turn.
“Amen,” murmured Hugh, and drifted off.
He woke from a deep sleep, suddenly, not certain why. He lay still, waiting for something more.
The stars boiled in a narrow chute between the wall and the forest. Lewis wasn’t snoring. The forest was quiet. Hugh was about to close his eyes when he saw a shape gliding among the upper branches.
The moon wouldn’t get full for another few nights, meaning the moon shadows were faint. But enough light lingered to show the thing as it glided from one tree to another. It came to rest high above him, clinging there, resting perhaps, or getting his scent. Hugh didn’t move inside his sleeping bag. He tried to get a sense of its size and whether it had wings.
It seemed to breathe with the breeze. Even as its lungs sucked in and out, he saw another of the things approaching on the moonbeams. It made a quick slip higher, then folded, and grabbed on to a different tree. A minute later, a little flurry of white butterflies quivered past. Hugh was baffled. What kind of night creatures were these?
Then he remembered the women’s debris.
Descending their fixed ropes, Hugh and Lewis had looked out across the acres of treetops at the leftovers from the Trojan Women disaster. It was like coming across the remnants of a shipwreck, with gear and clothing spread in a wide fan among the highest branches. A parka neatly outstretched. A spaghetti mess of ropes and slings tangled in the limbs. Plastic bags had sailed among the redwoods like a flotilla of jellyfish.
Here was the last of them, Hugh realized, looking at the ghostly shapes above him. Plastic bags and the confetti of a shredded paperback. It was trickling down like sediment to the seafloor. The snaky stuff like ropes would probably bind up in the highest reaches and, over the coming seasons, slowly bleach white in the sun. Winter would flush the rest to earth where it would disintegrate or mingle with the garbage tossed off by other climbers.
He tried judging the time from the stars, and gave up. They were living without watches or cell phones now. He glanced at the odds and ends that had emptied out of Cyclops Eye. Living on the ruins of civilization.
He was almost asleep again when he heard the ceramic clatter of rock on rock. It made him sit up. He heard it again, the click-clack of talus and a low, guttural huff.
Scavengers, thought Hugh. Though probably not a bear. The bears tended to stay closer to Yosemite Village where the pickings were easy.
Another clap of stone. This time Hugh saw a curl of fireflies among the trees. In Yosemite? In this cold?
A man—or his phantom upper half—materialized in the phosphorous glow. He was a gaunt thing. A forest dweller. That should have tipped Hugh off. But still the sight didn’t register. He was too curious to question it out loud. He waited for the specter to leave the trees and come closer.
They weren’t fireflies, but a collar of chemical lights.
Hugh switched on his headlamp.
Joshua howled.
He was a startling sight, his mane and beard caked with mud, and a knife clutched in his teeth. The chemical lights dangled against his body hair. Like some junkyard aborigine, he’d painted stripes and circles on his naked chest with what appeared to be lipstick and axle grease. He’d blacked his face, and tied feathers to his straggly hair.
He loped crookedly across the boulders, going for Hugh. He had the knife in his good hand now. The blade was black, like a sliver of night.
“Joshua.” Hugh shouted it, trying to freeze the madman with his own name.
Joshua bounded at Hugh with a scream. Hugh kicked to free his body from the sleeping bag, but it tangled his legs. He shoved to his feet, and hopped to the side.
His light beam sluiced every which way. He lost Joshua. He found him. The knife was in midarc. Stone. A stone knife. It glinted.
The knife strobed down through dark and light. Hugh fell back. Joshua slashed again. Hugh rolled and thrashed. The damn bag.
His
“Amen,” murmured Hugh, and drifted off.
He woke from a deep sleep, suddenly, not certain why. He lay still, waiting for something more.
The stars boiled in a narrow chute between the wall and the forest. Lewis wasn’t snoring. The forest was quiet. Hugh was about to close his eyes when he saw a shape gliding among the upper branches.
The moon wouldn’t get full for another few nights, meaning the moon shadows were faint. But enough light lingered to show the thing as it glided from one tree to another. It came to rest high above him, clinging there, resting perhaps, or getting his scent. Hugh didn’t move inside his sleeping bag. He tried to get a sense of its size and whether it had wings.
It seemed to breathe with the breeze. Even as its lungs sucked in and out, he saw another of the things approaching on the moonbeams. It made a quick slip higher, then folded, and grabbed on to a different tree. A minute later, a little flurry of white butterflies quivered past. Hugh was baffled. What kind of night creatures were these?
Then he remembered the women’s debris.
Descending their fixed ropes, Hugh and Lewis had looked out across the acres of treetops at the leftovers from the Trojan Women disaster. It was like coming across the remnants of a shipwreck, with gear and clothing spread in a wide fan among the highest branches. A parka neatly outstretched. A spaghetti mess of ropes and slings tangled in the limbs. Plastic bags had sailed among the redwoods like a flotilla of jellyfish.
Here was the last of them, Hugh realized, looking at the ghostly shapes above him. Plastic bags and the confetti of a shredded paperback. It was trickling down like sediment to the seafloor. The snaky stuff like ropes would probably bind up in the highest reaches and, over the coming seasons, slowly bleach white in the sun. Winter would flush the rest to earth where it would disintegrate or mingle with the garbage tossed off by other climbers.
He tried judging the time from the stars, and gave up. They were living without watches or cell phones now. He glanced at the odds and ends that had emptied out of Cyclops Eye. Living on the ruins of civilization.
He was almost asleep again when he heard the ceramic clatter of rock on rock. It made him sit up. He heard it again, the click-clack of talus and a low, guttural huff.
Scavengers, thought Hugh. Though probably not a bear. The bears tended to stay closer to Yosemite Village where the pickings were easy.
Another clap of stone. This time Hugh saw a curl of fireflies among the trees. In Yosemite? In this cold?
A man—or his phantom upper half—materialized in the phosphorous glow. He was a gaunt thing. A forest dweller. That should have tipped Hugh off. But still the sight didn’t register. He was too curious to question it out loud. He waited for the specter to leave the trees and come closer.
They weren’t fireflies, but a collar of chemical lights.
Hugh switched on his headlamp.
Joshua howled.
He was a startling sight, his mane and beard caked with mud, and a knife clutched in his teeth. The chemical lights dangled against his body hair. Like some junkyard aborigine, he’d painted stripes and circles on his naked chest with what appeared to be lipstick and axle grease. He’d blacked his face, and tied feathers to his straggly hair.
He loped crookedly across the boulders, going for Hugh. He had the knife in his good hand now. The blade was black, like a sliver of night.
“Joshua.” Hugh shouted it, trying to freeze the madman with his own name.
Joshua bounded at Hugh with a scream. Hugh kicked to free his body from the sleeping bag, but it tangled his legs. He shoved to his feet, and hopped to the side.
His light beam sluiced every which way. He lost Joshua. He found him. The knife was in midarc. Stone. A stone knife. It glinted.
The knife strobed down through dark and light. Hugh fell back. Joshua slashed again. Hugh rolled and thrashed. The damn bag.
His
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