I walk out of the main cabin and look at the graveyard of luggage strewn across the snow. All this stuff must have been in the cargo belly of the plane, which tore open like a tin can on landing.
I look for yellow rather than the shape of the backpack. Every color in the rainbow pokes up bright and clear against the canvas of white. Red sweaters, brown shoes, toothbrushes and makeup, tan pants and striped shirts. Black bags. Red bags. Pink. Orange. White. And about twenty feet from the far end of the cabin sits a neon yellow backpack.
I push through deep drifts, my right hand grazing the cold metal of the main cabin for balance. When I reach the end, I turn left and walk twenty feet out, wading through a pile of unopened bags until I reach what I really hope is Paul’s backpack. I fish around inside the main pocket of his bag until I locate his knife. I pull it out. The blade is sharp and thick, jagged at the tip. A day ago, had I stumbled upon this in Life House, I wouldn’t have thought twice about using it on myself. Now using it for any purpose other than to save Paul is inconceivable. I unzip my jacket and tuck the knife in the side pocket reserved for wallets and keys.
I sling Paul’s bag over my shoulder, next to the sleeping bag. My burden is bulky and the weight is top-heavy and uneven, making it difficult to walk. A few steps are all it takes for me to know that carrying it to the ledge will be too time-consuming. I take it off and shove it under the roof of the main cabin to protect it from the snow. I trudge back along the outside of the main cabin, using my hand for balance, and then out toward the ledge, with the rope over my shoulder and Paul’s clothes under my jacket. I pat my side pocket several times to make sure Paul’s knife is still there.
• • •
I get back to the ledge and look over at Paul. I call to him, but he doesn’t hear me. The wind has picked up and it makes it difficult to hear anything.
I scream, “Paul,” as loud as I can, and then I kick some snow and he looks up.
“Hey,” he says.
We stare at each other for a brief moment. Even from this distance, or maybe because of it, there’s a lot in his eyes: fear, death, and a kind of desperate loneliness I understand but could never explain in words.
I look down and really study Paul’s predicament for the first time. He is sitting twenty feet below the ledge, wedged between a tree and the slope of the mountain. It is closer to a cliff than a mountain slope. He is still fastened into his seat by his seat belt, which is jammed. If he were to somehow cut away the belt, I don’t see any conceivable way he could exit his seat without causing the whole thing to tumble to the valley floor. Even if he were to hang onto a tree and climb to the top, he’d still be ten feet from the ledge. With great weather and the right equipment, I suppose it could be climbed. But we’re missing both. I look to the sky and then back down at Paul.
“What should I do?” I ask.
“Tie the rope around the knife and lower it to me. Be very careful; it’s my life on the line.” He laughs. Everything is still a joke to him. In the hospital, I never liked his type.
The snow starts to fall again, not too hard, but it is being blown sideways by the wind, making it more difficult to wrap the rope around the knife. Instead, I make a loop of the rope and pull it against the tip of the blade. I jiggle the tip back and forth until it slices through the rope. Then I wrap the rope around the handle and tie a knot and double it-it’s the only knot I know how to make.
I slowly feed the rope over the edge and gently drop the blade down to Paul. He reaches out and pulls in the rope and the blade and wraps the rope around his forearm. One of his hands must be cold because he’s using his mouth to undo the knot.
“Don’t cut yourself,” I shout.
“That’s a good sign when the philosopher jokes,” he shouts. “Means she isn’t scared shitless.” He pauses for a second and then looks up at me with a smile. “I’m glad one of us isn’t.”
He laughs to himself while perched precariously above death. Somehow I find it inspiring. I clench my fist and kneel down, nervously watching Paul maneuver in his seat.
He frees the knife by remaking the loop and holding it in one hand and pulling the knife out with his mouth. He looks up at me with the blade tight between his teeth like a pirate.
He grabs the knife with his right hand and then places it inside his jacket. He examines the seat and the tree, and I watch his eyes, trying to discern what is plaguing him, what it is he can possibly do to get out of the seat and then up the cliff.
The problem, from my viewpoint, becomes increasingly clear. The seat belt is hooked around a large branch. When cut, it will release the full weight of the seat and Paul. Another branch may hold them both up, but odds suggest he would be free-falling to his death.
“You can’t cut it,” I shout, fearing he hasn’t figured that out.
“I know, but I have to.”
Dusk is blooming above us, and because we are in a valley and the light is diminished, we should be in total darkness in less than an hour. Then what?
“Tie the rope around your waist. Then cut the belt. I’ll secure myself here and then we’ll walk you up.” That’s me calling down. I’m not sure where the idea comes from-or my bravado and confidence.
He watches me for a moment and makes a decision.
“Find a tree to brace yourself against!” he calls up.
I scan the area around me and choose a pine fairly close to the edge.
Paul moves the rope around his torso with one hand, and it takes longer than you might expect. He fastens a big knot he fits tightly under his armpits. He calls up to me, “Hey, I’m gonna cut this; are you ready?”
“No! Wait!”
I tie the rope around my waist and walk back maybe ten feet from the edge and crawl around a small tree whose branches sprout out a few feet above the snow. I’m careful to keep the rope free of branches that could cause fraying or a cut, but I make certain it’s wrapped well around the tree. I only wish I had enough rope to go around twice. Then I get to my feet and walk to the edge, pulling the rope behind me. I hold up my thumb. He nods and then starts sawing the belt.
It starts to fray immediately, and the shoulder strap snaps free. The seat totters and then dangles in mid-air around Paul’s waist. He is jammed on a branch and lets out a blood-shocking scream. It is the sound of agony itself. He slams the knife down toward his side. Then, snap! The whole seat falls and I am lifted into the air with one sudden jerk of the rope. My face and body hit the snow hard and I am dragged about five feet into the trunk of the tree. The impact is painful. I can feel where I’m going to bruise on my shoulder.
“Paul,” I shout. “Paul!”
I adjust my body and straddle the base of the tree, hooking my legs around it, and hold on for my life.
“Paul! Can you hear me?” There’s no answer, but his weight is still pulling against the tree.
“Paul!”
Nothing. Then suddenly the rope goes slack, and there’s no longer any pressure on the line. I scream.
“Paul!”
“You need to do as I say,” he calls back. “On the count of three, can you walk away from this cliff?”
I am flooded with relief.
“Yes, but count to ten; I’m kind of tangled here,” I shout.
“Just say when, okay? But try to hurry.”
I crawl back under the tree and free myself. The rope feels slack. I walk back to the edge and peer over. Paul is now standing in the tree and has one hand on a nub of rock. He’s planning on climbing up the wall. My walking is supposed to assist him.
“What if you fall?” I call down.
He looks up and smiles.
“It’ll be romantic, Jane. We’ll die together, like Romeo and Juliet.”
I take a big gulp of air and breathe out. What an ass.
“Nothing personal, but I don’t want to die with you, Paul.”
“That’s extra incentive for you, then. Don’t slip.”
I make sure the knot around my waist is tight.
“Hold on a second,” I call. “I have an idea.”
I scurry back to the tree and crawl under and around again, creating a primitive pulley. Instead of walking away from him, I pull in all the slack, and then walk sideways, parallel to the ledge.
“Go!” I shout.
With his weight displaced against the tree, I use my lateral force to help move his weight up the mountain. I can’t see him, but every time I step into fresh powder, I can sense his weight moving up the mountain.
Come on, Jane, I think. I leverage all of my one hundred and eighteen pounds into each step. Then I hear myself let out a grunt that turns into a scream, from deep inside that I didn’t know was there. It’s primal, like life itself announcing its return to my body. Pull, Jane, pull.
My feet lift out of the powder with an unbelievable force, and step after step, I feel a sense of euphoria taking over my body. Then the weight pulling against me disappears, sending my body flying forward into the snow.
I sit up and turn around, brushing snow from my face. For a second I see nothing but white. A hollow feeling fills my gut. I look to the ledge and then back over the landscape, which is flat and empty. Then, like an animal waking up after a long night hidden beneath the snow for warmth, Paul Hart pops up in my line of vision. Where did he come from? His chest heaves up and down. His face is bright red and his broad grin tells me he’s okay. I start to cry as I walk over to him, I can’t help it. He is still kneeling down. He looks up at me; his smile just gets bigger. He falls onto his back and lets out a big laugh.
“Jane Solis,” he shouts, still flat on his back, “you pull like a donkey.”
Like I said, what an ass.