“You think he’s okay?” Kevin asked Margaret.
“Not a hundred percent, but okay enough. Let me just talk to him.
“Are you all right?” she asked Patrick as they were hefting their backpacks.
“Jesus Christ, Margaret, what are you trying to do? I’m fine. Anyone here would say I was fine. Are you trying to sabotage us?”
His attack came with the force of a blow. Margaret was sure he’d practiced his answer.
“No, no,” she said. Everdene and Kevin had set out, wanting to give Patrick and Margaret privacy. “If you say you’re fine, then you’re fine. The last thing I want to do is sabotage us. Believe me, I want to get to the top as much as you do. Not at your expense, though.”
“I’m fucking fine,” he said.
Margaret turned and started walking.
The scree challenged Margaret as it had done the year before. Margaret remembered that she had hated every minute of the climb last year, the scree the worst offender. Again, she could see only cones of light from the torches above her. Patrick had taken off, in part, she thought, to prove that he was fit. She couldn’t even muster enough strength to encourage Everdene, who kept pace beside her and, frankly, seemed to be having less trouble than Margaret. Everdene’s strong legs helped her on this part of the climb, but she had the good manners not to try to outdo Margaret, thus upsetting the subtle hierarchy they had formed. Margaret liked the woman even better than she had before.
Margaret guessed that all experiences on the mountain would be different, even if you climbed it every year—a thought that seemed so grim, she banished it at once.
At the top of the scree, Margaret bent from the waist to be able to breathe better. Patrick coughed. He asked for water, and the porters allowed them each a drink and a cookie. Margaret’s throat hurt, and she tried to slake her thirst as best she could with the stingy cup of water the cook gave her.
Though the sun had not yet risen, it was daybreak, and Ngai was still working on their behalf. The day would be clear. The dark cloud, as far as Margaret could work out, had moved slightly off the peaks.
“Bloody miraculous,” Kevin said beside her. “With this kind of luck, we will make it to the top.”
“No other choice,” Margaret said. “Once the rains come, we’ve had it. And it won’t be rain at this height.”
“I imagine snow blindness would be the problem, then.”
The terrain between the scree and the glacier seemed mild after the misery of the scree. When the sun hit the rocks above them, Margaret was awed by the majesty of the mountain. No cathedral could compete. If one needed to find religion, this would be the place to do it. The sheer size of the peaks and the way they sparkled suggested spirits within. How easy it would be to believe in pagan gods, their might and strength and beauty so close at hand. The black cloud that menaced, the nearly blinding sight of the glacier ahead, the wind that picked up, the magnificence of the rocks themselves—each seemed to be delivering a message. All a group of people had to do was agree on that message, and a system of deities would be created.
Just before the glacier, the guide spoke to them. They would pause, he told them, at the center of the glacier for just a few seconds of rest. Margaret looked at Njoroge, though he kept his eyes from hers.
Margaret took her first step onto the ice. Once again, they had been placed in order by the guide. Everdene behind Njoroge, then a porter, then Kevin, then a porter, then Margaret, then another porter, and then finally Patrick, followed by the cook. Patrick, whose face was washed out from the glare, had been given a pickax to dig into the ice in case of emergency. Margaret considered whether she had made a mistake in not telling the guide the true reason for the pause needed at the center. Would he have backed away from her as a harbinger of bad luck? Would he have had words of wisdom that would have settled her thoughts?
Margaret couldn’t help but think of goats. The guide at the front and the cook at the back were shepherds trying to get their small herd across the ice. The image made her smile.
Margaret didn’t dare look down. She was saving that for the pause in the middle. She hadn’t even allowed herself to think about Diana’s fall, though she could feel those memories crowding her at the edges. Margaret took in long, slow breaths to soothe her nerves, but she found that that made her woozy. Examining the feet of the porter in front of her, Margaret wondered if Everdene or Kevin or Patrick was frightened. Patrick knew what was possible on the glacier. He might have images similar to Margaret’s.
They drew closer to the center of the ice, and Margaret considered whether her idea had been a foolish one. Why had she conceived of it? She didn’t have to stop and look down, a notion that was beginning to terrify her. She could so easily have stood alone at the edge of the ice and said a silent prayer. No one would have needed to know, not even Patrick. Why this mawkish request for ceremony? The guide would think she was trying to conquer a normal fear. Patrick would think she was paying tribute. Would Everdene and Kevin, hapless participants in this absurd ritual, dare to look down? Or had they already?
She felt the line stop. For the guide and for Patrick, she would have to do her bit now. She had only thirty seconds.
Margaret braced her feet. The porter in front of her turned around as if to signal that, yes, this was the time.
She gazed below her at the steep swath of ice. She made herself take her eyes all the way to the dark ravine at its end. She wished she had planned some words for this moment. Thinking that something appropriate would just come to her, Margaret found she had only images instead. Slight bumps on the ice. Teeth desperately tearing off a mitten. A red hood with white fur. The guide reaching out his hand. The still body spinning down the ice.
The white glare hurt her eyes. Margaret tried to think of something to say to Diana. Behind her, she could hear Patrick call her name. She had to do this quickly. The way in which she’d braced her legs didn’t feel natural. What could she say to Diana?
I’m sorry. I’m sorry.
A year of a life not lived. A year of not being a mother. A year of not being a wife. Soon it would be two years, and then ten and then twenty. In twenty years, Diana would have been in her midfifties. Margaret’s own mother was fifty-one. For Diana to have lost all that time with her children. To have lost the chance of grandchildren.
All losses were the same loss. Each loss encompassed the others. They grew cumulatively, triggering memories. Margaret thought of Rafiq. She thought of the baby. She thought of her marriage.
A moment of physical terror, a sense of losing her balance. Margaret wavered and then went down on her knees. She reached for the porter in front of her and for a moment felt the horror of nothing. She clung to the rope, and then the porter had her. He was clutching her arm, and he had dug his ax into the ice.
Safe in her footholds, Margaret felt the paralysis beginning. She knew she didn’t have the courage to stand up. She had no idea how to do such a thing.
Margaret put one hand over her sunglasses and started to cry. Had she cried even once for Diana? In all the time that had passed? She cried for Diana now, and she cried for herself. The porter behind Margaret grabbed her at the waist. She heard Patrick say her name. Margaret couldn’t answer him, because she was trying to stop the crying. She clenched her teeth and made a noise that sounded angry but wasn’t. She told the porter holding her arm that she couldn’t get up.
He shook his head; he didn’t understand her.
“She can’t get up,” Kevin called ahead to the guide.
“Is she hurt?” Njoroge asked.
“I don’t know!” Kevin shouted. “I don’t think so. I think she’s shaken.”
“She lost her balance,” Patrick called from behind her. “The porters have got her.”
“Can she stand up?” the guide asked.
“I think she can,” Patrick said. “I’m not sure.”
“Nothing is broken?”
“Nothing is broken!” Margaret shouted.
“I’m fine!”
The guide barked in his native language, giving instructions to the porters.
Njoroge called back to Margaret. “The porters, when you say so, will lift you. You must go loose in your body and not worry. They will save you if you are loose and do what they say. Do you understand me?”
“Yes,” Margaret said.
She put her hand out for a moment to signal to the porters that she wasn’t quite ready. Margaret thought of Everdene and Kevin and Patrick. The longer she remained on her knees, the more she exposed them to danger.
“Okay,” she said to the porters.
She tried to stay loose, though it was nearly impossible. They raised her up, but she was still in an awkward position and wobbled. Neither of the porters let go. They let her find her own balance.
“Now you are just all right,” the porter behind her said.
She waited until she knew she had solid footing. Then she shouted to the guide that he could go on.
As soon as they had all reached solid ground, Patrick unclipped himself from the guide rope and walked straight to where Margaret stood. He shook her once, hard, by the shoulders. “What the fuck?”
Margaret’s head snapped back. She stared at her husband. Kevin stood just behind Patrick and put his hand on Patrick’s shoulder. “What’s going on?” Kevin asked.
Patrick released Margaret. “Nothing,” he said. “Absolutely nothing.”
Margaret could see that Kevin didn’t believe Patrick. Who would believe a man who had just shaken his wife?
Everdene came and stood by Margaret’s side. “I’m so sorry,” she said.
“No, it’s I who should be sorry,” Margaret insisted. “I’ve done you both a terrible disservice.”
Margaret told Everdene and Kevin the whole story. About the previous climb, about her need to honor Diana. “I had an agenda,” Margaret said, “and I should have told you about it.”
“You could have killed yourself,” Everdene said.
“I worried you. You must have been afraid for yourselves.”
“I was,” Everdene said. “The whole thing was terrifying. But I think we were afraid for you most of all.”
“It was stupid,” Margaret said. “Just plain stupid.”
“Look, you felt it was something you had to do. I understand that,” Everdene said, putting her hand gently on Margaret’s arm. “And I understand, too, that you didn’t want to worry us.”
“Thank you,” Margaret said.
The AMS hit Everdene second. By the time they reached Top Hut, she admitted that she had a terrible headache. She staggered into the banda and lay on one of the bunks.
Bunk beds, Margaret thought. What a luxury.
Patrick had given up on the attempt to hide his malaise. He took a bunk across from Everdene and rolled over onto his stomach.
Margaret sat at the edge of Everdene’s bunk and rubbed her back. “We’ll go down in a few minutes.”
“I just need to rest,” she said.
Margaret got out the sack that had the meds and distributed aspirin to Everdene and Patrick.
“You might as well give me some of that, too,” Kevin said. He sat at the edge of an empty bunk and held his head in his hands.
“Headache?” Margaret asked.
“That and other things.”
“Let me know if you need Imodium. The AMS is supposed to go away as soon as you’ve made the descent. We’ll leave in just a few minutes.”
She poured water for the three of them, but Patrick wouldn’t take his. Margaret went outside the hut and spoke to the guide, who had his hands on his hips.
“They’re all a little sick,” she explained.
The guide’s expression didn’t change. “Your husband is telling me of the woman who died last year.”
Margaret clenched her hands together. “Yes,” she said. “I’m very sorry. I know I should have told you.”
“You must go to the top now,” he said, pointing. “Ngai is inviting the rains soon.”
Margaret looked up. The dark cloud was moving fast toward Lenana. “I can’t go to the top,” she said. “My husband and my friends are sick. They probably have AMS. I think we have to get them down the mountain as soon as possible.”
“Yes, we will do that,” the guide said. “But first they will rest. When they are resting, you will come with me.”
“I think I should stay with them,” Margaret protested. How could she make the summit without Patrick? Wasn’t that as good as severing whatever was left between them?
“No,” the guide said. “They will be fine. You have wronged Ngai. Am I mistaken?”
Had she wronged Ngai?
“Memsahib, the only way to make it right is to find the top.”
“Now?” she asked.
“Yes,” Njoroge said vigorously. “Just this minute we must go.”
“I’m afraid,” Margaret said, looking at the steep angle of the summit.
“You will not be afraid. I will lead you.”
She gazed again toward the peak of Lenana.
“I’ll just tell them I’ll be right back,” she said.
Kevin and Everdene were already asleep. When they woke, she would help them down the mountain—across the glacier, down the scree, along the bog. With any luck, when they reached the bottom, they would still be friends. With Everdene, Margaret would try hard.
Margaret bent to her knees so that her face was near Patrick’s. She saw his eyes open.
“Njoroge says I have to go to the top. To atone.”
“I figured.”
“I’m sorry, but I would like to go.”
“I don’t really care.”
“That’s just the AMS talking,” Margaret said.
“No, it’s not. This was all a stupid idea anyway.”
Margaret understood what he meant. They had set themselves a challenge—to reach the summit to save the marriage—when each of them had known that it might not be possible. Was it that a marriage that might have survived in America, among familiar surroundings, could not withstand the challenges and moral complexities of Africa? Or was it simply that she and Patrick—though each meant well—had fallen out of love?
She rubbed Patrick’s back. “If I had a potion to make you better, I would,” she said.
Patrick was silent, and his silence irked her.
“Did you have an affair with Elena?” she asked.
“You’re asking me that now?”
“I guess I am.”
“Does it matter?”
She thought a minute. “No. No, it really doesn’t.”
Patrick rolled his face away. “I didn’t, for what it’s worth.”
Margaret touched the back of his head.
“Okay,” she whispered as she stood.
The guide showed her how to put the crampons on and how to use them. He gave her a pair of ski goggles.
Margaret began to sweat almost immediately and could feel the prickles inside her clothing. The angle of the slope was much steeper than the rest of the climb had been. The air felt nonexistent. She was surprised she didn’t have a headache.
The blizzard hit them halfway up. The snow stung Margaret’s face where it was exposed. She thought the guide would turn around, but he didn’t. She couldn’t go back without him.
Margaret was shocked by how near the edge of a cliff of snow they climbed, how deep the ravine below it. Of everything she had ever done in her life, surely this was the most dangerous.
She marveled that the guide hadn’t prepared her for the danger, and then she panicked that she might slip. Njoroge might not even know. Was this attempt at the summit meant as a punishment? From the guide? From Ngai? Margaret could barely see a thing in front of her; had she not worn the goggles, she would have been forced to shut her eyes.
Still, the guide went up and up. The struggle seemed relentless. Margaret and Njoroge weren’t connected by a rope this time, and there were no porters behind Margaret to catch her if sh
e fell. Margaret focused on the red band of the guide’s crampons so that she didn’t lose him in the snow.
Her breath was so tight, she couldn’t even call his name.
She began to crawl upward on her hands and knees like an animal. It occurred to her that she might die. Wasn’t it pure hubris to attempt the summit in a blizzard? But Njoroge had been insistent. Why wouldn’t he wait for her? His behavior was incomprehensible. When Margaret got her breath back, she would yell at Njoroge for frightening her so much.
No, she wouldn’t, she thought. They all had to depend on him to get them back down the mountain.
Margaret was barely crawling now. She began to pray.
Still on her knees when Njoroge held out his hand, Margaret struggled to her feet. He had on a bandanna that covered his face. “And now you have made it,” he said.
She looked around her.
“This is the summit?” she asked.
“The summit, yes,” he said.
She put a hand on his shoulder to catch her breath. He waited patiently until she could stand on her own.
“Here is where they are sometimes putting flags,” he said. “Do you have a flag?”
“A flag?” She shook her head.
“Is all right,” he said. “The wind is taking them away anyway.”
Margaret planted her feet and stared into the view, but she could see nothing. Maybe one day she would tell Rafiq that she had finally climbed Mount Kenya.
“Ngai will forget about you now,” Njoroge said.
Despite the sting on her face, Margaret stood for a long time.
How amazing, she thought. She had climbed an entire mountain known for its spectacular view, and all she could see were small bits of white—and wasn’t that exhilarating?
a cognizant original v5 release october 04 2010
Acknowledgments
For Asya Muchnick, whose editorial letters should be framed; for Jennifer Rudolph Walsh, whose savvy and humor make her a joy to work with; for Michael Pietsch, a publishing gentleman and my gracious former editor; for Elinor Lipman, from whom I have learned much about being a human being, both in writing and in life; and for John Osborn, who with a single sentence of advice stripped away a large and potentially fatal part of this book. Without him, nothing would be possible.