9
I WAS JARRED BACK TO REALITY WHEN THE TUN-
nel loosened and I slid down several inches. The heat from my body had widened the opening while I hung there, daydreaming. Reaching above my head, I worked my fingers around one of the ribbed corrugations in the snow. My feet pushed off the ribs below me, and I continued ascending the tunnel.
When I reached the bend, I climbed around it and froze when the tunnel opened to dazzling daylight no more than five feet in front of me.
“Here we go,” I said, my breath whistling through my restrictivethroat, and began crawling toward the opening.
10
THE TUNNEL OPENED UP IN THE WALL OF A CAN-
yon—the Canyon of Souls. I crawled from the opening onto a narrow ledge of black stone. Above me, the walls of the canyon yawned to a gunmetal sky. Below, they ran on forever, the canyon’s bottom nonexistent, my eyes surrendering to the optical illusion. The other side of the canyon was a tremendous distance away. I’d hiked the Grand Canyon a number of times, and this was no less impressive.
Pebbles pushed against my fingertips. I flicked a few over the edge. They fell but seemed to float, never landing, as if gravity had no authority here. It seemed to take whole minutes before they disappeared into the abyss below.
The ledge I was on ran the length of the canyon, both to my right and my left. It went on farther than my eyes could follow, and the ledge never seemed to get any wider. An attempt to walk its length on foot would be nothing short of suicide, as foolish as walking along the windowsills of a skyscraper.
Something shimmered behind the ice along the opposite wall. I winced, staring hard at it, and saw colors swirling behind the ice like oil on water. They moved as if alive, spiraling and intertwining with one another, these living snakes of uncataloged hues, commingling and bleeding together only to separate again.
It was then that I realized the entire canyon wall was alive with these streaks of color, pulsing like blood through veins and arteries, colors that went straight to the heart of this sacred land. The colors themselves were nostalgic, like they were solely associated with specific events from my past. Looking at one would cause me to weep; looking at another would cause me to laugh; yet another projected a soul-rattling melancholia I associated with childhood …
Two red splotches of blood fell on the back of my left hand. I touched my nose and found it was bleeding again. My headache was back, too, and my respiration had grown increasingly labored.
“The Canyon of Souls,” I whispered. Even under my breath, my voice carried over the arroyo and hung there suspended like a cadre of angels taking flight.
11
BACK IN THE HALL OF MIRRORS, PETRAS’S SNORING
was like the idling of a pickup truck. I clambered down the icy pylon and strode across the chamber, my spirits still lifted from the sight of the canyon. Andrew’s intention was to cross it. Crossing it, I knew, was impossible. But moreover, something like that was not meant to be crossed, was not meant to be overcome. It was just what Petras had said—some hidden lands, some beyuls, were not meant to be found and conquered. Quite often they only revealed themselves to those pure enough to see them.
I crawled into my sleeping bag, my eyes slamming shut, my body racked with exhaustion. Then I realized something and sat bolt upright, my eyes flipping open.
Hollinger was still gone.
I leaned over and poked Petras on the shoulder. “Wake up.”
“Hmm …”
“Hollinger never came back from taking a leak.”
Petras’s eyes fluttered open. He coughed into one fist, clearing his throat, and sat up against a large stone. We exchanged a glance; the look in his eyes did not make me feel any better.
“How long has it been since he left?”
“Maybe forty minutes,” I guessed.
“Come on,” Petras said, standing.
We crossed the chamber toward the mouth of the tunnel, passingbeneath the pastel light sliding down through the eyelet above our heads. We passed the massive finger of packed snow that sat at an angle against one of the mirrored walls, the crinkly blue tarpaulin spread out at its base. Chad’s blood had spread and frozen into the cracks in the ice.
Together we paused before the mouth of the tunnel. Midway through, it banked at an angle so it was impossible to see the opening at the other end. Petras cupped his hands about his mouth and shouted Hollinger’s name into the tunnel. The echo seemed to go on forever.
Hollinger did not answer.
Entering the tunnel, I extended both hands to feel my way along the wall. My shins barked against calcified spires of stone rising in various angles from the ground. Petras followed close behind me, the sound of his respiration like sandpaper against concrete. Only a dozen steps into the tunnel and we were in absolute darkness. I held my hand just an inch in front of my face and wiggled my fingers. I couldn’t see a damn thing.
“He could have—,” I began but cut myself off as my right foot struck something loose and metallic. I froze.
“The hell was that?” Petras whispered.
Crouching, I patted the ground like a blind man. Whatever it was I’d kicked it somewhere ahead of me. I crawled, hearing the knees of my cargo pants chafe against the stone and the distant sound of cave water dripping from rocky overhangs. Finally my hands fell upon the object, causing my breath to catch in my throat. I knew what it was without picking it up. “It’s Hollinger’s lantern.”
Petras said nothing.
“Hollinger!” I yelled. “Michael Hollinger!”
“He’s not in here.”
“He could have fallen, knocked himself out.” I cranked the switch on the lantern, but the light wouldn’t come on. “He could
have struck his head on something and—” “He’s not in here.” “And—”
“Tim, he’s not here.”
I knew he was right. I stood, leaving the broken lantern on the ground, and continued down the tunnel. As I turned the corner, I could see the fading light of day spilling in through the opening of the cave. The tongue of ice glittered on the floor of the cave as I approached. “Mike? Hollinger?” My voice was insignificant. “Tim,” Petras said, far behind me. “Careful …” I crept to the edge of the cave, heedful not to slip on the icy tongue. Gripping a protruding rock from the wall of the cave, I peered down the hundred-yard drop to the valley below. “Oh, Jesus, fuck,” I groaned. “What is it?”
“Hollinger,” I said. “He’s dead.”
Petras shuffled toward me through the darkness. He stopped behind me, and I could feel his breath along the sweaty nape of my neck.
Hollinger’s body was shattered on the rocks below. He’d taken his helmet off, and his head had split open like a cantaloupe. “Christ,” I stammered. “Jesus Christ, man …” Petras dug his fingers into my shoulder. “Come on.” “He’s dead. He’s fuckin’ dead.” Those fingers pressed harder. “Let’s go.”
12
I MUST HAVE DOZED OFF. BECAUSE WHEN I OPENED
my eyes, the quality of the light coming through the hole in the ceiling had changed. I felt groggy and dry mouthed, and a chill rippled through my body. My eyes stung so I closed them again, shivering.
13
PETRAS SHOOK MY SHOULDER. “WAKE UP.”
My eyes fluttered. My head was stuffed with cotton. “What happened?”
“We found Hollinger at the bottom of the cliff,” he said, and it all came rushing back. “You threw up, then passed out.”
Shakily, I sat up. We were still in the Hall of Mirrors, my body sweating beneath a stack of sleeping bags.