The following is a sample chapter from the novella THE FALL LINE by Lucid Fitzpatrick
A SKIER HOLDS NO ENVY TOWARD A BIRD SOARING IN THE SKY.
Zack Reeves caught sight of a golden eagle from the snowy mountain peak. The heavy storm front shifted in blooming maneuvers against the crosswinds, but the eagle hovered in a fixed point, flexing its courage beneath the battalion of threatening—but idle—winter clouds. The snowstorm offered its first reprieve after barraging the mountain for two weeks, and Reeves watched the bird with a naked eye as it perched in front of a veiled Sun, held captive behind the gray shroud. The still frame exploded into action as the starving eagle tucked its wings and dived into a free fall to catch its first meal since the storm began. Reeves stood alone on the mountaintop and watched the streaking bird disappear into a distant valley. Swirling dust fell from the sky, and Reeves smiled at the winter covenant, happily accepting a diving eagle and fresh flurry in place of a docile dove and broken olive branch.
White ash covered the frozen landscape under the gray skies. The storm brought a season’s worth of snow in a fortnight, leaving The Seraphs Ski Haven drawn in grayscale over a white canvas and begging to be filled with the color of daring skiers. Reeves was an abstraction of the setting as if he were mined of its raw ore. Dashes of gray hair capped his tall frame like a fresh snowfall, and the scruff grown over the planes of his jaw matched the cold cloud cover. The hint of his blue eyes brought the first color to the scene, magnified by his jacket, which glowed with the blue of an exposed glacier. The light snow covered the tops of his skis, which soon disappeared under the accumulation. Reeves presided over a pristine snow cover that left the slope as smooth as a still pond in the early morning. A quiet laugh dispelled the thoughts passing in Reeves’ mind. “What a shame to disturb this perfect serenity,” he said in silence, “and what audacity to take it for myself.” Just as a sculptor seeks a perfect slab to carve, Reeves tucked his elbows into his ribcage and dived into his own free fall down the top section of The Second Seraph.
The muted sun crowned the four peaks of The Seraphs Ski Haven, breathing light into the quiet valley below. Angular shadows cut the village buildings in half, leaving the illusion of a town bowing in homage to the morning coronation. The steep slopes evaded the morning light, leaving the freshly groomed snow with its natural cold-blue luminance. Indeed, the ski resort held the allure of royalty: in nobility, tempting the ambitious with promises of glory; and in warning, deterring the timid amidst its danger. The Seraphs was a skier’s mountain where professionals trained for the highest competition and the most advanced amateurs sought to prove their merit. And just as animals migrate in search of fertile and flourishing grounds, the winter calls skiers to the mountain.
A string of gondolas climbed to the summit as a soft wind wisped across the terrain below, stirring the fresh dust on the virgin slope. The snow swirled in the shape of a living smoke and danced like a ritual of incense blessing the mountain.
Excitement exceeded expectation for the first group of passholders as their gondola passed the mountain’s midpoint. Chatter filled their carriage as the skiers discovered the surreality of being the target of their own envy; the group coveted what was to come. They pointed in marvel over the mountain’s beauty, the unblemished runs, and the prospect of being the first to carve into the slopes. As they rose, their sense of custody over the mountain grew. The words “first tracks” repeated among the group as if they were the artist’s signature on the mountain’s canvas. Their gaze fixed on the mountain, and one by one, the skiers fell silent upon the sight of a man in a bright blue coat sweeping down the hill.
Gasps filled the space left by the group’s stunned silence as they watched the lone skier command the steep slope. The skier held a tight form; his boots, knees, and hips moved as a singularity, and his skis held together as if riding a single plank. Only the motion in his wrists seemed conscious, leading the skier’s path. His line exposed the native resonance of the slope, bounding through arced turns at constant intervals, never wavering from the mountain’s natural tempo. Speed gave him fluidity, and his technique looked so effortless that he transformed skiing into a carefully choreographed dance. The group in the gondola watched in awe until the skier disappeared over a ridge behind them. They surrendered any thoughts of dominion over the mountain as they admired the trail left by the skier—a single line drawn as a symmetrical wave etched into the snow.
At the bottom of the run, red letters spelled “Salt Mine Express” across the white panels that covered the lift engines. Below the sign, a lift operator raised a broom and quickly swept a collection of white powder off of a bench. Three young men sat on the clean seat, and the operator sent them up the slopes. As the operator turned to inspect the next chair, he saw the man in the blue coat dropping down the ridge toward his lift. He stuck the bottom of the broomstick on the ground, wrapped his arms around the snow-covered bristles, and watched the skier complete the run. The skier’s style reached an aesthetique that betrayed anonymity. The lift operator need not see the skier’s face nor the name on his ski pass. If an artist’s work reveals his soul, then Zack Reeves skied as a naked spirit. Reeves made a sharp turn near the base of the lift line. His momentum carried him through the lane, stopping short of the loading zone.
“Look at that! Preacher-man gets first tracks this morning,” the lift operator said in a youthful voice, referencing—in error—Reeves’ nickname on the mountain. Reeves ignored the comment altogether. “I just got cleared to load riders on my lift. How’d you get up the mountain to make first tracks so early?” the lift operator asked.
“Caught a lift on a snow cat. I’m friendly with a driver,” Reeves said in a venerable voice, weighed by years of breathing cold, dense air.
“No lesson today? Is that why you’re out here by yourself?”
“I haven’t had a client in over a week. This storm blocked the tourist flow. Too few are brave enough to drive up Cottonfalls Pass. It’s all for the best, though. The snow has been too good this week. I woke up today with an urge to ski alone.”
“You should always ski with a partner.”
“Solitude suits me better,” Reeves said, closing his eyes with a shrug. He dropped the words as a sandbag, blocking a current of emotion. The word partner tripped a subconscious reflex, bringing an immediate image to the front of his mind—a picture of warm cheeks inside the frame of strawberry blonde hair. His eyes closed to draw the image into focus; the shrug was an attempt to dismiss it.
“How is it out there? As good as advertised?” the operator asked.
“Glorious. I’ve gone entire seasons without having a run like that first lap.”
“You can’t beat the honor of making first tracks.”
“How am I first tracks with those kids riding up there?” Reeves said, pointing his pole at the occupied chair climbing up the mountain.
“They got here same as you. Bribed a cat driver. Got here half-an-hour ago and just waited for my lift to open. The only tracks on the mountain right now are yours, Preacher.”
“It’s Brother,” Reeves said, correcting the operator and wincing over both the mistaken and corrected alias.
“Oh, is it? I knew it was something old and religious.”
“I’m not old. Or religious,” Reeves said, pressing and turning his right foot.
“Aren’t you, though? I’ve heard you yelling at your clients, teaching that old style like you’re some kind of evangelist. Just look at those long, stiff breadsticks you’re still using,” the operator said, tapping the end of his broomstick on the tip of Reeves’ ski. “They’re so clumsy. You won’t find any racer or free skier on this rock who uses skis like that anymore. I don’t know how you do it on those behemoths. You may have the prettiest skiing on the mountain, but there’s a reason that none of the pros here look like you, Brother.”
“The shortest distance between two points is a straight line, but no one admires a stick figure,” Reeves said with an honesty that responded to the words, forgetting for a moment that he spoke them aloud and to another person.
“What the hell does that mean?”
“Forget it,” Reeves said, still checking his equipment. “Got a Phillips-head in there?” Reeves asked as he removed his ski and pointed to the operator booth.
The lift operator tossed the broom aside, reached into the booth, and handed the tool to Reeves. Reeves slipped out his gloves, pushed the head of the tool into his toe piece, and made a micro-turn, adjusting the binding on his right ski. He handed the screwdriver back to the lift operator and re-mounted his ski.
“That’s it?” The lift operator asked.
“Binding felt loose.”
“You didn’t even tighten it. That can’t have made a difference.”
“Like I said, it felt loose,” Reeves said, satisfied after a quick test of the adjustment.
“You are a monk,” the operator said.
“That’s what they say.”
“They also say you’ve spent your whole life chasing the perfect run. With these conditions, today might be the day to catch it. I heard the forecast is so good, the national team extended their training here for another week.”
“Thanks for the screwdriver,” Reeves said, ignoring the lift operator’s comments about his reputation.
“Enjoy your day off, Brother,” the lift operator said. He grabbed his broom and swept off the next chair for Reeves. Reeves nodded and entered the loading zone.
The chairlift bounced before it steadied itself on the express cable, driving toward the peak of The Second Seraph. The ground descended as the chair fell towards the sky. The cold air scraped over Reeve’s exposed cheeks, and his stomach sank to his waist while he rose higher up the mountain. His back and neck tightened, but no matter how taut he kept his body, he felt dizzy, as if his conscious was disoriented and disconnected from his body. Reeves gripped the safety rail across his lap and took a deep breath, feeling his legs dangle between the weight of his skis and the weightless sensation of being suspended in the air. A slow, condensed fog left Reeves’ pursed lips as he released an intentional exhale and leaned over the side of the chair—beyond its safety. He focused on the base of the trees as he forced himself to look down to face his fear of heights—just as he did every time he got on a lift. Reeves knew stories of people conquering their fears, but in forty years of skiing—and thousands of chairlift rides—overcoming his acrophobia proved a futile hope.
Without warning, the lift stopped mid-ride with a soft jolt, leaving Reeves to dangle four stories above the steep slope. The chair bounced with the shifting tension of the line, and Reeves remembered that skiers spend most of their time on the mountain riding the lifts. He stared at the slope below, eyes drawn in contemplation as if to question why he subjected himself to such torture. After a moment, Reeves found a waving trail traced in the mountainside. Broad strokes widened the contours of the trail’s tight curves, while thin, ruthless lines threaded the arcs together with proportions that transformed the remnant tracks into elegant calligraphy. Reeves had his answer.
The lift resumed. By the halfway point, Reeves settled into the ride and surveyed the conditions, noting which runs would be skied early and which he should hit first—a plan formed in Reeves’ mind. “Start with the backside of The First Seraph,” he thought, “before the crowds build. The snow is great there; it will be the best skiing of the day. Then, shift over to the bottom half of The First Seraph for the rest of the morning since the tourists will be busy exploring the top of the mountain. Grab lunch at the base lodge, then cover The Fourth Seraph, and hit the rest of the mountain as I make my way back.” Reeves was happy with his plan but remembered what the lift operator told him—the national team extended their stay. “So avoid The Second Seraph,” he concluded, “half of the front side will be blocked for training and the other half will be obstructed with curious observers.”
Up ahead, the three young men bounced carelessly on their chair. Even from a distance, Reeves could see their recklessness. On the right edge, one of the young men danced with his hands in the air while another knocked his dangling skis together, ridding them of their collected snow. Reeves heard the clapping skis and watched the mix of slush and ice drop to the ground. The height of the fall gave the illusion of slow motion, only revealing the extent of the plummet at the moment of impact. Above the large crater where the icy debris crashed, the skier in the middle seat pointed at the V-shaped horizon where the Second and Third Seraphs converged. The young man who danced gave him a playful shove as he pointed. Their mischief left the chair swinging like a pendulum, closing within an arm’s length of a passing lift tower.
Reeves’ eye clung to the ridge in the distance where the young man had pointed, and his concern reached a fever pitch. He forgot their reckless behavior, the swinging chair, and the falling snow. In fact, Reeves forgot about the height altogether. He only thought of Two-and-a-Half Pass, the passage between the Second and Third Seraphs, the tree-ridden path to the backside of the mountain known as Hallow’s Gallows, and beyond that, The Falls.
The Falls was a legendary run without a legend. The skiing community was filled with third and fourth-hand accounts of men who claimed to have successfully skied the off-limits territory on the back side of The Seraphs. There was no evidence, no witnesses, nor any first-hand accounts. The Falls were part of Semitry National Park, a federally-owned and protected wildlife preservation adjacent to The Seraphs. Reeves heard its legends growing up, and when he joined The Seraph’s ski school, he learned directly of the inevitable peril for anyone who dared ski The Falls. Once or twice a season, alerts sound over a missing skier. It wouldn’t be until the late spring, when the base of the mountain thawed, that a Semitry ranger would find a frozen corpse adorned with mangled ski gear. Surviving The Falls was an impossibility. Successfully skiing it would constitute a miracle. And Reeves was not a religious man.
They’re smarter than they let on, Reeves thought to himself as he watched the young men. He continued: It’s too early to expect skiers from the base to reach this part of the mountain. I doubt ski patrol expects anyone near The Falls this early.
Reeves pulled a hand radio from his blue jacket and tuned it to the mountain’s emergency channel.
“This is Zack Reeves. I’m riding up Salt Mine and eye-balling a group of bogies who might be fixing to run The Falls. Anyone patrolling near Two-and-a-Half Pass? Over,” Reeves said into the handset.
“Zack, this is mountain dispatch. That’s a negative on any patrollers nearby. Over.”
“Hey, Zack, this is Jerison,” another voice chimed on the radio. “What’s their ETA? Pac and I are patrolling this morning, and we’re just about to unload from the gondola at Head Lamp. We can sprint over to Two-and-a-Half in about twenty. Over.”
“Twenty minutes will be five too late if these jokers head there,” Zack replied. “I’ll speed over and cut them off before they drop in. Over.”
“Roger. If they try, stall the idiots until we get there to escort them off the mountain. Any idea how they get up there so early? Over.”
“Caught a ride on a snowcat. Got dropped off at the bottom of Salt Mine. Figure out who the driver was and tell him he owes us a round tonight. Over.”
“Roger that. Shouldn’t be hard to I.D. their passes when they scanned in on Salt Mine. See you over by Hallow’s Gallows, Brother. Over and out.”
“Over and out.”
The three young men slid off at the top of the lift. Reeves watched as they situated their gear and surveyed the empty mountain. Each skier in the group mounted a large backpack and aimed their skis toward The Third Seraph and Hallow’s Gallows. Reeves recognized the signs: straps on their packs to hold their skis; the equipment needed to hike through Hallow’s Gallows; and a hope to hike out of Semitry National Park. Casual passholders do not carry such gear—any doubt of their intention burned away from Reeves’ mind. The young men’s intention was clear.
The remaining moments of the chairlift ride stretched out before him. Still, Reeves sat back in the chair, calmed by the quiet hum and vibration from the lift. He relaxed more with each turn of the bullwheel. Stopping the foolish skiers would be a simple task. The moment’s urgency diminished; Reeves felt no rush to chase the kids as he counted his advantages. The mountain was his backyard. He knew every run, pass, and path. He surmised that the young men would not know the precise point to enter Hallow’s Gallows and access The Falls. Reeves knew. He also knew that, no matter their skill, he could best their speed.
A soft draft blew over the mountain, gently pushing the chair and whispering soft static across Reeves’ ears. The cool air felt refreshing, and the sound of soothing static meshed with the sway of the chair as it caught the wind. It was enough to put any man to sleep. Reeves was shocked when he reached the sign that read “Ski Tips Up.” He shoved off the chair and cruised down the ramp and onto Dark Adits, the sprawling run below Salt Mine Express. Reeves skimmed over the snow, pulled his gloves over his hands, and lowered his goggles without breaking his motion. He coasted down the mild slope, almost adrift save the ski tips that pointed like an arrow at Dark Adits … to Mine Bender … across Railcart catwalk … then down Denominator … to Two-and-a-Half Pass … and, finally, Hallow’s Gallows.
How can any man be so reckless as to gamble against the expense of his own life? There’s no reward granted under certain death. Reeves examined these thoughts as he built speed over Dark Adits. He knew men acted impulsively and compulsively, especially young men seeking immediate gratification without regard for long-deferred consequences. He thought of those who drank, and smoked, and chased women to excess. Even the hardest bender would leave breath in a man’s lungs, he thought, but running The Falls is an act that exceeds innocent, victimless debauchery. Reeves noted that The Falls never inspired casual curiosity and invariably provoked a morbid obsession leading to blasphemy—not against any god or religion—but against one’s own life.
Reeves’ skis lost the slope as his speed sent him airborne over a ridge. The snap of the skis sent an echo over the empty slope when he landed. Reeves passed the triumphal archway that presided over the eastward side of the run and adorned a set starting gates for the racecourse. The ridge was the official beginning of Mine Bender, the steepest and longest run on all of The Seraphs, running over three thousand vertical feet down The Second Seraph. Lines of blue dye ran along the western half of the slope, beginning at the archway’s starting gate and stretching beyond a racer’s vision. Reeves hugged the slope’s western edge, respecting the area reserved for the national team’s training.
He muted his speed as he traversed the racing trail. He knew catching Railcart catwalk required a hard stop mid-run on Mine Bender. The catwalk had just enough room for two skiers to run side-by-side and wrapped around to the backside of the mountain in a tight, uphill curve. If he carried too much speed, he’d miss it—or worse, end up crashing into the thicket of aspen trees below the narrow path. Reeves measured his approach to the catwalk, trying to preserve some momentum into the cramped trail. He pressed the edges of his skis hard into the slope, but the bend proved too tight. Reeves came to a standstill just below the catwalk’s opening. He stepped to pivot his skis and complete the hairpin turn. Tracks from the three young men littered the catwalk floor. Reeves saw them and dug the sides of his skis into the snow, pushing one leg after the other and shoving his poles into the trail as he skated in pursuit.
The skate across Railcart dropped skiers onto Denominator, a long, twisting path through the backside forest of The Second Seraph. Denominator’s length nearly matched Mine Bender, but officials deemed it unsafe for racing due to the danger of the trees aligning the narrow run.
Denominator’s trail line swung Reeves back and forth like a swerving pendulum. His motion transformed from effortless to helpless, leaving him hypnotized by his own action. Reeves could not tell if he took a moment for himself or if the moment took him over. Regardless, he forgot his immediate mission in the joy brought by his favorite run on the mountain. The trail was not a memory but a permanent pathway seared in his mind. Reeves navigated on nostalgia. The path opened before him like a cherished childhood song where melody and lyrics manifest without anticipation or thought. Patterns among the trees and the sensation in his feet as his skis scraped the snow were subconscious cues that kept Reeves making turns in time with the trail’s natural rhythm. Coil followed recoil as Reeves sank his knees deep into the peak of each turn, only to shoot upright as if shocked by the energy of the mountain. His bright blue jacket bounced along Denominator’s contours like a motor piston thrusting inside an engine block, ignited by the slope and combustion of speed.
A shallow crater scooped the earth from the flat mountain step where Denominator ceded to Two-and-a-Half Pass. Reeves cut across the bowl’s edge, hugging the rim to short-cut a route to the front lines of Hallow’s Gallows. The curved slope’s centripetal force tested the elasticity of his skis, but Reeves pressed underfoot to keep contact with the snow. He swooped to the head of Hallow’s Gallows and stepped out of his bindings in a single motion.
The three young skiers stood near the center of the bowl, orienting themselves on the mountain and trying to determine a path to The Falls. The trio stood in a line facing the impenetrable curtain of trees that stood like a blockade protecting the backside of the mountain. The weight of their skis—now mounted on their packs—forced each of the skiers into a slight hunch as they scouted the terrain. One of the young men braced against his poles, while his eyes failed to penetrate the dense forest. The two others huddled over a trail map, a phone, and a compass, searching for direction. Preoccupied with their dislocation, they did not notice Reeves emerge from Denominator. The pair looking at the map looked up and pointed toward the treeline just beyond where Reeves stopped. Reeves watched the three young men pack their devices and begin a slow, awkward walk, rocking heel-to-toe with ankles locked inside their ski boots, to the far end of Hallow’s Gallows.
Reeves hoped that his presence alone would be enough to dissuade them from their suicidal gambit. Hope proved futile; the three young men continued to trek towards the trees. Reeves marched to cut them off. He noted the young men’s formidable, calculating purpose. Their procession toward The Falls was devoid of apprehension, like a group of gamblers approaching a casino table with an untested strategy but novel advantage play. Reeves moved to intercept them, knowing they miscalculated their odds.
They ignored Reeves, even as he trudged toward them, plodding through the snow in his ski boots. As he got closer, Reeves was surprised at the young men’s demeanor. There was no sign of the playful recklessness they displayed on the chairlift. Their eyes were sharp in concentration and completely conscious of what they were doing. Physics teaches that energy cannot be created or destroyed, only transformed. The nervous energy of anticipation the trio displayed on the chairlift was gone. In its place, the young men harnessed the focused energy of execution.
Reeves noticed more details in their equipment. Each of them outfitted their pack with an avalanche airbag, and Reeves recognized a yellow radio dangling on a lanyard around one of the skier’s necks—an avalanche transceiver. They were thoughtful and prepared. Moreover, Reeves did not see any cameras or mounts on their helmets or in their packs, nor did they stop to record commentary or document their escapade. It stirred a sense of camaraderie and respect within Reeves. These were not the daredevil thrill-seekers trying to exploit the mountain that Reeves anticipated. These were experienced, big mountain skiers, respectful of the mountain and its dangers. True, they were young, but they were also men who reached the rare point in maturity where youth merged with experience. Revolutions ignite from the sparks sprayed when bravado collides with wisdom. These are my people, Reeves thought, and he started to feel guilty over his duty.
“That’s far enough, fellas,” Reeves said, the strength of his voice projected over his reluctance. Reeves raised a hand, signaling the three young men to halt as he interceded. The young men stopped before him.
“This is a mountain. We’re just here to ski, brother,” the young man wearing a radio lanyard said, speaking for the group.
Reeves was taken aback. The young man said, “brother,” not in wit, irony, or malice—he could not have known Reeves or his nickname—instead, the young man said it in a simple, fraternal tone. Reeves expected a confrontation with grievance and insults that accused him of being old, out-of-touch, and a sellout. He did not expect a plea that invoked a sense of camaraderie. And perhaps it was not a plea at all, but still, the words landed on Reeves’ conscience and stirred his emotions. The words appealed to his emotions but not as an emotional appeal. They implored to that root which causes emotion—deep within Reeves, it was the mountain and what a man and his tools can do upon it. The emotion was not sympathy for the young men or their desires; Reeves felt aspiration for himself and his own. Reeves wanted to let them pass … to wish them well and give them blessings of safety … to let them attempt The Falls. He wanted to see them succeed.
“I can’t let you do that,” Reeves said, honoring his duty as a ski instructor under the employ of the mountain resort.
“There’s no ‘let’ here, bluecoat,” the young man chided. “We’re hiking through those trees and skiing whatever it is that we find behind it. You can’t stop all three of us.”
“You’re right. I can’t stop you. And you know what, that mountain range back there, it can’t stop you either. In fact, it won’t stop you at all. It will let you pass, fall, and tumble while your body bounces off its iron rock.”
“We’ve skied big mountains across four continents. We’ve made hundred-foot drops, skied a fifty-degree pitch, and succeeded where many men have died.”
“Have you ever seen the terrain on the backside? I know you haven’t because helicopters can’t get in close enough to take photos, and hikers are not permitted in the wildlife sanctuary at the bottom. And for every man who’s dared what you’re trying, the mountain has taken his life in return. It’s impossible.”
“We have heard these arguments before, and they only motivate us. Everything’s impossible until it isn’t.”
“The Falls are not a conquest, Reeves said. “It’s a futile crusade. And to run it would be a miracle.”
“Isn’t that all the reason to dive in? To do the miraculous?”
“I want you to live.”
“Living is trying to do something that’s never been done. Death is living like an everyman. You say you want us to live. I say we want to be alive.”
“You say that now. See how alive you feel when you watch a friend perish on your ventures.”
“Look at us, bluecoat. We’ve sat on flights with an empty seat next to us, having made arrangements for a brother’s body to be shipped home. We know that hurt. And we know the aftermath. That pain is nothing next to the emptiness of going through life, knowing the feeling of making the first descent down a mountain that has never been skied before and ignoring the burning desire to find it again. We’ve all seen what’s at the end of that path. You try to numb it because it never goes away. You try to fill it with alcohol and drugs and all those things that kill a man’s spirit. That’s not life. So we choose this, even if it means dying. Living otherwise is worse.”
“I’m sorry, Reeves whispered and failed to find any other words to persuade the group.
The young man with the lanyard took the opportunity left by the pause. He gave a gentle jab with his elbow to each of his partners and signaled them with a nod to continue. They spread out, each treading toward a different entry in a tree line. Reeves stepped forward, raised his hands to his chest, and spread his elbows wide to block the young man with the lanyard. Their eyes locked, and neither man budged.
The young man shuffled to the side with aggression to evade Reeves. The others rushed toward the forest. Reeves countered, colliding with the young man, who dropped his shoulder under Reeves’s elbow. Reeves shoved him downward. The young man toppled onto one knee under the weight of his pack. Reeves lifted his hand off the young man’s back, shaking his head in a self-reprimand for using force. He looked up and saw the others scrambling toward the trees. In a desperate plea—with a bleeding intention that wavered between stopping and helping the young men—Reeves shouted an involuntary bark, “You’re going the wrong way!”
The group stopped, and the young man genuflecting under Reeves’ arms looked up at him, first with curiosity and then with certainty as he said, “You’ve been back there before, haven’t you?”
“Yes,” Reeves said with reluctant guilt.
“But you didn’t ski it.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Then help us succeed where you failed. Tell us where the access is.”
“I can’t,” Reeves said, grabbing the young man’s arm to help him up. The young man stood and met Reeves face-to-face.
“If you dared go back there, then you understand why—why we’re going,” the young man said.
“I do,” Reeves confessed, “but that doesn’t change anything.”
“It won’t change anything for you. You went there, saw it, and balked. I can’t help you get over your fear. We don’t share your fear, bluecoat, and you have no right to press it upon us.”
Reeves remained silent, struggling to say the words that he wanted to shout. His conscience fought the urge to tell the young men where to enter Hallow’s Gallows; that the forest was just as steep as ski runs and, at times, they would need to climb backward and brace against tree trunks to keep from sliding down; that the only remote chance to survive was a vertical ridge protruding along the southmost portion of The Falls. He suppressed the words under the guise of his duty as a ski instructor, knowing, in truth, that his response was to the pressure of his own fear. He thought, I refuse to be responsible for these young men’s deaths. Then, as if being answered by a ghost, the words, “We want to be alive,” echoed in Reeves’ mind. And he knew he would carry an even greater guilt should he strip these man of the responsibility of their own lives and their agency to pursue a passion.
“Okay,” Reeves whispered to the young man, “I’ll tell you,” but the admission was muffled by the spitting sound of a snowmobile engine. The roar caused the group to wince, and when their senses returned, the path to the Hallow’s Gallows was blocked by the two patrollers who skied in from Head Lamp. Two others on snowmobiles surrounded the young men.
“That’s enough,” Jerison Foster said. He wore a red ski patrol jacket. Reeves recognized the voice from this radio.
“This is what is going to happen now,” Pascal Moreau, Jerison’s partner, said. “You’re all going to turn around. We’re going to escort you back to Head Lamp Gondola, where you will ride back down to the base. Your ski passes have been revoked. You are no longer permitted on this mountain. If there’s any funny business, I’ll have police waiting at the base. Try anything, and you’ll be dragged off in handcuffs, wishing we had let you perish on the mountain today.”
The young men’s posture relented. The man with the lanyard looked in Reeves’ eyes and shook his head in disappointment toward Reeves, himself, and all existence. Reeves froze and locked eyes with the skier, fighting his emotions and the urge to apologize. It was not empathy nor pity towards the skiers; Reeves held himself in silent account for his own actions. The young men turned around and hiked slowly as directed by the patrollers, with the two snowmobiles flanking either side of the group.
“Thanks for stalling them, Zack,” Jerison said after the group dispersed. “It looks like things got a little tense here. You did good.”
“Thanks for the reinforcements. You don’t have to worry about the kids. They won’t give you any problems.”
“No? It looked like they were about to give it to you.”
“They aren’t troublemakers. They’re purists, and they know they’ve missed their shot.”
“All for the best. It was Enzo, by the way.”
“Who, the kid?”
“No. Enzo Carabelli, the cat driver who dropped them off before the lifts opened. He’s got the tab at The Steep Easy tonight. Drinks are on him.”
Reeves nodded and walked back to his skis. They lay side-by-side with the poles planted in the snow next to the edge of either ski. The empty kit looked like a still photo of a phantom skier. Reeves moved with a somber walk to his equipment, moving like a man in torment.
“You saved their lives,” Jerison said as he left to catch up to the group.
Reeves mounted his skis, looked up to the soft gray of the snowy skies above, to the tips of the trees, and then his sight got lost in the dense hedgerow of Hallow’s Gallows. A few hundred yards away from the drop of the cliff—which he imagined was covered by the same soft, dry snow for which The Seraphs were famous—drafted by nature and forever waiting for an expression made by the touch of a man.
“Is that what I did?” Reeves asked himself in rhetoric as his ski tips pointed to the flat safety of the marked trails.
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PART 2 – The Sanctuary
Stained glass windows split the late afternoon sunlight into the colors of a flame. The ambiance spread red and yellow hues over the decor of antique ski gear and mountain equipment, warming the guests of The Steep Easy in both body and spirit. Drinks and food were served to customers sitting at tabletops made of old wooden skis tiled together under a lacquer finish. Customers sat on old, repurposed chairlifts that bookended the bar’s booths. After flying over the mountain, the Steep Easy provided a soft landing for skiers to welcome the evening.
The saloon doors swung and collapsed as Reeves entered the bar, passing a sign that read, “Open Mic Night.”
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