The Color of Love (The Color of Heaven Series)

The Color of Love

A Color of Heaven Novel

by

Julianne MacLean

Prologue

How powerful is love, exactly? Is it strong enough to ward off death? And if so, where does that sort of warrior love come from? Who creates it or sends it to you when you’re shivering in a cold dark cave, alone and without hope? Is it God? Or are we, each of us, on our own, responsible for the love that grows and lives in our hearts?

By all accounts, I should be a dead man. It’s a miracle I’m alive today to tell this story, which brings me back to my initial question: Does love have the power to thrust a person into danger, test his fortitude, push him to the brink of madness, all for the sole purpose of leading him to the place he’s meant to be? Or is it all just luck and coincidence?

I still don’t know the answers to those questions, and I have no idea why certain events in my life transpired as they did. All I know is that the result was extraordinary and astounds me to this day.

What is so special about me? Who am I?

I am just a man—a man who was saved by love.

Choices

Chapter One

Adapted from the journal of Seth Jameson

I’m not sure where to begin, so I guess I’ll start by thanking God that I brought this empty notebook on the plane. I’m not much of a writer but clearly there’s a story here to tell, so I’ll do my best to document everything that has happened so far.

I only hope I don’t run out of paper or ink before we’re rescued.

If
we’re rescued.

It’s been four days and we haven’t seen a single sign of anything resembling a search.

But let me go back first, and explain how I got here.

o0o

It all began two weeks ago when I received a phone call from Mike Lawson, one of my climbing buddies from Australia. Mike and I had grown up together and we met in Nepal fifteen years ago on our first Everest expedition, and reached the summit together in a perfect moment of triumph and exhaustion.

I was only twenty-one at the time (Mike was twenty-four) and I’ve since reached the summit six times. Not on my own, of course. I’ve been working as a team leader and guide, helping others travel up the mountain from base camp to achieve their dreams. Mike has remained a close friend and twice he has joined me to help guide others to the top of the world.

Outside of that, we spend a good deal of time apart, pursuing our own personal ambitions, climbing mountains all over the world and always seeking out media opportunities that could lead to sponsorships, with the goal to find a way to feed our alpine addictions.

As I write these words—while contemplating the unbelievable situation I find myself in—I can’t possibly deny the truth of that statement. That my desire to scale mountains is exactly that: an addiction I have never been able to control.

Just like alcohol or cocaine, the craving to propel myself to new and different peaks each year holds me in its grip, causing me to ignore and lose sight of the people who matter most in my life, while I selfishly feed the beast inside me.

o0o

Two weeks ago, Mike called me at my cabin in Maine to discuss a mountaineering prospect in Iceland. Because we keep in touch regularly through social media, I already knew Mike had been hired by George Atherton, a billionaire philanthropist, to lead a group of climbers to the top of the Eyjafjallajökull volcano.

It’s an easy one-day hike over snow and ice, but what interested me most about the expedition was the fact that a camera crew would be tagging along to film a documentary about the billionaire who was funding the trip.

Mike had intended to lead the hike with his current climbing partner and significant other, Julie Peters, but Julie broke her ankle while skiing in Quebec a week before shooting was scheduled to begin. Mike wanted me to drop everything and fly to Iceland to take her place.

Since I’d been dealing with my Everest clients through email (that expedition will occur in March, April and May), I didn’t see why I couldn’t continue to manage that from Iceland and make a few extra bucks in the process. The film shoot was supposed to be a quick three-day gig, after all, and who knew what might come of it? Mike and I both want to make names for ourselves in the climbing world, and judging by the filmmakers who are on board for the project, it’s quite possible that the doc could win some awards.

Naturally, I said yes and hopped a flight to Halifax, Nova Scotia, where I connected with some members of the film crew. We then flew directly to Reykjavik on Mr. Atherton’s private corporate jet.

It was a decision I now wish I could reverse.

Chapter Two

Everything seemed normal during takeoff. Though perhaps “normal” isn’t the right word to describe the flight, for there I sat—Mr. Cheapskate Economy Class—in a soft and spacious mocha-colored swiveling leather chair. I was unshaven with a slouchy ribbed woolen toque on my head, my backpack at my feet, enjoying fifty-year-old single malt scotch on the rocks in a sparkling crystal tumbler. I don’t want to overdo it, but just before takeoff, the producer handed me a box of assorted Swiss chocolates. I opened it and helped myself.

I’d never flown in such luxury before and couldn’t believe my good luck.
How did I get here
? I wondered.

o0o

There were only three of us on board—not including the two pilots—but none of us had met before.

The guy beside me who’d handed me the chocolates was one of the producers of the documentary. His name was Jason Mehta and he told me he was nervous about the climb because he wasn’t much of an outdoorsman. The most strenuous thing he ever did was run on a treadmill at the city gym.

I assured him he had nothing to worry about because it was more of a “hike” than an actual “climb.”

(Secretly—because I’d already summited Everest five times—I felt it was beneath me to lead climbers on such an easy excursion, but I didn’t express that to anyone, least of all Mike.)

The guy across from me in the facing seat was a cameraman, and he was mostly concerned about his equipment and how the batteries were going to hold up in the cold temperatures at high altitudes.

He told me his name was Aaron and he was from Boston.

“I’m Seth,” I said, leaning forward to shake his hand. “Good to meet you.”

He fell asleep not long after takeoff, so we didn’t speak again until much later.

o0o

I still don’t know what went wrong. Neither of us do. All we remember is waking up to some wicked turbulence somewhere over the Atlantic.

“What the hell?” I groaned, waking from a nap and sitting up in my seat to look out the window.

Beyond the glass, it was pitch black except for the flashing navigation lights on the wingtip of the aircraft, which sent an eerie glow into the clouds.

Bang! Crash!
The plane thumped up and down.

I’d never experienced such a deafening clamor on a jet before, and it caused my insides to wrench into a tight knot. I gripped the armrests with both hands and met Aaron’s gaze across from me. He must have woken up around the same time I did.

“Geez,” he said, his body pressed stiffly against the seat back. “They need to get us out of here.”

“No kidding,” Jason agreed.

Bump! Thwack!
A warning bell pinged repeatedly.

The three of us fell silent while the plane shuddered and thrashed about in the sky, pitching and rolling in a sickening sequence of side-to-side figure eights.

At last the plane leveled out, but it continued to slam up and down on giant boulder-like pockets of air.

I’d never felt such fear. All I could do was clench my jaw, grip the armrests and squeeze my eyes shut while I prayed for everything to be over.

Then suddenly the nose of the plane dipped sharply and we plunged forward into a rapid, spiraling descent. Jason began screaming in terror, but I could utter no sounds. My chest and lungs constricted; my vocal chords wouldn’t work.

My mind was screaming, however. Dreadful thoughts were banging around inside my head.

I didn’t want to die. I wanted to live and fix the things I’d done wrong.

Please God, make it stop. I just want one more chance. If you let me live, I’ll do better. I’ll be a better father. I won’t break any more promises.

But God couldn’t have been listening, because we continued to dive toward the earth while the hellish terror raged on.

At no point did the pilots say anything to us on the intercom. Looking back on it, I suppose they were too busy fighting with the controls, trying to save our lives.

In those final moments, I opened my eyes and turned my head toward the window. There was nothing out there but blackness, interrupted only by the rapid flashing of the wing light on the mist.

Chapter Three

As we were going down, I was certain we were all going to die. I believed it because I assumed we were crashing into the ice-filled waters of the North Atlantic.

I wish I could describe all the details of the crash, but it happened so fast I could barely make sense of it. All I remember is the motion of the plane as the engine roared, then the nose pointed upward ever so slightly, and I felt a strong, sudden lift beneath us, as if we were taking off again.

The sensation gave me hope. Was it possible the pilots had regained control? But the very next instant, we were jolted in our seats as the wing of the plane collided with something and broke away. The deafening sound of steel ripping apart and glass shattering overwhelmed my ability to think. Somehow, through my debilitating panic, I managed to turn my head and saw a gaping hole in the side the plane.

The seat Jason had occupied only seconds ago was gone and that part of the floor was missing.

A fierce ice-cold wind gusted through the interior of the cabin as we scraped at full speed over jagged treetops. Evergreen branches and trunks splintered and exploded as we careened through woods, and I felt as if my insides were going to burst into flame from the sheer fright of it all.

I don’t know what finally stopped us. I must have blacked out for those final seconds because when I opened my eyes and sucked in a breath, everything was dark and quiet.

Was I blind? Or dead?

The whole world seemed to have gone pitch black. There were no cabin lights, no sounds of movement or voices.

Only then, when the freezing air entered my throat, did I know I was alive.

Feeling suddenly trapped, I thrashed about in my seat and struggled to unbuckle myself, but my hands shook uncontrollably. I could barely get a grip on anything.

When at last I was free, I leaned forward to squint through the darkness at Aaron, the cameraman from Boston, who was seated across from me. All I could decipher was the shadow of his immobile form. Was he alive? I had no idea.

“Aaron,” I managed to mutter. “Are you all right?”

He gave no reply.

Then I remembered my cell phone in the pocket of my vest. I’d turned it off just before takeoff, but it was fully charged.

Quickly withdrawing it, I pushed the power button and waited for the screen to light up.

The familiar musical sound of the device filled me with relief, and I waited for it to find a signal so I could dial 911.

But there was no service. “Damn it,” I whispered, then leaned forward in my seat to shine the glow of the screen upon Aaron.

He was hunched over sideways. His whole face was drenched in blood.

“Oh God,” I whispered. Moving closer to try and help him, I took hold of his wrist and found a pulse, then shone my cell phone light over the top of his head to search for the source of the bleeding.

It appeared to be a clean gash just above his hairline, but not life threatening, as long as his skull wasn’t fractured. He must have been sliced by a flying piece of metal or some other loose object.

“Aaron,” I said, shaking his shoulder. “Can you hear me?”

Still, he offered no response, so I applied pressure to the wound for a moment while I tried to figure out what to do next.

Rising from my seat, I searched for my backpack and found it shoved up against the bulkhead. Quickly I rifled through it for my flashlight, knife, and first aid kit, then returned to help him.