna die.

We will too.

Okay, Rach, die if you want. But first, tie one end of my scarf around your waist and I'll tie the other end around my waist.

Instead of reassuring her, this precaution intensifies Rachel's fear. This is how people die in mountain stories. Tied to each other. And so will they, under tons of snow, a bit of red scarf sticking out to mark their glacial grave. But walk they must.

And so, nearly blinded by the storm, Rachel keeps moving, step by step, her face offered to gusts of wind, her neck touched by the thousand frozen fingers of snow. Only the tension of the scarf around her waist, which pulls her forward when Jeanne walks a little faster, proves that the cousins are linked together. Despite that tether, Rachel imagines herself lost and alone in wild mountains on the other side of the world.

Trees have become cliffs between which she is climbing a hair's breadth from dizzying exposure. She must progress with great caution. Over snow bridges that could collapse into deep valleys. Through avalanche terrain where wind has deposited deadly snow. Under seracs hanging above her head. Her limbs have turned to wood and her body is bruised with cold and exhaustion. Famished and tormented by thirst, she trips in her numb feet. Her hard candy toes that, surely, will have to be amputated. She hates Jeanne for turning the sacred game into a disaster. But, even if the toboggan was a true magic carpet capable of flying her home in an instant, she cannot call off the game. She and her cousin must conquer the virgin mountain. Must succeed in this rescue mission in the frozen hell. Together, they search the Himalayas, away from all humans and all beasts. At this high altitude against the deserted flank of the goddess mountain, mistress of vast blue spaces, and of death, even the eagle never glides. Somewhere among the folds and the crevasses, the crags and the ledges, her father and her aunt are dying. Courage! Hang on! Rachel and Jeanne will plead with the goddess mountain. Together, the cousins will rescue their parents. Having learned about the madness triggered by thin air, Rachel allows herself a brief rest. She tries to locate ancient cities in the storm, convinced that some Nepalese demon is causing the mirage of emptiness. A cruel game to force Jeanne and her to abort their life-giving rescue mission.

Standing still, Rachel feels the tension of the scarf. The scarf that yanks her out of the game. Then, she feels the slack. And her cousin emerges from the white.

Jeanne waves her arms in defeat: I lost it.

The game? Me too.

The trail. I don't know where to go.

They look around. In this white desert where earth, sky, trees merge into nothingness, they have lost their bearings. Below, the city has vanished. The overcast sky hangs so low, it obliterates the street lights from view and robs them of any means of orientation. Try as they may, they can't make out anything. Streets, lights, the squat blocks of red brick houses. All gone. They can't even hear traffic.

Rachel guesses that they have been walking in circles for an hour. An hour! Far from home! And lost! She glares at Jeanne. If she had brought her play shovel, she would use it this minute to whack some sense into her cousin's head.

Jeanne looks ahead. Points: The lodge. That way.

The lodge! Stupid! We can't even see the city. How can you know where the lodge is in this? This time, you really did it, Jeanne! Mom will be…

They'll be super late for supper. Rachel knows it. At home, her mom is fretting. Pearl checking her watch every five minutes. Peering out the window. Searching the snowy night. Phoning Rachel's and Jeanne's friends. At the moment, Rachel can't remember if, in the rush of departure, she even told her mom where they were going. To go play up Mount Royal without first asking permission? Jeanne would have replied that they wouldn't be gone long, they'd be back in plenty of time for supper, let's go. Chilled to the bone, Rachel will die here. And so will Jeanne. Good! That'll teach her. They'll die, both as alone and forgotten as their parents were. Rachel who forgot to be a good girl. Pearl fretting.

Rachel's face covered in snow, eyes brimming with wind-whipped tears, she searches for the dark shape of the lodge. Tonight in the alien surroundings, she experiences the same disorientation as she does in her dark bedroom in the middle of the night when she has to get up, half asleep, walking round and round, unable to find the door or the furniture until she manages to turn on the lamp. Here, she hasn't got the luxury of electricity within reach, and yet, she must get somewhere.

She shivers with cold and dread. Still holding the cord tied to the toboggan, the cord twisted around her mitt and numbing her fingers, she lets out a mad little laugh. Such trouble for nothing. All that snow, and they aren't even sliding. And yet, despite the lack of blood flow in her fingers, Rachel will not let go of her toy. The sled, a raft without which she will sink into the white sea.

Through the slits of her nearly closed eyes, she spots something. Points with her free hand: Over there, Jeanne. Over there, that's the lodge, yes?

Jeanne confirms her cousin's discovery with hoots. The girls run, spit out snowflakes and, out of breath, reach the dark mass of the stone lodge that appears out of the snow.

Jeanne unties the red scarf that has kept them together. Rachel disentangles the cord from her hand, her piece of wreckage that allowed her to arrive safe and sound. Against the stone wall, the wind relents and the cousins can breathe to their lungs' content. Sweat drips down their spines and their teeth are chattering.

We must get in, Rach.

How?

They go around the lodge. Shake door handles. Locked. Peer through windows. See only darkness. Call out. Nothing moves outside or inside.

Jeanne seizes the sled. But its long, narrow shape is too awkward for her to handle alone.

Help me.

Do what?

We'll ram it in this window like invaders in movies do with a log to break down the castle door.

Are you crazy?

Cold. I am cold. And I need a pee.

Me too.

Rach, I can't do this alone.

Rachel, who never gets into trouble, helps Jeanne, who often gets into trouble. They lift the back end of the sled. At the count of three they run, and ram the curled front into the low window. They have to try five times. On the fifth try, Rachel knows they're in a pile of shit.

Glass breaking. Clear sound above monotone wail of wind. Gaping hole surrounded by a thousand fissures. Next will appear security guard in black uniform. Grabbing the vandal cousins by the scruff of the neck. Jail, you two!

Damn you, Jeanne!

You're always afraid of getting punished or scolded or…

My toboggan! You broke my toboggan.

They stare at the twisted toboggan, half-hanging through the smashed window.

We had no choice, Rachel.

No choice? We could have found a better way.

And freeze while searching?

With you, it's always…

It's either die outside or save ourselves inside. Jeanne slides the useless sled into the snow.

You never think before…

Go in, and careful with the glass.

As soon as Rachel feels the warmth on her face, her qualms, fear, anger, they all melt as fast as the snow stuck to her clothing. She coos with relief. Her muscles, tense for so long, relax and she shivers, shivers.

The cousins take off mitts, scarves, tuques, coats. They cover the broken window with a large piece of cardboard advertising a giant strawberry ice cream cone.

Because of the snowstorm, the night outside has remained clear. Inside, the girls must walk with arms straight in front to guide them. Their fingers grope along walls to locate a switch.

I found one, Jeanne. Nothing.

It's dead here too. Must be a power failure.

Ouch, damn! Careful. I just hit my head.

Rachel touches the point of impact. Of course, she hit the injured spot.

It felt like, a, locker or something, Jeanne. Metal.

Jeanne laughs: I can't see you. Where are you hiding?

Wait. I'll go stand in front of a window.

Before a hand grabs her, Rachel hears the sound of a collision. A laugh and a curse. Now holding hands, their free arms straight out, the girls find the curving stairway that leads to the snack bar. At last, they reach the higher floor. Up here, the panoramic windows cut through darkness in big slices.

Rachel marvels: Look at that snow! A real blizzard like they had in the days of Nouvelle-France. You know. The colonists were trapped inside their houses for days.

Nose against the window, her face wrapped in the fog of her breath condensing on cold glass, Rachel can't get enough.

Jeanne, do you think we'll have to spend the entire night here?

Isn't it great! The whole place to ourselves. Jeanne moves things around behind the counter: And no one telling us what to do.

We had the mountain to ourselves. And look what happened. I nearly split open my head and you broke my toboggan. What are you doing?

Rachel walks toward the darker shape of the counter, tripping against a chair leg before reaching her destination.

Ah, I found some. Jeanne strikes a match and fixes a candle in a small pool of melted wax. Soon, a luminous line flickers along the edge of the counter, which she wipes with an imaginary cloth: What may I serve you, Miss?

No no no no no! I won't play the customer. No! Move over. You be the customer.

As Rachel enters the light, Jeanne shrieks.

Shriek all you want. I'm telling you, I won't be the customer, Jeanne. You're always d'Artagnan or the Warrior Queen. This time, I'll be the important character. I'll be the server.

That's not it. It's your face.

My face? Scrunching her muscles into a scary mask made scarier in the candlelight, she plays ghost, enunciating each syllable: This is a phan-tas-ma-go-ri-cal face for a phan-tas-ma-go-ri-cal night.

Jeanne shrieks for the fun of it, then sobers up: Your face. It's covered in blood. That's what's scary.

Rachel touches her forehead, crusted over. She finds a mirror hanging on a pillar. In the candlelight, her puffed-up face and her left eye, swollen half-shut, shock her to death. Now that she sees it, the deep cut throbs intensely.

It's your fault, Jeanne. Because of you, I'll have a huge scar. And what if I go blind in that eye? It's all your fault.

Let me wash off the blood and wrap a towel around.

Jeanne finds a white linen towel and a white apron. At the deep sink behind the counter, she wets the towel and cleans the wound. Despite the pain, Rachel tries not to squirm, practising making herself tough. Jeanne wraps the towel around her cousin's forehead. Folding the apron, she secures the bandage in place with the apron strings. At the same time, they both remember they need to pee.

On a dare, they enter the men's washroom, propping the door open to let in some light. The girls stare at the urinals, hooting at the contraptions. Rachel, who hates sitting down on public toilets, pees standing up. Jeanne follows her cousin's lead. Their aim not too good; they splash their boots. Share their rather limited knowledge of male anatomy. Still, while rinsing their boots in the bathroom sink, Rachel declares urinals a more hygienic way to pee in public toilets.

Yes, Rach, but. There's no privacy and you're shy about…

That's true. Rachel hadn't thought about that. Men though. Maybe they enjoy peeing together. Maybe they have contests. That's the disadvantage of growing up without fathers. You can't ask them important questions.

Back in the main room, Jeanne admires her handiwork in the candlelight: Rach, you look like a soldier wounded in real battle.