“How could you rise anew if you have not first become ashes?”
Nietzsche
November, Maine
Catherine would never forget the tight knot of panic squeezing her heart as she looked down, down an almost thousand-foot drop to moss-dusted crags, down through the cold wraiths of mist circling the mountain in the chill November air. She took a tentative step forward, away from the comfort of the cliff face, but retreated when the icy breath of high altitude fanned her face. What she’d thought was solid rock behind her yielded slightly and she froze, engulfed in terror. I’m going to fall. I’m going to die in agony, crushed on those jagged spears. The rock behind her moved again. She began to topple forward, but a furry paw seized her elbow. The paw tightened its grip, and Catherine let it pull her sideways, back into a gap between the damp stone walls.
Okay, steady on. Take a deep breath. It’s not a bear. It’s not a bear. It’s not. A. Bear. Now, open your eyes. There, crushing her arm, were five fingers encased in a thick, leather glove. Told you. Her eyes moved up a forearm to a broad fur-covered chest. She risked a peek at the dark face, wreathed in more fur. It was scrunched up, not with the cold but with a cold fury. The deep brown eyes flashed. She meekly dropped her own. “I was perfectly safe, Mr. Taggart,” she whispered. Does that sound as stupid to him as it does to me?
The man scowled. “Don’t be so sure.” He moved around Catherine and knocked lightly with his heel at the ledge on which she’d been standing. A large chunk broke off and tumbled in crumbly bits into the ether. She heard pops and bangs as it immolated itself on the spikes below. Still scowling, he grunted, “Get back to the others.” His voice was deep and primal.
Casting a frightened look at the broken ledge, Catherine scrambled up the path toward a small cluster of figures, who were stamping their feet to keep warm. A figure in a pink parka cried, “Oh, Mrs. Killean, are you okay?” Catherine didn’t trust herself to say anything, so she merely nodded.
“You scared the bejesus out of us!” An older woman grabbed her hand and turned to the man at her side. “Leo, speak to her!”
A heavily wrinkled face set in what Catherine suspected was a permanently cheerful expression peeked out from under a Polartec hood and grinned at her. “All right, Ivy. I’ll speak to the child.” In a stern voice spiced with hints of laughter, he intoned, “Now young lady. You’re young enough to be our daughter, so mind your p’s and q’s!”
Taggart brushed past them. “We lost some time because of Mrs. Killean’s little escapade. If we want to get back to the inn before dark, we need to keep moving. There’s only about an hour more of daylight.” He glowered in disapproval at his charges and at Catherine in particular.
Seven hikers moved into formation behind their guide. Leo, Ivy, and Catherine in their GORE-TEX outfits still crackling with newness led the way. After them came the pink-clad female. She walked briskly, photographic equipment hanging from both shoulders. By her side staggered a shorter, bandy-legged figure bundled into a full-length, puffy, goose down coat. Leo looked back. “You with us, Professor?” The man squeaked something unintelligible. Behind him two more hikers waited for him to move.
“This is even worse than you said it was going to be, Harley.” The balaclava mask and thick scarf couldn’t muffle the man’s peevish whine.
“I’m sorry, Al,” replied his companion in a reedy voice almost lost to the bitter wind. “I didn’t know it would be so cold this early in November.”
“Really? What did you expect—Tahiti? Miserable. Intolerable. Never again, Harley. Never again.”
“Yes, Al.” As they started to move, the woman called Harley cried, “Wait! Wait! The lovers aren’t here!”
The professor stopped and turned. “Who?”
“You know, the honeymooners. They aren’t behind us.”
Leo waved an arm. “Yoo hoo, Mr. Taggart! Stop! Two missing!”
Catherine heard an oath from the general vicinity of the guide. He spun around and strode back, nearly knocking over the photographer. Just then a couple came into view. They were holding hands and not looking where they were going. The guide halted before them. “If you wanted to neck, why didn’t you go to Mexico for your blasted honeymoon?” His voice bristled with irritation.
The two reluctantly broke apart. “Oh, Mr. Taggart, we’re sorry. We were a bit distracted.”
“Hmph. Can’t afford that at a thousand feet up. Come on.” He passed the others and stomped down the steep, rocky path. In the distance, water sparkled under the pale sun. As the sky dimmed and the cold thickened, the little party reached a flat plain. In the distance a light flickered in the gloom. Taggart loped toward it, his raised hand pointing the way to nirvana, as Ivy remarked loudly to Leo.
They arrived at the door of a long, low building. It opened and welcoming warmth streamed out. A cheery voice greeted the travelers with possibly the most agreeable words in the English language. “Hot buttered rum, anyone?” Their host, a ruddy-faced man almost as wide as Taggart was tall, appeared. His heavy red flannel shirt matched his cheeks.
Taggart shook his hand. “Take care of ’em, Franz. Later.” He disappeared. Franz opened his arms wide. “You can leave your outer garments here, then I shall show you to your rooms.”
Guests peeled off at numbered doors as they followed Franz down a long corridor. Catherine’s room lay at the end. She unpacked and shrugged on a fleece caftan, then opened her door cautiously, hoping no one would care that she hadn’t bothered to brush her hair. The door across the hall opened at the same time and a young woman peeked out.
“Mrs. Killean?”
“Yes, but do call me Catherine.”
“Catherine it is. I’m Sarah. Sarah Sidwell. Do you know if we should dress for dinner? I can’t tell how formal this place is.” She looked at the crystal chandelier and the walls paneled in pine, golden with age and years of wax.
Catherine pointed instead at the worn carpet and peeling paint on the door. “I have a feeling Mount Kineo Resort’s heyday is long past. But,” she said cheerfully, “it’s cozy, and I hear hot buttered rum awaits us. I for one am not going to dress. I want that drink.”
The girl came slowly out of her room. Freed of her lumpy jacket, she turned out to be a tall, athletic young woman in her twenties. She carried a camera tucked under one arm like a teddy bear. “I’ll come with you.”
Nietzsche
November, Maine
Catherine would never forget the tight knot of panic squeezing her heart as she looked down, down an almost thousand-foot drop to moss-dusted crags, down through the cold wraiths of mist circling the mountain in the chill November air. She took a tentative step forward, away from the comfort of the cliff face, but retreated when the icy breath of high altitude fanned her face. What she’d thought was solid rock behind her yielded slightly and she froze, engulfed in terror. I’m going to fall. I’m going to die in agony, crushed on those jagged spears. The rock behind her moved again. She began to topple forward, but a furry paw seized her elbow. The paw tightened its grip, and Catherine let it pull her sideways, back into a gap between the damp stone walls.
Okay, steady on. Take a deep breath. It’s not a bear. It’s not a bear. It’s not. A. Bear. Now, open your eyes. There, crushing her arm, were five fingers encased in a thick, leather glove. Told you. Her eyes moved up a forearm to a broad fur-covered chest. She risked a peek at the dark face, wreathed in more fur. It was scrunched up, not with the cold but with a cold fury. The deep brown eyes flashed. She meekly dropped her own. “I was perfectly safe, Mr. Taggart,” she whispered. Does that sound as stupid to him as it does to me?
The man scowled. “Don’t be so sure.” He moved around Catherine and knocked lightly with his heel at the ledge on which she’d been standing. A large chunk broke off and tumbled in crumbly bits into the ether. She heard pops and bangs as it immolated itself on the spikes below. Still scowling, he grunted, “Get back to the others.” His voice was deep and primal.
Casting a frightened look at the broken ledge, Catherine scrambled up the path toward a small cluster of figures, who were stamping their feet to keep warm. A figure in a pink parka cried, “Oh, Mrs. Killean, are you okay?” Catherine didn’t trust herself to say anything, so she merely nodded.
“You scared the bejesus out of us!” An older woman grabbed her hand and turned to the man at her side. “Leo, speak to her!”
A heavily wrinkled face set in what Catherine suspected was a permanently cheerful expression peeked out from under a Polartec hood and grinned at her. “All right, Ivy. I’ll speak to the child.” In a stern voice spiced with hints of laughter, he intoned, “Now young lady. You’re young enough to be our daughter, so mind your p’s and q’s!”
Taggart brushed past them. “We lost some time because of Mrs. Killean’s little escapade. If we want to get back to the inn before dark, we need to keep moving. There’s only about an hour more of daylight.” He glowered in disapproval at his charges and at Catherine in particular.
Seven hikers moved into formation behind their guide. Leo, Ivy, and Catherine in their GORE-TEX outfits still crackling with newness led the way. After them came the pink-clad female. She walked briskly, photographic equipment hanging from both shoulders. By her side staggered a shorter, bandy-legged figure bundled into a full-length, puffy, goose down coat. Leo looked back. “You with us, Professor?” The man squeaked something unintelligible. Behind him two more hikers waited for him to move.
“This is even worse than you said it was going to be, Harley.” The balaclava mask and thick scarf couldn’t muffle the man’s peevish whine.
“I’m sorry, Al,” replied his companion in a reedy voice almost lost to the bitter wind. “I didn’t know it would be so cold this early in November.”
“Really? What did you expect—Tahiti? Miserable. Intolerable. Never again, Harley. Never again.”
“Yes, Al.” As they started to move, the woman called Harley cried, “Wait! Wait! The lovers aren’t here!”
The professor stopped and turned. “Who?”
“You know, the honeymooners. They aren’t behind us.”
Leo waved an arm. “Yoo hoo, Mr. Taggart! Stop! Two missing!”
Catherine heard an oath from the general vicinity of the guide. He spun around and strode back, nearly knocking over the photographer. Just then a couple came into view. They were holding hands and not looking where they were going. The guide halted before them. “If you wanted to neck, why didn’t you go to Mexico for your blasted honeymoon?” His voice bristled with irritation.
The two reluctantly broke apart. “Oh, Mr. Taggart, we’re sorry. We were a bit distracted.”
“Hmph. Can’t afford that at a thousand feet up. Come on.” He passed the others and stomped down the steep, rocky path. In the distance, water sparkled under the pale sun. As the sky dimmed and the cold thickened, the little party reached a flat plain. In the distance a light flickered in the gloom. Taggart loped toward it, his raised hand pointing the way to nirvana, as Ivy remarked loudly to Leo.
They arrived at the door of a long, low building. It opened and welcoming warmth streamed out. A cheery voice greeted the travelers with possibly the most agreeable words in the English language. “Hot buttered rum, anyone?” Their host, a ruddy-faced man almost as wide as Taggart was tall, appeared. His heavy red flannel shirt matched his cheeks.
Taggart shook his hand. “Take care of ’em, Franz. Later.” He disappeared. Franz opened his arms wide. “You can leave your outer garments here, then I shall show you to your rooms.”
Guests peeled off at numbered doors as they followed Franz down a long corridor. Catherine’s room lay at the end. She unpacked and shrugged on a fleece caftan, then opened her door cautiously, hoping no one would care that she hadn’t bothered to brush her hair. The door across the hall opened at the same time and a young woman peeked out.
“Mrs. Killean?”
“Yes, but do call me Catherine.”
“Catherine it is. I’m Sarah. Sarah Sidwell. Do you know if we should dress for dinner? I can’t tell how formal this place is.” She looked at the crystal chandelier and the walls paneled in pine, golden with age and years of wax.
Catherine pointed instead at the worn carpet and peeling paint on the door. “I have a feeling Mount Kineo Resort’s heyday is long past. But,” she said cheerfully, “it’s cozy, and I hear hot buttered rum awaits us. I for one am not going to dress. I want that drink.”
The girl came slowly out of her room. Freed of her lumpy jacket, she turned out to be a tall, athletic young woman in her twenties. She carried a camera tucked under one arm like a teddy bear. “I’ll come with you.”
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