The Trail to Buddha's Mirror - Don Winslow [138]
Lan diplomatically withdrew as Neal winced with pain, and reappeared a few minutes later with two steaming bowls of porridge.
“What’s that?” Neal asked.
“Congee,” she replied. “Rice gruel.”
Neal ate the Chinese version of oatmeal gratefully—the thin cereal warmed his stomach in the early morning cold. He ate standing up; he didn’t want to put himself through the small torture of having to sit down and get up again. They finished their breakfast quietly, the tension between them palpable. The mountain’s summit would be the deciding point in their relationship, and they both felt it but didn’t want to talk about it. First they must get to the top of the mountain.
The trail started gently and led through a thick cedar forest. It was cold and dark, and Neal shivered. The altitude was starting to get to him, and he noticed that he was starting to breath heavily. He couldn’t help but notice; each breath stabbed his rib cage.
They walked for about twenty minutes to the far edge of the woods. Neal looked ahead on the trail and wished that he hadn’t; the steps ahead seemed to go straight up.
“Three Look Stairway,” Li said. “Pilgrims look at it three times before they want to climb it.”
“I’ve looked at it three times,” Neal answered, “and I still don’t want to climb it.”
The grade was so steep that his knees practically touched his chest with every step. He consciously pushed off the balls of his feet, trying to concentrate on his legs as his ribs burned and stabbed him. He had to stop after the first twenty steps.
Li turned around. “Please go back to the monastery. I will bring Robert down.”
“Right.”
“I promise.”
“I started out to climb the fucking mountain. I am going to climb the fucking mountain.”
“You are a fool.”
“I’m not arguing.”
She turned and started back up. He caught his breath and went after her. Yi, ar, yi, ar, yi, aaarrgh! His ribs threatened him. He felt the sun begin to beat on his hunched-over back. Yi, ar, yi, ar … yi … ar
… yi … ar … yi … ar…….yi. He stopped to rest again. He wanted to collapse on the stairs, to lie down and rest, but he knew he probably couldn’t get up again, so he forced himself to take another step. Wrapping one arm around his ribs, he took another step. The pain nauseated him. Another step. More pain. Another. Yi, ar, yi, ar. Another rest.
He started out again. The trail curved sharply and then opened out onto the edge of a cliff. To Neal’s right a sheet or rock rose as high as he could see. To his left—much to closely to his left—was a drop of at least a thousand feet.
Don’t look down, Neal warned himself. Isn’t that what they say in all the movies?
He peeked again. His stomach lurched and his head spun. That’s probably why they say not to look down, he thought. He felt as if he were hanging on to the edge of the world as he began his trudge up the mountain again. Yi, ar, yi, ar, yi …
Just focus on counting, he thought. Don’t think about the pain, don’t think about the fear, don’t think about Pendleton, or about her, and for God’s sake, whatever you do, don’t think about the fact that they’re gaining on you. At this pace, they have to be gaining on you. Gaining fast. But don’t think about that. Think about yi, ar, yi, ar… yi… ar … yi … ar … for two solid hours straight up the hill.
Li was waiting for him on a broad landing.
She pointed up ahead of her. He could see a huge peak, shaped like a big nose, rising above the rest of the rocks.
“The summit,” she said.
“How far?”
“Four hours. Perhaps for you six.”
Perhaps for me death.
“Is it all this steep?”
“Most. One place is gentle, almost level. But, I am afraid, it is also very frightening,”
Swell.
“Why frightening?”
“The path is very narrow.”
“Over a very long fall?”
She nodded and frowned. Then she smiled and added, “But after that, it is a short climb to summit.”
Neal looked at the summit again. Fuck you, Silkworm’s Eyebrow!