The Ascent(74)

“Let’s have dinner tonight.” It sounded petty, but it was the first thing that came to my mind.

“No—”

“Then tomorrow night.”

“No, I can’t.”

“I don’t see why—”

“I’m leaving tonight,” she said. The way she said it was like a confession, and I knew that it hadn’t been her initial intention to tell me. “I’m going to Europe. There’s a collector there who’s interested in a few pieces from the gallery. I thought it would be good to take some time to myself away from this place.”

“Are you going with him?”

“That doesn’t matter.”

“Just answer the question. Are you?”

“It doesn’t change what’s happened between you and me.”

“Do you love him?” I asked.

“Tim—”

“Do you love me? Did you ever?”

Her tears had stopped, and there was a look of disappointment on her face now. “Why are you doing this to yourself?”

“I’m not,” I said. “You’re doing it to me.”

“That’s unfair.”

“It’s true.”

“No, it’s not. That’s just more proof of how you don’t understand me. You don’t understand any of this.”

“Then explain it to me,” I said calmly. I felt myself going numb right there in front of her.

“There’s nothing to explain,” Hannah said, “and I don’t have the patience anymore.”

“How long will you be gone?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“Can I see you when you get back?”

She closed her eyes. I could almost hear her thinking from across the room. Finally she said, “Yes. Okay. When I get back.”

I stepped aside and leaned against the wall. “You can get some of your things. I’ll stay out of your way.”

“No. It doesn’t matter.”

“I love you, Hannah.”

“I know you do.”

“Be careful.”

She left without a response. And since her funeral was closed casket, it was technically the last time I saw her.

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.