Chapter Seventeen
They departed theinn mid-morning to no fanfare. Not at all like the expedition from two years ago, which had mules and a cart. There were only four of them this time, and Karl and Julian carried the heavy tent poles, and Ophelia and Justine split the canvas walls and food.
A gnawing foreboding gripped Ophelia, and no matter what she thought about it, the feeling wouldn’t pass. Even as the bluebird-cloudless sky insisted on optimism, her mind couldn’t forget what happened at their last attempt on the Matterhorn.
The descent down the mountain in the dark had been the worst moment of her life, and it had lasted thirteen hours. Helping secure her injured father in a rope-lattice cot, strung between her brother and Karl, had been surreal. But now that fever-dream came back to her mind’s eye, more real with every step.
She shoved the uncertainty away. They’d learned from their mistakes. They had a smaller group and better equipment this time. The weather was good. Julian was not her father.
Yet, her mind kept treading over the same thought, that she had killed her father with her ambition, and she was about to kill Julian with it this time. That Justine and Karl might be seriously hurt, just as Prudence and Eleanor had been. And if Julian was hurt like her father, were they strong enough to carry him down? Or would they have to leave him to go get help? Would he die there?
The fear was overwhelming.
But then they got to Schwarzsee, where the whitewashed walls of the simple church gleamed in the sun. They stopped for water and had fruit from their packs. Julian stared at the Matterhorn, so elegantly framed by the grassy hills there. He sat on the warm rock, and while Ophelia wanted to sit with him, she couldn’t bear it. The idea that any of them might be harmed was making it difficult to speak.
Justine noticed, her gaze sliding Ophelia’s way frequently. She whispered something to Karl, and he summoned Julian. Justine shouldered her pack and came to where Ophelia stood.
“Tell me what’s wrong,” she said, gesturing to Ophelia’s pack. “It’s easier to talk when you’re walking.”
Ophelia shouldered her pack and obediently matched Justine’s shorter stride. The sun was still out; afternoon clouds had not yet appeared. The Matterhorn sat aloof and heavy in front of them. Just like last time, they would camp at the Hörnli Ridge and wake up to begin climbing in the pre-dawn light. Because it wasn’t necessarily the ascent where accidents happened. The vast majority of expeditions were injured on the way down. They needed the light for the descent.
When Ophelia didn’t respond, still unable to bring voice to the gnawing anxiety, afraid to give it voice, Justine supplied it.
“Is it because of what happened last time?” she asked.
Ophelia nodded. A lump formed in her throat. Of all the ridiculous bodily responses. The lump made it hard for her to breathe. She gulped for air. Justine stopped and pulled at her arm, to ensure she stopped as well. The two men were well ahead, seemingly unbothered by the extra weight of the tent poles.
Justine gripped both of her arms. “Everything is going to be fine, Ophelia.”
Pushing the lump away with all her might, Ophelia nodded. She closed her eyes, wishing away the terrible thoughts.
“We have Karl, a literal guide. Then you, who have a lot of experience. Then Julian, who is even more experienced. He told Karl he was out on mountains almost every day of the last ten years. Some of them with higher altitudes than this one. He knows what he’s doing.”
Ophelia nodded, gobbling up her affirming words as if they were tender morsels and she no better than a dog.
“If anything, I’m the weakest of everyone. And you know that I’m not falling. I can’t. I’m too close to the ground.”
Ophelia’s laugh came out suddenly, surprising her. Justine was right, of course. She was upset over imaginary things, not real events. “Perspective,” she said, meaning she needed to have some.
“Perspective,” Justine echoed back to her. “Shall we catch up to them?”
Ophelia smiled, feeling that lump in her throat receding, and the air all the more tolerable. “Let’s go.”
Justine’s conversation was constant, which Ophelia found enjoyable. Others, she knew, found Justine to be too talkative, but at moments like these, Ophelia doubly appreciated Justine being exactly the way she was.
The stretch from Schwarzsee to the Hörnli Ridge was pleasant and not at all difficult. The men were there constructing the tent frame when they arrived. The mountain loomed behind them, huge and imposing. The afternoon clouds gathered at the top, and Ophelia wondered what it would be like to look at them from the top down instead of the bottom up. She got out the tent’s canvas and handed it over to Julian. Between the two men, they had it set up in no time.
“Tristan is especially proud of this tent,” Ophelia added, given both Karl and Julian were looking at it with suspicion.
“It feels like it’s going to blow away in the wind,” Julian said.
“I’ve never successfully had a tent on this ridge,” Karl added.
Ophelia picked the biggest rock she could find and hauled it into the tent. The flapping of the canvas was loud from inside. And she wasn’t certain they would all fit. She scrambled out. “I’m beginning to have my doubts as well.”
“Why was he so proud of it?” Justine asked.
“The canvas is supposed to be wind-proof, and the tent poles are supposed to be lighter than the previous style’s.”
