Rising Abruptly by Gisèle Villeneuve

tradition, but it has stopped raining. In the next bed, monsieur Hulot is sawing logs. I glance out the window. The sky is as clear as in outer space, stars shining blindingly. I follow the progress of a satellite. On the horizon are visible the lights of Kota Kinabalu. Far below, the lights of villages dot the jungle. At this hour, are the Dayak revellers, high on tuak, giggling and paddling across the molasses river toward their two-light-bulb village? Where is Sab at this hour? Returning safely and triumphantly to her jungle bungalow with a bag full of miraculous plants? Learning from the housekeeper where I have gone, without pause or refreshment, jumping back into her jeep, driving on the hairpin highway, headlamp lighting her way up the mountain trail, setting up at a trot toward the top, passing me by at Laban Rata, Sab, besting her best climbing time? I doze off.
    Doors are banging.
    Two A.M. Still no rain, wind still gusting. And bunk mate still snoring like a babi boar. Sleep for me will no longer be an option. And when he wakes up from his slumber, fresh as a daisy, he will vomit words all over me. My loose bowels have settled and, although it is cold, I’m no longer shivering.
    In the restoran, the half-asleep young servers are wearing bulky sweaters over their sarongs and the trekkers are brimming with excitement. I force myself to eat something. Remembering our hunger when Sab and I trekked to Chinatown in the wee hours, a fine conclusion to nos folles nuits de Montréal. I drink sweet tea and nibble on French toast. In the back, his head right into the kitchen sink, the cook is hawking with such abandon, it sounds like terminal retching. His dreams must have been ferocious, for his need to expel much evil spirit is strong. I too must hawk. Losing Hugh, that lump in my throat, has become an urgent necessity. As urgent as my need for a cold snap. And so, to escape one and find the other, I must finish the climb. And so, I am allowing the call of the cold to lure me where I may encounter hypothermia.
    At three A.M. , wearing all my layers of clothing, I join Ebin outside. He is lightly dressed in fleece pants and a windbreaker over his hoodie. He still carries no pack. Most likely, he keeps extra clothing at the rest house, guarded by the spirits of the mountain. I wonder if they do laundry. Divested of his propane tank, he seems so light, the fierce wind could transport him to the summit. No wonder his climbing time is so good. I turn on my headlamp, he his small torch, and he leads the way. Leaving the shelter of the balcony, the wind seizes us. I’m surprised by its warmth.
    We begin the climb via a series of rough wooden steps and scaffoldings anchored to the cliffs, keeping footing and balance over granite slabs by means of ropes fixed to bolts drilled into the rock. An easy and mysterious climb in the middle of the night, une nuit extraordinaire dotted with the flickering lights of the climbers and their guides following us.
    Ebin waits for me: Jillanto, down there, Tamparuli. Village and river with same name. My home.
    Tamparuli. The home of a man. I so wish Sab were here. Once back down at headquarters, I’ll mail her the poskad. Add that I had a marvellous time in her absence. I do feel her presence against my shoulder. Spending this night out with Sab in the high mountains of Borneo, the thick jungle below, lush with secret plants, above, the stars of the southern hemisphere sharing the sky with the equatorial half moon lying on its back.
    Sab, the scientist. I do admire the true scientific mind. Not the operators of the world. Not the prima donnas. Not those who seek an advantage through position of power and through honours only to advance their career. But the true scientific mind that investigates tirelessly. Is curious for the sake of discovering the hidden functions and the minute mechanics of the physical world. And on this steep incline, a new thought forms in my mind. The effect of