The Obstacle Course (42 page)

No one was there to hear me. I pushed myself to my feet and hobbled along the path towards the next obstacle.

Push, up, over. Land, collapse, scream. By now I
wanted
to scream, I wanted to scream my lungs out, until my throat was raw and I couldn’t scream anymore. I would scream until I either passed out or my leg fell off. One or the other, that was all that could stop me.

One obstacle was overcome; then another; then another. Finally I was on the last straightaway; the last three barriers. I didn’t know how long I’d been on the course. It could have been an hour or more, easy. It had been a long time, that much I knew: the sun was up now, full into the sky, the day was already hot and muggy, as hot as a steam bath. Sweat was pouring off my body—my shirt was soaked clear through with it, my armpits were dripping wet, my face was so wet I could hardly see past the salty water dripping off my hair and forehead and eyelashes.

One leaden, painful step at a time.

That kept me going. Nothing else could have.

And then, I had done it; I had arrived at the final set of jumps; a very high wooden barrier I had to climb, hand over hand, and then a rope swing, hanging in space, that I had to dive for, which would carry me over the last expanse of water to safety.

I stood at the bottom for a moment, taking in air. The top of the barrier looked like it was in the clouds, it was so high, like you could climb all day and never reach the top. By now my hands were raw from rope burns, strands of torn skin lining both palms. It would hurt to pull myself up, it would hurt like hell.

My climb began. Hand over hand, the pain searing through me, the rope cutting into the flesh, it felt like it was cutting me to the bone. Drop, my body screamed, let it go, you’ll get in anyway, this doesn’t matter, you’ve already proven yourself. Let it go.

Another handhold. Hanging there. My hands in more pain than my leg, my entire body on fire with pain.

Another hand up. One more; and then another. Until finally, I had done it: I had reached the top. I sat there for a moment, looking at the rope hanging in space in front of me; and as I looked at that rope, which looked impossibly far away for me to reach, my eyes changed focus and I saw beyond it, I saw the rest of the Academy in the distance: Bancroft, Dahlgren, the library, the dorms, I saw the boats on the river, the birds wheeling overhead. I saw the whole world.

I gathered up the last bit of strength I had left in me; and as I did, crouching there on top of the last barrier, the pain in my leg and hands miraculously went away. I took one last, cleansing breath; then, diving as high into the air as I could, I reached with all my might towards the last obstacle.

B
OB LESCHER AND AL
Silverman have been steadfast in their unflagging encouragement and support.

J. F. Freedman is the
New York Times
bestselling author of
Against the Wind
,
The Disappearance
,
House of Smoke
, and
In My Dark Dreams
, among other titles. He is also an award-winning film and television director, writer, and producer. He lives in California.

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Grateful acknowledgment is made for permission to reprint an excerpt from “The Boy” by Rainer Maria Rilke from
The Best of Rilke
, translated by Walter Arndt. © 1989 by Walter Arndt. By permission of University Press of New England.

Copyright © 1994 by J. F. Freedman

Cover design by Angela Goddard

978-1-4804-2411-1

This edition published in 2013 by Open Road Integrated Media

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