VII
They say that men who know the sleep of exhaustion in the snow find noawakening on the hither side of death.... The hours passed and the moonsank down below the white world's rim. Then, suddenly, there came alittle crash upon his breast and neck, and Hibbert--woke.
He slowly turned bewildered, heavy eyes upon the desolate mountains,stared dizzily about him, tried to rise. At first his muscles would notact; a numbing, aching pain possessed him. He uttered a long, thin cryfor help, and heard its faintness swallowed by the wind. And then heunderstood vaguely why he was only warm--not dead. For this very windthat took his cry had built up a sheltering mound of driven snow againsthis body while he slept. Like a curving wave it ran beside him. It wasthe breaking of its over-toppling edge that caused the crash, and thecoldness of the mass against his neck that woke him.
Dawn kissed the eastern sky; pale gleams of gold shot every peak withsplendour; but ice was in the air, and the dry and frozen snow blew likepowder from the surface of the slopes. He saw the points of his skiprojecting just below him. Then he--remembered. It seems he had juststrength enough to realise that, could he but rise and stand, he mightfly with terrific impetus towards the woods and village far beneath. Theski would carry him. But if he failed and fell ...!
How he contrived it Hibbert never knew; this fear of death somehowcalled out his whole available reserve force. He rose slowly, balanced amoment, then, taking the angle of an immense zigzag, started down theawful slopes like an arrow from a bow. And automatically the splendidmuscles of the practised ski-er and athlete saved and guided him, for hewas hardly conscious of controlling either speed or direction. The snowstung face and eyes like fine steel shot; ridge after ridge flew past;the summits raced across the sky; the valley leaped up with bounds tomeet him. He scarcely felt the ground beneath his feet as the hugeslopes and distance melted before the lightning speed of that descentfrom death to life.
He took it in four mile-long zigzags, and it was the turning at eachcorner that nearly finished him, for then the strain of balancing taxedto the verge of collapse the remnants of his strength.
Slopes that have taken hours to climb can be descended in a shorthalf-hour on ski, but Hibbert had lost all count of time. Quite otherthoughts and feelings mastered him in that wild, swift dropping throughthe air that was like the flight of a bird. For ever close upon hisheels came following forms and voices with the whirling snow-dust. Heheard that little silvery voice of death and laughter at his back.Shrill and wild, with the whistling of the wind past his ears, he caughtits pursuing tones; but in anger now, no longer soft and coaxing. And itwas accompanied; she did not follow alone. It seemed a host of theseflying figures of the snow chased madly just behind him. He felt themfuriously smite his neck and cheeks, snatch at his hands and try toentangle his feet and ski in drifts. His eyes they blinded, and theycaught his breath away.
The terror of the heights and snow and winter desolation urged himforward in the maddest race with death a human being ever knew; and soterrific was the speed that before the gold and crimson had left thesummits to touch the ice-lips of the lower glaciers, he saw the friendlyforest far beneath swing up and welcome him.
And it was then, moving slowly along the edge of the woods, he saw alight. A man was carrying it. A procession of human figures was passingin a dark line laboriously through the snow. And--he heard the sound ofchanting.
Instinctively, without a second's hesitation, he changed his course. Nolonger flying at an angle as before, he pointed his ski straight downthe mountain-side. The dreadful steepness did not frighten him. He knewfull well it meant a crashing tumble at the bottom, but he also knew itmeant a doubling of his speed--with safety at the end. For, though nodefinite thought passed through his mind, he understood that it was thevillage _cure_ who carried that little gleaming lantern in the dawn, andthat he was taking the Host to a chalet on the lower slopes--to somepeasant _in extremis_. He remembered her terror of the church and bells.She feared the holy symbols.
There was one last wild cry in his ears as he started, a shriek of thewind before his face, and a rush of stinging snow against closedeyelids--and then he dropped through empty space. Speed took sight fromhim. It seemed he flew off the surface of the world.
* * * * *
Indistinctly he recalls the murmur of men's voices, the touch of strongarms that lifted him, and the shooting pains as the ski were unfastenedfrom the twisted ankle ... for when he opened his eyes again to normallife he found himself lying in his bed at the post office with thedoctor at his side. But for years to come the story of "mad Hibbert's"ski-ing at night is recounted in that mountain village. He went, itseems, up slopes, and to a height that no man in his senses ever triedbefore. The tourists were agog about it for the rest of the season, andthe very same day two of the bolder men went over the actual ground andphotographed the slopes. Later Hibbert saw these photographs. He noticedone curious thing about them--though he did not mention it to any one:
There was only a single track.