Improper Arrangements (9 page)

Chapter Thirteen

I woke at dawn, chilled through and stiff from a restless night’s sleep on hard ground. Emerging from our shelter, I found Elijah standing some distance away, his eyes fixed on the path ahead.

“Good morning,” I called to him.

“Good morning. I’m sorry there’s no coffee. I’d have made a fire were there anything to burn.” He gestured to the barren, rock-strewn plain on which we stood.

“I don’t mind. Is there anything to eat?”

“Yes. Some
saucisson
and bread.”

We ate our meager breakfast where we stood, as there was no comfortable place to sit apart from the interior of the shelter. Examining it in the light of day, it seemed to me little short of miraculous that he’d been able to construct such a cozy and watertight place for us to pass the night. He’d begun with the boulder I’d rested against, as high as my shoulder, with one tolerably flat side; it had become the back wall of the bivouac. He’d lashed one side of an oilcloth groundsheet to the great rock and cleared the rubble from the adjoining ground, using the loose scree he’d scraped away to peg down the edges of the tent. Inside, a second, smaller groundsheet had been our floor, its perimeter folded in on itself to create a dam against the rain.

Elijah finished his breakfast first and immediately set to work at dismantling the bivouac. When everything was folded away into his pack he turned to me and, with one raised eyebrow, inquired as to my readiness.

“May I have a moment of privacy?” I asked. “Please?”

He sighed heavily but turned around. “Go on, now.”

I dashed to the other side of the boulder to relieve my bladder; not only did I deplore the idea of his hearing me, but I also couldn’t bear his seeing the puddle it left behind. No matter how intimate we’d become, I would never be comfortable with
that.

The climb up to the Col de Prafleuri was steep and shingled with treacherously loose rock. Once we’d crossed the pass the walking was scarcely better, for we were faced with a dismal, barren landscape that was relieved only by scattered clusters of
Androsace alpina
, their gentle shades of pink and scarlet a welcome sight amid all the gray.

On and on we climbed, heading toward the Col des Roux. By then I was hungrier than I’d ever been, so ravenous that I could think of little else beyond my next meal. The view from the
col
, however, was stunning enough to make me forget about my empty stomach, at least for a minute or two. It was as if we had stepped into another world: behind lay the monotony of gray, rock-strewn slopes, while ahead was a perfect Alpine landscape. Lush meadows swept down to the shores of an indigo-dark river, the entire panorama framed by snow-capped peaks. Above, the sky shone bright and clear, the only clouds mere wisps of ivory wool.

“There’s a refuge not far from here, on the shores of the Dixence,” Elijah said. “The keeper will have food.”

Within an hour we were knocking on the door of the refuge, a long, low stone structure that appeared almost as ancient as the overhanging mountains. Elijah bought bread and cheese and dried apricots from the keeper, we filled our waterskins and washed our faces at the
buvette
, and then we set off in search of a spot to eat
en plein air.

We found a relatively flat patch of ground another half mile to the south, and once Elijah had spread out the smaller of the groundsheets to protect us from the still-sodden ground, we sat down and got started on the hard work of filling our stomachs. After I’d eaten enough to take the edge off my hunger, I pulled out my sketchbook and set about capturing the view from where we sat.

Yet it eluded me. Though landscape had never been my forte, I was more than capable of rendering a simple, though beautiful, scene such as this. But it wanted something, some spark of interest to animate the whole.

While I sketched, Elijah finished his meal and, rising, walked south, no more than a hundred yards distant. He stood there, lost in thought, his arms at his sides. He looked so perfectly at home, so elementally part of the whole. Hardly daring to look away, I penciled in his figure; color would have to wait for later.

A shadow loomed over me and I started, just a little. Elijah must have walked back while I was adding some finer details to my sketch.

“Ready?” he asked.

“Of course. Where are we heading now?”

“That way,” he said, pointing south. “We cross the river—there’s a ford—and then it’s back uphill until we reach the Col de Riedmatten. After that it’s downhill to Arolla. We’ll be there by the end of the day.”

The path veered south, closer to the banks of the river, which was running low despite the recent rain. We passed a party of walkers, pausing briefly so Elijah might speak with their guide, but continued on without introductions being made.

“That,” he said after we’d left them behind, “was Tomas Mueller.”

“The busybody?”

“The very one.”

“I didn’t like the look of him.”

“Good thing you picked me,” he said, appending a wry smile to his words.

I was still wondering about that smile when we arrived at the river ford. The water was deeper than I’d thought, certainly deep enough to be dangerous if I lost my footing.

“What shall we do?” I asked, hoping I sounded more confident than I felt.

“Wait here.”

He took off his boots, stowing them away in his pack, though he didn’t bother to roll up his trousers. He took my pack and, hoisting it on one shoulder and his own pack on the other, he stepped into the river. The water was high, reaching his upper thighs, and was likely as cold as the glacier that had birthed it. He crossed without difficulty, though, betraying no sign of discomfort. After setting our packs down on the far bank, he returned to me, presumably to take my hand and guide me across.

I stepped forward, ready to plunge in, but before I could protest he threw me over his shoulder and stepped back into the river.

“Elijah,
really.
This is most undignified.”

“Easiest way to carry you. Stop wriggling—we’re almost there.”

He set me down on the far bank and immediately went to his pack. From it he extracted a fresh set of trousers, socks and drawers, as well as his boots, and changed speedily out of his sodden clothes. I was very glad that the sun was shining so brightly, otherwise he would have been in danger of catching a chill.

“Do you want to rest for a while?” I asked.

“No. Are you ready to move on?”

“Yes, but are you—”

“I’m fine. And we’re almost at the
col.
”

I looked up; he was right. It would be a steep climb, up the hill past wagon-sized boulders and shifting, unstable scree, but once we were through it was downhill all the way to Arolla.

The Col de Riedmatten was far narrower than any of the other passes we’d crossed, consisting of a single notch that divided one peak from the next. The rocks on either side were balanced in the most precarious manner, with little preventing them from sliding down and blocking the pass altogether.

“This pass is so narrow. Is it safe to cross?”

“Safe enough. The rockfall is a legacy of last winter. An avalanche. Go on, now. I’m right behind you.”

I stepped forward cautiously, choosing my steps with care, for a twisted ankle now would be little short of disastrous. I was so intent on watching my feet, in fact, that I didn’t hear the voices above us. Only when Elijah called out did I stop and turn around.

“What is it?”

“Someone’s above, messing about on the rocks higher up. Stupid bloody buggers.” He listened for a moment, then cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, “
Vous là-haut!
Vous allez faire tomber les rochers sur nous!
”

There was no answer; only silence.

“Alice,” he said, his voice frighteningly calm. “I want you to move as quickly as you can—do it now.”

“I don’t understand—”

“Just go!”

He was deadly serious. I began to walk forward, stepping carefully so as not to dislodge any of the surrounding rock.

Far above, a crack as sharp as a pistol shot sounded.

“Go!” he shouted, but rather than run away from the danger, he ran toward me. I looked up, stunned into immobility, and saw a mass of darkness crashing down. I fell to the ground and covered my head with my hands. And then I was being carried, pulled, pushed, and the noise was terrible, the dust even worse, and I choked and coughed and wondered if I were dying.

As if from a very great distance, I heard someone calling my name. “Alice. Open your eyes. Can you hear me, Alice?”

I opened one eye, then the other, and when I was finally able to focus, I realized Elijah was leaning over me, his face white with shock, and I was lying on the ground on the far side of the pass.

“Are you awake? Can you hear me?” he demanded.

“Yes, yes. I can hear you. What just happened?”

“Those idiots brought down a shed-load of rocks on our heads. I pulled you away, but several struck you.”

“Oh,” I said. And then, since it was true, “It hurts.”

“What hurts?”

“My arm. My left arm feels terrible. And my foot...or is it my ankle? Everything hurts.”

“Let me look at you,” he said, and as it pained my head to say anything I lay still while he poked and prodded. “You’ve broken your forearm. But your ankle is only sprained.”

Without pausing, he opened his pocketknife and slit the sleeve of my dress from wrist to elbow. Bending low, he examined my arm even more closely. A grunt of satisfaction told me he was pleased with whatever he saw.

“What is it? What do you see?” I asked, my voice querulous.

“Straightforward fracture. Not compound, thank God. Lie still while I fashion a splint.”

He rummaged around in our packs, at length taking out my little easel. “If I promise to be careful, may I use the wood from this? I’ll repair it if I can.”

I nodded—he might take it apart with a hatchet, for all I cared at that point—and he set to work at dismantling the easel, taking two of its three legs and packing away the bits that remained. He then pulled his spare shirt from the pack and ripped it to pieces, which he used to bind my arm to the pieces of wood.

“I’m going to wrap your ankle, Alice. It will help keep the swelling down.”

That accomplished, he closed up our packs and carried them away from the path. He covered them with the smaller groundsheet, which he weighted down with rocks at each corner, and returned with only our waterskins in hand.

“I want to get you to a doctor as quickly as possible. I’ll send someone back to collect our things. Can you drink a little water before we set off?”

“Yes, but—”

“Drink now,” he ordered, and when I was done he lifted me gently, my uninjured arm next to his chest, and began to walk downhill. The path was steep and uneven, with loose stones that would have tripped me up again and again, but he never stumbled, never faltered. I began to feel quite comfortable in his arms, so much so that it became difficult to keep my eyes open.

“Sleepy...” I murmured.

“Don’t fall asleep. You may have struck your head—you must stay awake, Alice. Just for a little while.”

“So comfortable. Doesn’t...doesn’t even hurt.”

“Listen to me. If you stay awake, I’ll talk to you. I’ll even answer your questions. Whatever you ask.”

He couldn’t have offered a more appealing inducement. I racked my brain, pushing aside the cotton wool that padded my thoughts. Best to start with something innocuous.

“How did you meet Peter?”

“Our fathers were friends. We were thrown together, in the way that happens to children when their parents are close. But we liked one another in spite of it.”

“How old were you?”

“Five or six. Young enough that I can’t remember a time before we were friends. We were holy terrors back then, half wild, forever disappearing into the woodlands, scrambling about in streams. We went off to school together, then university.”

“Is that when you met Tom?”

“I didn’t know him when we were at Cambridge. No, we met at the Alpine Club a few years later. Were both of us disappointed by the place. Nothing but a room of old fools blathering on about their exploits. As if they’d ever climbed anything steeper than their front steps.”

“And you made friends—just like that?”

“Just like that. Even a confirmed misanthrope like myself.”

“My brother is awfully charming.”

“Birds out of trees, as the saying goes.” He shifted me slightly in his arms. “What was he like as a boy?”

“The same. Always running, always talking. Always had a dog or two at his heels, his boots clotted with mud. He hated school, hated being trapped inside.”

“Was he very naughty?” he asked with a smile.

When had Tom
not
been naughty? I regaled Elijah with stories of my brother’s many misdeeds, most of them involving the use and abuse of ancient weaponry purloined from Papa’s renowned collection. I talked and talked, finding that it helped to push the pain in my arm and ankle to the back of my mind. In what felt like only a few minutes, but was likely closer to an hour, Elijah was hammering on the door of the Pension Devin.

“We’ll have you mended and comfortable in no time,” he promised as he carried me up the stairs to our room.

“Where is the doctor?”

“The nearest physician lives in Evolène. He’ll come to look in on you tomorrow. In the meantime, Madame Devin has called for the village midwife. She’ll be here within the hour.”

“What would a midwife know about setting bones?”

“In a small farming village like this? More than most physicians, I’d wager.”

He set me down on the bed, taking great care not to jostle my arm or ankle, and proceeded to undress me. It took ages, as he first had to cut away what was left of my sleeve, and by the time he was done, I felt close to fainting.

“Steady on,” he ordered. “We’re almost there.”

“I’m ever so tired, Elijah.”

“I know. Is there anything else you need?”

“May I have something to eat?”