the rope tug on me and I use my left hand to tug back. It goes slack. I stand still and catch my breath, careful not to look down.
“You’re amazing, Jane!”
I look up and those bug eyes are watching me.
I look up at the wall. The path that Paul took across the eight remaining feet isn’t one I can replicate. His arms are long, and his ability to leap and his upper-body strength far surpass mine. I see a crack in the wall that extends from where I am, zigzagging like a lightning bolt all the way to the top. The problem is that it is another good eight feet to my right.
“If I can get to there”—I shout and point—“can you hold me?”
“Yes. Wait until I give the rope three tugs. That means I’m ready.”
I hold up my thumb and wait.
Everything is silent, except for the wind. It sings, a little deathly hollow sound that bounces from rock to rock. It is so lonely, roaming through this valley. I know why that lonely song found its way into my heart before, why the very beauty of loneliness itself could become a friend. It is seductive and sweet, maybe sweeter than anything two people can share. I can still hear the call of it, but it has no pull on me now. I’m just looking at the task in front of me, which is moving eight feet to the left without killing myself.
One, two, three. Paul pulls the rope. I feel it tighten against my waist, and I push off the wall and for a second fly through the air, off the earth and away from its gravity. Then my body comes back against a wall with a smack. I scratch and claw to gain a foothold on the cliff. My pants cinch up tight and stress the loop holes around my rope. I hear one of them tear and suddenly I realize that no matter how strong Paul is, no matter how defined his leverage, if the loops go or the rope goes, I am in big trouble.
My left hand finds grounding first. A little nub my fingers latch onto becomes my lifeline. I pull myself firmly to the wall with all my concentration focused on my index, middle, and ring fingers. My eyes dart up the crack, which is two to three feet to my right now and slightly above my shoulder. I grasp with my right hand and cup the crack where it zigzags back across the face of the mountain. I push to check the firmness of my grip and quickly pull myself up. My feet are still scraping against the rock, but with Paul’s pull, they can wait. I reach with my left hand and start hauling myself up the crack.
Suddenly, my right foot finds footing inside the crack and off I go. In a matter of seconds I’m ascending, with Paul’s help, up the side and toward the ledge. There’s a little abutment of rock sticking out and I can’t hoist myself over it. Paul pulls hard, but his force is only pinning me against the rock.
“Stop! Stop pulling!” I can barely call up loud enough for him to hear me.
The rope remains firm but the pulling stops.
“I’m stuck,” I call, “beneath a rock.”
I can hear Paul make his way slowly toward the edge, probably terrified of being pulled over and having both of us tumble to our doom.
“Jane?”
He’s not far from me, but I can’t see him because of the rock.
“Yeah?”
“Your rope is jammed in the rock. That’s why you can’t get onto the ledge.” His voice is calm. “We need to cut it.”
Cut the rope.
The words might as well be
Jane, we need to cut your heart out of your body
. I panic.
“I’ll fall!”
“No you won’t. Tighten your grip and let me know when the rope isn’t supporting you.”
I grasp as tightly as I can until I know in my heart that it is me who is holding my body on this mountain. Not Paul. Not God. Not a rope. Just Jane.
“That’s as firm as I can get,” I finally call. My voice is cracked. “I’m scared, Paul!”
“I’m gonna cut. You need to hold tight for less than a minute. You can do that. In about thirty seconds, my hand will come down to your left. Reach out and grab it, and I’ll pull you up. Trust me. I won’t let you
“You’re amazing, Jane!”
I look up and those bug eyes are watching me.
I look up at the wall. The path that Paul took across the eight remaining feet isn’t one I can replicate. His arms are long, and his ability to leap and his upper-body strength far surpass mine. I see a crack in the wall that extends from where I am, zigzagging like a lightning bolt all the way to the top. The problem is that it is another good eight feet to my right.
“If I can get to there”—I shout and point—“can you hold me?”
“Yes. Wait until I give the rope three tugs. That means I’m ready.”
I hold up my thumb and wait.
Everything is silent, except for the wind. It sings, a little deathly hollow sound that bounces from rock to rock. It is so lonely, roaming through this valley. I know why that lonely song found its way into my heart before, why the very beauty of loneliness itself could become a friend. It is seductive and sweet, maybe sweeter than anything two people can share. I can still hear the call of it, but it has no pull on me now. I’m just looking at the task in front of me, which is moving eight feet to the left without killing myself.
One, two, three. Paul pulls the rope. I feel it tighten against my waist, and I push off the wall and for a second fly through the air, off the earth and away from its gravity. Then my body comes back against a wall with a smack. I scratch and claw to gain a foothold on the cliff. My pants cinch up tight and stress the loop holes around my rope. I hear one of them tear and suddenly I realize that no matter how strong Paul is, no matter how defined his leverage, if the loops go or the rope goes, I am in big trouble.
My left hand finds grounding first. A little nub my fingers latch onto becomes my lifeline. I pull myself firmly to the wall with all my concentration focused on my index, middle, and ring fingers. My eyes dart up the crack, which is two to three feet to my right now and slightly above my shoulder. I grasp with my right hand and cup the crack where it zigzags back across the face of the mountain. I push to check the firmness of my grip and quickly pull myself up. My feet are still scraping against the rock, but with Paul’s pull, they can wait. I reach with my left hand and start hauling myself up the crack.
Suddenly, my right foot finds footing inside the crack and off I go. In a matter of seconds I’m ascending, with Paul’s help, up the side and toward the ledge. There’s a little abutment of rock sticking out and I can’t hoist myself over it. Paul pulls hard, but his force is only pinning me against the rock.
“Stop! Stop pulling!” I can barely call up loud enough for him to hear me.
The rope remains firm but the pulling stops.
“I’m stuck,” I call, “beneath a rock.”
I can hear Paul make his way slowly toward the edge, probably terrified of being pulled over and having both of us tumble to our doom.
“Jane?”
He’s not far from me, but I can’t see him because of the rock.
“Yeah?”
“Your rope is jammed in the rock. That’s why you can’t get onto the ledge.” His voice is calm. “We need to cut it.”
Cut the rope.
The words might as well be
Jane, we need to cut your heart out of your body
. I panic.
“I’ll fall!”
“No you won’t. Tighten your grip and let me know when the rope isn’t supporting you.”
I grasp as tightly as I can until I know in my heart that it is me who is holding my body on this mountain. Not Paul. Not God. Not a rope. Just Jane.
“That’s as firm as I can get,” I finally call. My voice is cracked. “I’m scared, Paul!”
“I’m gonna cut. You need to hold tight for less than a minute. You can do that. In about thirty seconds, my hand will come down to your left. Reach out and grab it, and I’ll pull you up. Trust me. I won’t let you
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