Trouble (31 page)

They went on. Slowly.

Loose rocks. Huge boulders. Pulling themselves up by iron staples pounded into the living stone. Louisa in the lead and looking back at them. She wasn't even breathing quickly. Or sweating. Henry turning away from the path for a moment to yield to the dry heaving that was not helping his throbbing ribs.

They came out of a grove of aspen and white birch at the base of the ridge, and then headed up again into a landscape as strange as the moon. Boulders had rolled onto the trail, huge boulders that must have shaken Creation when they came a-tumblin' down. And it did not seem as if the a-tumblin' had been so long ago. Their sides were as rough as sandpaper, and did what sandpaper does to hands. The trail wound through them, and over them, and sometimes over the crevices they had made. For Henry, every boulder meant side-holding agony, and even Black Dog had some trouble getting over them. Once she turned to Henry with her four feet splayed out on three boulders and looked at him accusingly.

Which made him laugh. Which made his ribs ache even more. Which sent him into dry heaves again. Which were not helped when Sanborn pulled out a mayonnaise-and-sardine sandwich he had packed in the front pocket of his backpack. "Want half?" he said.

Henry turned away and looked out from the mountain. Even at only this height, it seemed that the entire state of Maine was spread before him.

Across from where they stood, another ridge ascended as sharply as the one they were on. Past that, the forest had laid itself down as a soft furze over the hard granite, and then some careless giant had broken a mirror into a thousand pieces and tossed it away, leaving the shards to shine brightly in the sunlight. The slightest haze hung over it all—just the slightest—easing and softening the edges of everything.

Henry, holding his side, could have stood there for a long time. They all could have stood there for a long time, and not just because of the pain in Henry's side or the wheeze in Sanborn's breathing. Beauty is like that, and Henry thought, Franklin should have seen this. And then he thought, He didn't think I ever would.

Henry turned and looked up at the next ascent. He sighed. Ahead, the brittle rock of the mountain looked unfinished, as if the same giant had hewn it roughly and then, discouraged by the way the rocks splintered, given it up as a lost job.

More throbbing.

Henry offered to take the pack from Sanborn, who for just a second seemed about to hand it over. But then Sanborn said he was fine, which was probably a lie, but Henry didn't feel like arguing. So he asked Louisa for her pack, and she said she was fine, which was not a lie.

"Are you okay?" she asked.

Henry looked out over the green furze. A puff of wind blew at him from over the ridge to the west, but he felt Katahdin solid under his feet. "Let's go," he said.

They climbed on—Black Dog, Louisa, then Sanborn, then Henry—and not too much later, they reached the top of the Keep Ridge, where the trail leveled off after one more huge boulder, and then set its sights directly toward—Henry consulted his contour map—the South Peak.

After this, the trail didn't even pretend to be level. It hardly pretended to be a trail—just a line of splintered and broken rocks, with none of their edges worn away.

Sanborn and Louisa hitched their packs up a bit higher on their shoulders, and then all three took the first slow upward steps toward the peak, stretching every ligament and tendon and muscle and whatever else holds kneecaps in place.

And just as quickly, the puff of wind blew again, and again, and turned out not to be just a puff but the beginning of a whole front—a drizzly front that dulled all the slivers of mirrors, that hid the green furze, that wet the rocks around them into dark shininess, that clambered over the peaks of Katahdin and shrouded them, and that came down so quickly that Henry could see it breaking toward them like a frothy wave. Then for a moment, it was all around them, and they were alone in the last stand of sunshine, caught in a tiny circle of light.

And then it covered them as well.

Immediately, they were all chilled. Henry shivered in the mist—and found that even shivering could send pain up his wounded side. The mist was so thick, he could weave patterns into it with his hand. He belched experimentally—this hurt—to see what pattern would flare out.

"Stop kidding around," said Sanborn. "This is serious. We have to go back."

Henry swished away the mist and looked at him. "You want to point the way?"

They looked behind them. The whole world had become gray and drippy. They could see, maybe, twenty feet beyond, but then the trail dissolved and became part of the mist.

Everything took on a new color. The lichens and mosses glowed and pulsed with a brighter, slicker green. White mushrooms appeared, bending their round tops like bald old men. And there were suddenly berries where there had been none before, bright red and bright blue, all with a careless water drop oblonging their form.

Sanborn and Henry sat and shivered, and Henry held Black Dog closely so she wouldn't get lost in the opaque air, and so she wouldn't chase after the tiny garter snake wrinkling underneath a rock mound, and so she could keep him warm. Sanborn suggested a fire, but no one moved. Where would they find wood dry enough? The mist, dripping from the air around them, made a dreary and dull sound, as if it was washing away all hope of finding Chay. And it was so cold.

Louisa paced. "We are walking in the clouds," she said, mostly to herself.

And Henry thought, We were heading toward Trouble, and here we are. He was surprised that he didn't at all regret coming. He was surprised how strongly he knew that he was where he was supposed to be. And he was surprised that it had nothing to do with his brother anymore.

It was because he was needed.

Ad usum.

All the while they were sitting enshrouded, the wind that had blown the front over the mountaintop had kept on, dragging the top of the mist into lean shreds and now letting the sun drop in tall columns of light that moved slowly across the granite floors. Above the cloud shreds, the sky blued slightly, and then more than slightly, and then the mist was suddenly thrown away like a magician's cape, quickly and with a "Ta-da!" The lights came up and Henry almost clapped, the trick was so fine and unexpected.

Black Dog barked. Above them, all the way to the top of the mountain, the air was scrub-clean, and smelled of the spice of blueberries and hemlock and bay and balsam. Below them, a hawk yawed away on the wind and so down and around the western slope.

Louisa, Sanborn, Henry, and even Black Dog smiled. Then they began to climb again.

They went more slowly now, because the mist had be-dewed everything and its coolness had urged Henry's ribs to new pain. Now and then another quick shroud of cloud would come over the peak ahead of them, trying to catch up with the front that had left it behind. But one by one, the shrouds of clouds blew past and were gone, and soon Henry could not even hear the dripping that had been all around them, as the low-lying leaves finished emptying what they had caught, shook themselves, and set about the business of drying in the sunlight.

The ridge trail still kept rising sharply, and all the rocks—which still looked as if a giant had thrown them around after finishing with the mirror—seemed looser, so that it wasn't hard for Henry to imagine the whole side of the ridge shifting and shrugging him off the mountain.

Above a particularly loose and wet crag, the trail leveled off to give itself a breather, and they sat in the new sunshine—the shadows by the boulders were still cold with the earlier mist—and they ate lunch, which, since Sanborn had packed it, had sardines in olive oil, beef stew (cold, and eaten from two cans they passed around), peanut-butter sandwiches (Marshmallow Fluff optional), carrot sticks, honey cakes, and oranges.

"You know," said Henry, "no one in the entire world likes sardines by themselves except you."

"Good," said Sanborn. "More for me." He dropped a fishy head into his mouth. "Sardines," he said solemnly, "are the food of the gods."

"Sardines," said Henry, "are little fishes that still have their eyes. They look at you when you eat them."

"You are a jerk, Henry. You just ignore the eyes. You just ignore them like, say, my father ignores everything."

Silence. The mountain watching.

"Like the way it would have been if it had been me with fourteen shotgun pellets in my ribs. Send some money and hire a big-name doctor. Then go back to margaritas before the next business meeting."

"You don't know that," said Louisa.

Sanborn lowered his head. Then he took out his wallet and pulled out his father's credit card. He began to fold it, back and forth, back and forth, until finally it gave at one side, and he tore it in two. He dropped the halves into the empty cans of beef stew.

"I know it," he said.

Henry thought about his father. His father who had finally come out of the house, even if there was Trouble outside.
Because
there was Trouble outside. His father with the lightly graying hair he tried to hide, his arms and hands not as powerful as Henry remembered them once being. But he had come outside to find him. And Henry was filled with such love that the ache in his heart covered the ache in his ribs.

Then he looked at Sanborn, and saw that he was watching him think about his father.

They finished lunch in silence.

The wind that had pushed the mist down the mountain was busy drying it out below them, so that by the time they had finished repacking what was left of lunch—which was not much, except for a few sardines—they could look down the mountain and see only foggy tatters that clutched the darker clumps of trees and were doing what they could to stave off oblivion. Above them, the sky really was a glass pane, and it really did seem that if they could reach the peak, they could stretch up and squeak their fingers on its clean and level expanse.

So they hurried to reach it, though Louisa kept looking back at Henry when they covered a steeper length, until finally Henry said, "I'm not going to die today, Louisa." And she smiled and leaned into the climb and Henry smiled, too, and he tried to keep down his ... Happiness. He suddenly realized what it was. Happiness. He climbed with an ache and with Happiness all mixed together.

Happiness that could not be choked by the steeper climb.

Happiness even without Franklin.

Happiness to be up on Katahdin.

Happiness that gushed into a gasp when they all three finally took the last short, knee-knocking steps onto the peak and looked out.

The top ridges of Katahdin undulated around them, and the wind, with nothing to block it, tore at them so that they stood with bent knees. For as far as they could see, the state of Maine showed off every shade of green that the retina of the human eye could perceive, until it all faded into a blue that dissolved somewhere into the sky.

But below them! Below them, straight down the sides of the mountain, cascading rock fell into the shadows, and then into pines—Was that a streak of snow and ice, still hanging on into summer?—and then finally into tiny Chimney Pond, as if this was all an enormous backdrop for the blue stage that was the lake.

Henry moved toward the edge, so close that Louisa reached for him but did not stop him. He put his hands to his mouth and cupped them, the way the sides of the mountain cupped the water below. And he called out, as loudly as he could:

"Katahdin.

"Katahdin.

"Katahdin."

No echoes came back to him; the space was too vast. He called again.

"Katahdin.

"Katahdin.

"Katahdin."

Black Dog barked, and then she tilted her head and perked up her ears and barked again. Maybe she could hear an echo. And then she barked again and turned to grin up at them.

The happiness filled Henry. Happiness that had been such a stranger. But here, on Katahdin, he felt it gathering all around him. It was as if a drought had been pierced, and the drizzle that had passed over them had faded and left behind sweet flowers, and sweet air, and a sweet western breeze that drifted happily around them, wakening the birds that suddenly began to sing with merry melodies.

Then a cry came out of the basin, tripping up the walls and jumping over the ravines.

"Henry."

Henry looked back at Louisa and Sanborn.

"Henry.

"Henry."

And then, almost a third of the way down to the bottom of the basin, they saw someone come out from among a grouping of hemlocks. And wave. And begin to climb up toward them.

Louisa dropped her pack and started down—quickly. Sanborn shrugged his off, too, and waited for Henry. And Henry—Henry looked south, behind him, to where he knew the Knife Edge lay. He smiled, then turned away. He held his hand to his side almost the whole way down toward Chay, and he didn't regret a single step, even though they would have to climb back up later to retrieve the packs.

Henry went as fast as he could, and Sanborn tried not to help him too much. Still, neither Henry nor Sanborn was there when Black Dog and Louisa found Chay. But they did hear Black Dog's joyous barking, and it was the barking that led Henry and Sanborn to them. And when they found them, Henry could see that the Happiness that covered the mountain had found his sister, too.

And Chay.

They asked Chay how he was, and Chay said fine. Chay asked how Henry was, and Henry said fine. Sanborn asked how it felt to spend a night in jail, and Chay said they treated him fine. And then Henry said that Sanborn was a jerk for asking how it felt to spend a night in jail, and Sanborn took a swipe at Henry, and then Henry and Chay tackled Sanborn, who grappled with Chay's head in a cruel lock as he pummeled Henry's belly until he hit his stitches by mistake and Henry yowled in a voice that no human being should use, and they all fell apart in laughter, even though Henry was crying as he was laughing.

And jumping all around them, Black Dog barked and barked and barked.

Afterward, they climbed back to the peak to find the packs. Sanborn opened one and made three peanut-butter-and-honey sandwiches—all for Chay, which he ate without stopping to breathe except that he gave part of the last sandwich to Black Dog, who was watching him with her mouth open and ears perked and head cocked. Then they all sat and let the cold and wind tear against them, Louisa and Chay leaning against each other, until they all started to feel a little chilled and Katahdin began to lay down long shadows.