Mr Peanut - Adam Ross [75]
But he soon began to make better time. Whether from practice or confidence, the slight widening of the path in places or perhaps his instinct for self-preservation, he somehow achieved a suspension of disbelief about the very journey he was making. Death was right there, and so, with his left-hand fingers barely skimming the rock and his right arm stuck out over the abyss, he walked at normal speed until both arms hung safely at his sides; he let his vision shift slightly inward, kept his eyes fixed on a point several feet ahead, slowing only when he outpaced his own balance like a toddler running so fast the force threw him toward a fall. If he allowed himself to think—such respites quite rare—or became self-conscious, he came to a complete stop. But he got back up to speed quickly, recapturing his inner rhythm until it was thoughtless, and until that thoughtlessness in turn aped fearlessness. This whole process—the thinking about movement you took for granted, then taking it for granted—was the beauty of the trail, he managed to reflect, was a kind of accomplishment, and when he looked up after a long time (the reward for his trial) Alice was just ahead, and he stopped.
She herself had stopped, though clearly she didn’t realize he was right behind, and seeing her all at once jeopardized his own confidence. She was at the apex of the curve, struggling to press on, and now he could appreciate by dint of perspective just how narrow and dangerous the trail was. She was clearly exhausted, and when at that moment she went wobbly moving forward, the pack seemed even more precarious. It was like watching some fool carrying a stack of boxes, the gaps between them widening just before they tumbled free. She threw her right arm out to balance herself, and that was when he saw that she was carrying the urn in her hand.
“Alice!” he called.
She stopped again and gingerly turned to her left until she was nearly facing him. He could see her face peeking around the pack’s frame. She was in a state long past tears and terror, even resignation. It was an expression he’d never seen, a kind of vacancy. It was a look he felt on his own face.
“Stay where you are,” she said. “Don’t come near me.”
“What are you doing?”
“I said stay away. Do you understand? You’re cursed.”
He was still coming forward. He couldn’t help it. “What are you talking about?”
“Everything you touch withers,” she said. She was speaking as if they were walking alongside each other, her tone without affect. “Every choice you make is a trap.”
“Alice, come on. Let’s turn around. Let’s go back.”
“You take another step and I’ll jump!”
He stopped.
“There is no back,” she said, “don’t you get it? Back is all up there.” She pointed at the sky.
“Please, I’m begging you. I’ll leave. Just promise me you’ll turn around.”
“It was you,” she said.
He froze, leaning against the side.
“You wanted me to say it, so now I am.”
He was crying.
“Admit it,” she said.
She was only yards away—a stone’s throw—but he couldn’t move.
“You wanted this,” she said. “You wanted him gone and now me too.”
“Alice, please stop.”
“So I’m going to finish this. Do you