Holland Suggestions (15 page)

A tremor moved along my spine as I crossed the rope bridge and moved up the trail past the hippie camp. Clearly I was not cut out for this game. But I pushed ahead; the trail began to climb and the rocks loomed up, and then I was over that first great hump. The security of knowing that the town was just behind me dissolved. I was alone and now I knew it. That fact bothered me more than anything else. My flashlight batteries were good and the darkness did not worry me at all. As I climbed higher, there was more light from the moon and stars, and in some places I didn’t even need the flash. The climb seemed shorter, though I know it must have taken me as long as the first time. I only stopped to rest once, but my pace was slower now that I had no Jill to push me. The eastern sky was getting pink as I cleared the last hill and saw that final gradual rise to the plateau. Still, it was another hour before I reached the ruins of Taylor’s Gulch.

I had timed it perfectly. The sun was up and the dew was melting off the grass, leaving a pink-blue haze over the place. I walked along the twisting road to the top, past the jeep trail, past the cabin, and for future reference I tried to get a fix on where the jeep road came out below. It disappeared into a tall stand of timber and I lost it there. The road did not look too difficult, but I doubted that a car could make it. I moved into the upper part of town and felt a surge of anger. A jeep was parked just off the street. Someone was here.

I had never seen the jeep and had no idea who the owner might be. Slowly and quietly I went through the streets, looking in each building as I went. I wasn’t anxious to meet my shadow, whoever he might be, suddenly and by accident in this lonely place. But I had no intention of turning back or hiding in the bush until he left. My eyes scanned each crack and corner for some movement, and with every turn I felt more edgy. By the time I reached the center of town I was so nervous that even a woman’s voice made me jump.

“All right, Jim, what are you doing here?”

I jerked around defensively. Jill was climbing down a rough trail about thirty yards behind me. She was smiling, but there was annoyance in her smile, as though I had caught her in some very private act. For a moment I didn’t know what to say. What I did say was, “I could ask you the same question. Where’d you get the jeep?”

“I rented it two days ago. It’s been parked in town. And I’ve already told you what I’m doing.”

“Oh, you mean shooting pictures.”

“That’s right. You just spoiled my best one, you know. I told you I want to show the desolation of this place; that means no people.”

“I didn’t know you’d be here. I’m sorry.”

“Okay, I can still get it if I hurry. My camera is set up there”—she pointed up the mountain trail—“so if you’ll just stay out of the way for a couple of hours I’d appreciate it.”

She turned away from me and climbed up toward her perch. Now I could see her tripod nestled among some mountain underbrush. I followed her up and paused while she reloaded the camera. Clearly she was in no mood for conversation, and I reasoned that the sooner I got away from her, the better for both of us. “I’ll probably do less harm if I’m behind you,” I said. She nodded.

“Maybe I’ll just climb along the trails above town for a while,” I said. “Do you know where they go?”

“Some of them just drift around. I think the main trail is maintained by the forest service. Mr. Gould told me it was built for hikers. It goes fifteen or twenty miles into the forest.”

I brushed past her without another word and did not look back until I was about fifty yards away. She was working intensely over her camera, changing positions and settings and shooting all the while, and she never once looked at me while I watched her. It was a great display of authenticity, and it would have impressed me no end had I not just learned that her publisher, MacDougald and Barnes, was another part of the fairy tale. I found the forest path easily enough. It rose above the town and was marked with neat signs, white lettering against brown. The letters said
MISSION,
4 mi.;
HOWARD FALLS,
12 mi.;
RANGER TRAIL,
17 mi. The trail dipped and turned sharply, running parallel with the town along the face of the mountain. From there Jill was visible for a long time. Only once did she look up. I waved to her, but either she did not see me or she was ignoring me. She huddled over her camera and went on with her work. I climbed above the stone building and the saloon, but now, strangely, I had no inclination to explore the town any more. Again I felt that magnetic pull, stronger than anything before it, but it led me along the forest trail and away from the town. I looked one more time at Jill and saw that she was still working. Then I climbed quickly along the trail, and both the girl and the town slipped from my sight.

Ahead was a panorama of untouched wilderness. The trail, lined with stones, climbed higher; the mountain sloped gradually away from it into a lush valley. Another range of mountains rose from the valley floor, running north and south until it was engulfed at both ends by swirling white mist. As I climbed higher and my breath came in heavy gasps, I became impatient to get wherever I was going, and I knew where that was even if I didn’t quite know the way. The stones lining the trail petered out. Two paths branched away, one going higher up the mountain, the other dropping down toward the valley. I ignored them both. The main trail peaked and started down. I was on the other side of the mountain now, but I had lost all track of time. I had no idea how long I had been climbing or how far back I had left Taylor’s Gulch.

I came to the place called Mission some time later. It was a natural rock formation, with all the appearances of a real mission from the top. As I came closer, the illusion dissolved and the rocks became just rocks. The path forked there, and for the first time I had doubts about going on. But I did go on, staying with the main trail, dipping below the mission rocks and below timberline. The trees closed in on all sides; small pines grew up alongside the path and partly blocked it in places. I was deep in the forest, where the trail was used only by hardcore hikers; signs of people, fairly common before, became scarce. There were no bottles or beer cans and only occasional remains of old campfires just off the trail. The path hit bottom and started up another mountain. It was hardly a path any more; just a thin line across the wild grass. Again I rose above timberline, and the bald dome of the mountain spread out before me.

I saw a flock of buzzards and wondered what had died. My eyes shifted to the sun, high in the sky; to the north I saw an ominous formation of black clouds. I remembered what Gould had said about storms, but I knew I was getting close now and I pushed ahead faster. My breath preceded me in white puffs. I stayed with the trail across a snow-spotted clearing, then a tumbling stream caught my eye and lured me along it up the mountain’s backside. The stream poured out of a crack in the mountain wall and plunged underground in a pile of stones and undergrowth. I clattered over the rubble and found myself on a stone trail that ran deep into the crack, concurrently with the stream. Soon the flowing water covered the trail, and rock overhead partly blotted out the sun. I was ankle-deep in the water before I saw the end. There the rock above broke away and the sun revealed a sandy bottom and a waterfall. The stone trail skirted the sand and wound among the rocks behind the falls, ending at the mouth of a small cave.

I did not know why I was so excited; I only knew that I was. I fumbled at my backpack for my flashlight and almost dropped it in my eagerness. I played the light into the cave and moved slowly ahead. The opening was tight; twice I had to crawl on my hands and knees. About fifty yards in, the hole opened into a large room and I could stand again. I was in a circular chamber, perhaps half the size of a normal house. There were signs of some habitation; an old fireplace, several yellowed newspapers, and two sets of initials spray-painted on the rock. Already the dampness was working the paint off, and I knew the initials would not last another year. I studied them, but they meant nothing to me. I followed the walls around to the passageway, then went around again, looking for any crack or hole that might be a continuation of the cave. There was nothing.

That was where it ended.

But it couldn’t be!

I went around the walls a third time, feeling the rock with the fingers of my free hand. Nothing. I played the light higher, to the ceiling. That was the end of it. Suddenly a great weariness came over me and the strain of the long climb took its toll. I sank to my knees, a lump forming in my throat. The flashlight dropped to the floor with a clatter, rolled against the rock wall, and lay there shining at nothing. My hands trembled, and the shakes spread along my back and down my legs. I lay back against the wall, breathing hard, completely exhausted. I realized then how I had made the climb without stopping; it was a form of light self-hypnosis, and it had left me physically and emotionally drained. It was so easy to rest now, to forget it. But I didn’t forget immediately. I lay with my eyes half closed, staring at the hazy beam from the flash, thinking,
so this is it, this is the end of it,
and wondering how my subconscious would react to that decision. I would leave this goddamned place in the morning. Tonight, as soon as I reached the inn, I would burn the photographs. The gold coin would go into the stream, no matter how valuable it might be. When I got home I would burn the Holland tapes and I would never again open any unmarked envelopes. If it persisted, I would see a doctor; plain and simple, that was how I would fight it. And if I never did any of those things, thinking of them now brought a small spark of relief. I thought it through again and tried to draw more comfort from it, but it was gone the second time. As I closed my eyes, the last thing I saw in my mind was Vivian, sitting in our old apartment telling Judy her vile code of life, while Robert Holland and I played poker with faceless men in a distant, darkened room.

I have no idea how long I slept. My eyes fluttered open, and I saw at once that my flashlight had dimmed to almost nothing. My head rested on my arms, and my legs were curled under me. I sat up with a jerk, grabbed the flash, and played it around me; there was hardly enough power left to show the walls, I got up. My legs were cramped and my muscles ached, but the weakness and trembles were gone. I felt my way along the wall to the passageway and crawled out to the opening. What I saw as I emerged under the falls was terrifying: snow blowing, swirling between the canyon walls, piling up against the rocks at the mouth of the cave. I struggled down the water-covered pathway and came out on the grassy mountainside. The pink morning light was gone; in its place was a gray nastiness that had settled over the mountaintops and was coming in like a giant rolling pin.

Already the mountains across the valley were almost obliterated by the mist. Snow swirled around my head, melted at once, and left my face slippery-wet. I stood there for a full minute, undecided about trying to reach Taylor’s Gulch before it really broke. I would be safe in the cave if I just took Gould’s advice; hole up and wait it out. In the morning it would be over and I could pick my way leisurely down the trail. That was the sensible thing to do, and I probably would have done it had I not remembered Jill. When I didn’t come back she might well come looking for me; yes, she would come and risk being lost herself while I was safe in a cave. So that option was out and there was no use thinking any more about it. I was wasting time. I shifted my backpack and started quickly down the trail. Snow was just beginning to stick as I reached the bottom and started up along the face of the mountain. A wind had come up too; it was stinging my nose and ears. The thought of frostbite was sudden and alarming; I had no protection for my ears; my skullcap partly covered them, but I had no muffs or flaps, not even a rag that I could tie around my head. Like a man in a Jack London story, I had overlooked one tiny detail; I had misjudged the country despite the warnings. Now I tried to make up for it by running. I only slipped, losing more time than I gained. All the while that deadly looking white mist closed in around me.

I think I expected it to hit me with a frigid blast that would knock me to the ground. It wasn’t like that at all. The mist passed over and around me like a great cloud, but there was no immediate increase in the snow or the wind. That came later, just past Mission, when the snow pounded me so hard that I could not open my eyes. I just stood and waited for it to let up, but for a time I was afraid there would be no letup. The wind drove the snow in a tiny cyclone around my head; the snowflakes melted as they hit my face, and the water seeped under my eyelids, blurred my vision, and ran down my cheeks. Then it passed and there was a time of almost total calm. That lasted less than a minute, just long enough for me to shift my backpack and start
the wrong way
down the trail. I stopped. How could I be going the wrong way? How could I have gotten turned around? But the canyon dropped away to my left, as it had all the way up; so waiting for the snow flurry to pass, I had somehow turned myself around during those minutes when I thought I had been standing still. I turned around and again everything made sense. That was another bad sign, another grim reminder that I was losing this deadly game with the mountain.

I did not have much time or energy left, so I pushed on at a steady pace. Twice I slipped off the path. The first time I went down only to my knees, but it happened again in a more serious place. The path had narrowed and the slope was steeper here. I fell fifteen or twenty feet down the mountain, pushing snow with me until a treetrunk stopped my fall. I braced myself against the tree and looked down; another mistake, because I couldn’t see anything
down there,
and the vision that formed in my mind was of a sheer drop and only this tree between me and it. I moved my foot, and the tree gave slightly under my weight. That tightened every muscle in my body; my knees burrowed into the snow and my fingers clawed under it, feeling for a hold in the brown mountain earth. I gripped a clump of grass and cried out; the cry was lost in the wind. I moved again, and the ripping sound I heard might have been imaginary or it might have been roots tearing out of the earth. It didn’t matter; I heard it clearly, and that was enough to bring another useless scream up from my gut. But the wind whipped my voice around my head, and even I could hardly hear it.