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Stories from the Verse
A Dozen Verses
Chapter 142: Cooper 118
Table of Contents
Previous chapter: Slade 296
There were about half a dozen nearly sheer climbs--he preferred to think of them in that direction rather than the other--on Brian’s island, and he had carefully experimented with climbing each of them save one--the one that appeared to be largely volcanic glass dropping onto a rocky surf-pounded coastline. He wouldn’t say he had mastered any of them, but by his count he had been here now a decade, and he knew that if he put it off much longer he would manage to put it off forever. It was time.
He realized several points. One was that he was freeclimbing--no pitons, no ropes. He considered whether to drape some vines off the top as a potential safety, but decided that the temptation to grab them would be very high and the probability that they would support him very low. He reviewed his equipment in his mind, but the only item he seriously considered was his walking stick, which he ultimately, somewhat reluctantly and indecisively, left in camp.
He spent a good half hour scrambling across the rocks, getting splashed by the surf, while examining the face of the cliff. Volcanic glass meant a lot of challenges, problems he didn’t usually face. He couldn’t dig grips into it; it potentially had very sharp edges where it cracked; it would be slippery even when dry, and more so where his sweat and the oils in his skin made it slick. He reminded himself that he wasn’t doing this because he expected it to be easy, but precisely because he expected it to be hard. That’s what ‘challenging’ meant.
Again he wondered whether he was procrastinating, and so he picked a spot and started.
The initial part of the climb was complicated by the mist from the surf, as every surface was damp and thus slippery. However, the waves had carved irregularities in the face, giving him steps and handholds--not particularly good ones, but he was getting better at this. It was not long before he had managed to raise himself to the point at which the moisture was limited to what he brought with him.
He wiped his hands on his shirt, first one, then the other. Of course, as he had risen above the water, he had also moved out of the irregularities on which he was depending for his climb. Up here erosion was less regular and less marked. Progress was slow, and hanging onto the cliff face while he searched for hand- and footholds taxed his muscles. Still, he continued up.
Then his foot slipped. He hadn’t put his weight on it yet, so although it shook him he held on with two hands and the one foot. It struck him that perhaps he should abandon the climb--but descending would be more difficult, because he could not so easily see footholds below his feet, and it was not something he had been practicing.
Calming himself for a moment as his heart rate returned to normal, he surveyed the wall to which he clung. Ultimately he either had to continue upward or to descend to the ground below, and the latter did not seem a better option than the former.
Glancing to his right, he decided that there was a bit of a ledge leading that way and potentially a rougher surface worth attempting. He shifted that direction, reaching out.
Suddenly his lead hand hit something sharp, and he flinched back. It was bleeding, and somewhere in his mind he realized that this would complicate the climb, because the blood itself would make surfaces more slippery--but when his action jerked his body his wet foot betrayed him, and the issue of the bleeding hand became moot as he plunged toward the rocks below. He closed his eyes, and felt the crushing impact break bones and organs before he died once again.
As to the old stories that have long been here:
