A Change in Altitude by Anita Shreve Page A

retreating. They lost a fair amount of hard-won ground. Margaret had no idea if they would retreat all the way back to the gates, or if they would wait the animal out. There were tales of expeditions having to stand perfectly still for two or three hours until the buffalo moved on.
    Eventually, the retreat came to a halt at a junction in the trail. Margaret saw the guide speak to Diana. He motioned with his arm to the porters behind Margaret that the group would be taking the other trail. They moved forward with caution, which suited Margaret’s pace. No one spoke for at least a half hour. When the guide determined it was safe enough to walk at a brisker pace, the party sped up, and Margaret was again left behind.
    Margaret had too many muscles that had not done any serious work in some time. She watched as Arthur stepped out of line. He waited until she had drawn even with him.
    “Need a push?”
    Margaret tried to laugh, but her airway hurt. “I’m sorry,” she gasped. “I shouldn’t have come.”
    “Nonsense. It’s watching you that’s giving me so much pleasure.”
    “Glad to oblige.”
    Instinctively, she looked for Diana, who was at the head of the line. Beside her was Willem, and behind them were Saartje and Patrick. Perhaps there was some good in these noncouple pairings. With someone not your partner, mightn’t you make a better effort? She noted that she did seem to make more progress with Arthur at her side. She also seemed to be able to talk in short bursts.
    “You handled the ants so well,” Arthur said.
    “I did not.”
    “Very entertaining, all the same.”
    Arthur put his hand at the center of her back and gave her a slight push. His hand lingered as if he might give her a second, but then he let it drop.
    Margaret was still frightened by the climb and sorely tempted to let Arthur
take care of her.
She knew Arthur would be more than happy to accommodate her. Margaret’s lack of speed on the climb made her vulnerable. If they’d all been wildebeests, Margaret would have been the orphan, straggling behind, ripe kill for a leopard or a lion.
    “Diana seems eager to get to the bunkhouse,” Margaret said. Their destination that day was Met Station.
    “She’s always eager.”
    “Surely that’s a good trait.”
    “Of course. Marvelous trait. Useful in all sorts of endeavors.”
    Margaret couldn’t see Arthur’s face. All of them had on hoods that they’d drawn tight around their heads, obscuring eyebrows and, in some cases, lips. Arthur’s breath lay listless on the damp air.
    “You’re actually helping us, you know,” he said.
    “And how’s that?”
    “By slowing us down. Willem and Diana and I would have competed to be the first to get to the hut. It would have been bloody awful. Possibly literally,” he said.
    “What about Saartje?” Margaret asked.
    “Saartje.”
    “She’s managing?”
    “She’s managing well. You’re not doing so bad yourself.”
    Margaret smiled. “So I am.”
    “You see?” Arthur said. “You needed me.”
    *   *   *
    Most of the climb was hard and grim and sometimes ugly, and it was always cold and wet. Margaret had had days in her life when the only way to the other side was through it, but seldom was that more apparent than on Mount Kenya. At a certain point, she could not turn back unless she feigned illness, which she would not do. The only way was forward and up, followed by what she hoped would be a blissful descent. She began to study the sky from time to time for breaks in the clouds. Even a modest sliver of blue would have set her up for hours. Without the sun to illuminate the scenery, the climb began to seem more and more existential. Why hike up a mountain with the almost certain knowledge that one would be able to see nothing from the summit?
    They had climbed eighteen hundred feet to reach Met Station. On the other hand, they’d gained five thousand feet, part of it by Land Rover, since leaving the lodge that morning. The