“Are you rested?”
“Why did you have to hide Pendleton on the top of the mountain?!”
“Because it is hard to get there!”
“One more minute.”
He stood up and leaned gingerly on the bridge wall. He had to admit that the sound of the water was lovely, and the panorama was sensational. He could see the peak of the mountain, their goal, shining in the sunlight above him. The waterfall cascaded right beside him, casting a small rainbow where it smashed into the rocks. The bamboo forest was a sea of emerald. And there was always Li to look at. He was sadistically pleased to see sweat on her face.
She frowned. “Now I am afraid perhaps the trail becomes difficult.”
“Oh, now it does?”
“I am afraid perhaps yes.”
Neal had come to understand that the more modifiers a polite Chinese person threw into a sentence, the worse the situation was.
“More steps?” he asked.
“Yes.” Then her face brightened. “But they are not stone!”
“Nails?”
“Wood!”
Wood. Hmmm…
“For how far?”
“Perhaps maybe one thousand feet.”
“Pendleton walked up here?”
“Oh, yes!”
“Let’s do it.”
Yeah, right, let’s do it, he thought about a half hour later as his heart slammed and his chest pounded back. The beauty would have been breathtaking if the climb hadn’t already done the job. But fear is a wonderful motivator. Neal was tired from the climb, but his mind reminded his body that there were angry people chasing them up that slope, and mind and body got together to make a batch of adrenaline to help him finish the climb.
The path finally flattened out on a level shelf that skirted yet another promontory. A sharp cliff dropped off on Neal’s right. To his left, a dramatic complex of balconies and terraces had been built into the steep hillside. Under different circumstances he would have wanted to stop and explore the buildings, but the sun was dropping along with his energy and morale, and the morning’s adventure had become the afternoon’s grim march.
The path dropped steeply downhill, which Neal found almost as wearing as the uphill struggles, through a stretch of sparse scrub pine, across another narrow stream, and then uphill again. He and Li passed a few monks here and there, but otherwise the mountain seemed empty. Where, Neal wondered, were all these pilgrims trying to find enlightenment? He hadn’t seen one stinking pilgrim. He made a mental note to ask Li, when they stopped. If they stopped.
They would have to stop soon, he thought as he forced his legs up another steep stretch of stone stairs. It would be impossible to hike this trail at night, even with lanterns. He was nervous walking along it even in daylight, afraid a tired misstep would send him hurtling to his own enlightenment in the canyons below.
And they would have to sleep. He was exhausted and numb. She must be tired, also. And whoever was chasing them had to be beat, as well. He figured he and Li had at least a four-hour jump on them, and their pursuers wouldn’t be able to move at night either.
He was about to share this analysis with Li Lan, when he heard her chanting.
“Yi, ar, yi, ar, yi, ar, yi… ”
“What are you doing?”
“Counting. One, two, one, two, one, two…”
“Why?”
“It takes mind away from the pain in your legs. Try it.”
“What I had more in mind was a hot bath, a bed, and a bottle of scotch.”
“Try it.”
He tried it. He chanted along with her, matching his steps to the beat. He felt stupid at first, but then it began to work. It was so silly and so childish that he began to laugh. Then they laughed together, taking turns at counting off the cadence, and the game took them across more stone bridges, through more thick bamboo forests, up an incredibly vicious series of switchbacks, past three more monasteries and temples, and along the edge of a terrifying cliff.
“Yi, ar, yi, ar, yi, ar, yi…”
“Yi, ar, yi, ar, yi, ar, yi…”
They were heading up some stairs when he fell.
It was stupid, really. He simply missed the switch in the switchback and walked straight off the edge of the trail. One second he was mindlessly chanting, the next second he was in midair.
A fir tree broke his fall and cracked at least one of his ribs.
His shriek echoed through the canyon, so he had the rare opportunity of listening several times to the sound of his own pain. The jolt of agony sped like an express train from his chest to his brain. His brain told him to shut the fuck up, so he clamped his jaws together and whimpered. He wanted to roll around on the ground, but he was afraid to move because his position-feet jammed against a tree on the side of a cliff-was somewhat precarious. When he looked up he saw that he had fallen about fifteen feet. When he looked down he was quite content with his broken ribs; he had another thousand or so feet to fall if he wanted to throw back this card and draw another one.
He rolled over gently on his stomach so that he was facing uphill, and began to claw his way back up to the path. Li stretched her walking stick out. He grabbed it and she pulled him up. Back on the relative safety of the path, he rolled around on the ground in agony.
“Is anything broken?” she asked.
“I think a rib or two.”
“That is too bad.”
She was a bit too cool for his taste. He would have liked her to be a little more upset. A few tears would have been okay.
“Does it hurt much?”
“No. I’m just cleaning the steps with the back of my shirt.”
“Yes. It would be better if you would be still.”
“It would also be better if you’d shut the fuck up.”
“Better also to be calm.”
Calm. Right. My stomach feels like it’s been napalmed. We’re halfway up a mountain, it’s getting dark, I can’t breathe or walk, and some very heavy types who are chasing us just got a major boost. So let me indulge in a little panic for a minute.
Not to mention self-pity.
“Do not worry,” she said. “I can carry you.”
“Lan, don’t be offended, but you don’t resemble-in any way, shape, or form-a mule.”
“I can carry you.”
“I have at least forty pounds on you.”
“We must take off shirt and take care of ribs.”
“You touch that shirt, you go off the edge.”
“Tough man.”
“That’s ‘tough guy.’ Aahhhh!!!”
She opened his shirt. His rib cage was turning purple. His head whirled and he almost fainted, but a silly sense of male pride kept him conscious.
“I will do some pressing,” she said.
“I’ll shoot you.”
She apparently didn’t believe him, because she dug a finger into the muscles above the ribs. The pain didn’t stop, but the piercing stabs settled into a dull, sick ache.
“How did you do that?”
“Be still.”
She did more pressing. Then she manipulated the broken rib. This time Neal fainted.
He awoke to the sound of her yi-ar chant. She was climbing a hill, carrying him piggyback, her knees bent to adjust to the extra load. The sky was slate gray.
His ribs throbbed to the rhythm of her gait.
“Put me down.”
“No.”
“You can’t carry me up this mountain!”
“What am I doing now?”
Carrying me up this mountain.
“It is an old tradition. Buddhist grooms used to carry their brides up the mountain.”
“I’ve been meaning to ask you, why haven’t we seen all these devout pilgrims climbing to Buddha’s Mirror?”
“Cultural Revolution.”
Cultural Revolution, Cultural Revolution. It seemed like the answer to every question. Why did the chicken cross the road? Cultural Revolution.
“It was very dangerous to be religious,” she continued, “so people could not travel to Emei to make climb. Even some monasteries on the bottom of the mountain were destroyed by the Red Guard. Very sad.”
“I’ll slow you down.”
She stopped. “You are slowing me down by making me talk. Interrupting my chanting. With the chanting, you are light. Without it, you are heavy. We have far to go and darkness comes soon. So be quiet. Please.”