The Climb

[Barbarus 1232]

 

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Brandt couldn’t remember when he had begun, nor did he know how far he had progressed. His arm reeled back, then swung forward, digging the axe into the mountain-side, then the other one; a pattern which had long become rote, though one that did nothing to ease the aching in his limbs. The boy’s boots found purchase, and he hauled himself upward, continuing the sequence of gestures.

 

The Reinmaren had set out in the din of a storm, unattended by any of his hirdmen, for what significance would there be in doing this with assurances? Impatience began to plague him, and so he climbed, rapidly and without due care, tearing the fabrics of his gloves, and chafing the skin beneath into the hard press of the axes’ handles. Though his view should have been obscured by the overhanging crags of the unclimbable peak, the boy could see his goal no matter where he was, formed in his mind’s eye.

 

The wind and ice of the North battered at him, and there were many moments he found his grip wavering and strength failing. So too did colored dots form in his vision, for the higher he climbed, the more difficult it was to breath. In those moments there was only his breathing, the pressure that built in his ears and muffled the ambience, and the beating of his heart, as much a measure of time as it was exertion.

 

Nearing what he thought was the top, he let go of one axe, replacing his grip with the pristine snows, untouched by human tread, then let go of the other. He reached upward, throwing his weight after his hand by pushing with his feet. But he had been climbing too fast and too recklessly, all so he may fulfill his task. This time, his fingers found nothing to grab onto, and he overbalanced.

 

With a shout, the boy fell backwards, his death all but assured. But he did not fall. His body sprung upwards with a jolt, as his satchel caught onto a jagged and protruding chunk of stone, arresting his momentum. With a care and patience he suddenly rediscovered, his hands slowly reoriented themselves, and he steadied himself yet again.

 

A final stretch, the terrain began to curve in flat, and he was able to trudge the rest of the way to the top. The Reinmaren paused, looking at the view that his efforts had afforded him, and the sight stalled his breath. With a great effort, he tore his eyes away, reached into his satchel, and pulled out a simple strip of cloth, laying it on the mountain's peak as though it were a carpet.

 

He lowered his figure, and sat down, listening to the world around him. He let his body relax, paying no heed to the lactic burn of his muscles and the sweat baking his forehead, in spite of the cold. He closed his eyes. He cleared his thoughts. He meditated.

 

@Gustando

[Gustando 1990]

The grand-master watched from afar, hidden beneath a veil of snow as his pupil-to-be completed his climb.