Fifty-four

Bane waited for the weather to break before he would attempt the climb. He wanted dry walls to lessen the chance of slipping or losing a handhold. Another week dragged by before nature cooperated. During that time, he confided only in Hans until the evening before when he revealed his plans to Doctor Assad as well as Melisande. They both tried to change his mind, but this time he noticed that Melisande's attempts were not as spirited as before his previous climb, no doubt due to Talia's recent unsettling questions. Talia had been napping during their discussion—purposeful timing on Bane's part—so the child knew nothing until the day of his climb.

"Where are you going, Ba-ba?" she asked when he left his cell that morning.

He stopped at her door where Melisande already stood to wish him luck. She had hoped to keep Bane's plan from the child if at all possible, though once the chanting started in the shaft Talia would know someone was climbing and would run to the front of her cell to watch. Now she hurried to stand beside her mother, reaching a hand through the bars to grab Bane's pant leg to anchor him until he answered her question. She smiled at him, no doubt ready to request yet again that she be allowed to accompany him wherever he was bound, but her happy expression quickly fell to ruin when she saw the gravity upon their faces.

"Where are you going, Ba-ba? Are you going to fight another bad man?"

Bane frowned at Melisande who lifted Talia onto her hip. Again the child reached for him, this time tweaking his nose.

"Not today," he said.

"Can I come with you?"

"Not yet."

"When?"

He took her hand and kissed it. "Maybe soon."

Bane's attention returned to Melisande, waiting for her to tell Talia the truth or to give him approval to do so. The familiar anxiety was there in her brown eyes as it had been when he had first made the climb. She appeared unable to speak, trying desperately to maintain her composure in front of Talia. She nodded her permission.

"I'm going to climb the shaft," he said. "So you must promise to cheer for me."

"You are?" Talia burst out with excitement, her gaze reaching over his shoulder toward the shaft. "Can I climb, too?"

He chuckled, her energy easing some of his trepidation. "When I get to the top, I'll throw down ropes so everyone can climb out."

Talia gasped and looked at her mother whose smile fell short of her daughter's elation. Then, for a brief moment, Talia deflated, saying, "Then we'll come back down?"

"No, habibi," Melisande found her voice. "We will look for your father. Remember how we talked about him last night?"

"Papa?"

"That's right."

"Oh…" Talia settled thoughtfully, her fingers playing with Melisande's shemagh, her other hand still in Bane's grip.

"So," he said, brightening for her sake. "Will you cheer for me as I climb?"

"Yes," she said solemnly, her attention again drifting toward the shaft. "The other men fall down."

"Yes, I'm afraid they did."

"Don't fall down, Ba-ba."

"I won't as long as you cheer for me. Remember the chant I taught you?"

Her face scrunched in concentration as she tried to recall the words.

Bane chuckled again. "I'm sure your mama will be happy to refresh your memory. Now I have to be off; here comes Hans looking for me."

"Bane." Melisande impulsively reached for his arm, no longer able to mask the fear. "You don't have to do this."

Hiding his own apprehension, he kissed Talia's hand and released her, then smoothly pried away Melisande's hand, smiled at her. "Yes, I do." From beneath his shirt, he drew his knife and slipped it through the bars to her. "Keep this for me…until I see you again."

Hans said nothing, waiting just down the cell row, his expression set. Gola rose from his charpoy and limped to his door, silently watching. Of course he would refrain from any malicious words today since Bane could very well be his liberator. Abrams, too, left his bed, heading into the stepwell. Word would spread in an instant, flashing down each corridor, every level.

Bane offered Talia and Melisande one last smile, but it must not have been convincing because Talia softly said, "Don't fall, Ba-ba."

As if to counter her daughter's words, Melisande murmured, "Good luck." Tears trembled in the corners of her beautiful eyes.

Bane forced himself away from them.

As he circled the shaft, heading to where the rope awaited, he thought of his conversation with the doctor last night.

"Don't try to deny your fear," Assad had cautioned when he heard the bravado in Bane's tone. "Fear can be a valuable ally."

"How?"

"Fear heightens the senses, makes you more aware of potential mistakes in judgment. It is the over-confident who move too quickly or view the shaft as something less formidable than it is. Fear makes you respect your opponent; it gives you the proper perspective. It reminds you of what is truly at stake—not just escape, but your very life. Do you understand?"

Though troubled by Assad's words, Bane had nodded, and he replayed them now as Hans tied the rope around his torso. The hemp was still damp from the rains. "Easier for me to grip," Hans promised. Bane hoped so, though his intention, of course, was not to need Hans.

Men hurried into the shaft from all directions. Not the numbers that had gathered for his fight with Omar Alam, but he knew the higher he climbed, the more the crowd would grow. And the louder the chant would be. The ascension to the top was a long one, and men would take turns giving voice to the chant, for no one had the strength to maintain the incantation for the climber's entire journey (though many such journeys were often woefully short).

As before, his first obstacle was the ledge of rock that ran the circumference of the shaft above the stepwell, but this was conquered far easier now that he was so much taller than three years ago. From there he paused for one last look back toward Melisande's cell. She was still at her door, Talia in her arms.

"Climb, Ba-ba, climb!" The child's hopeful words came sharply across the distance, giving him a boost of determination.

Briefly he scanned the faces of the watching inmates, men like Assad, Yemi, Greyson, and Abrams who looked on with keen interest. A couple dozen here so far. Wagering had already begun. Of course there was a variety of scenarios upon which to gamble: How high would he climb? Would he actually reach the top? Would he at least make it farther than the last time? And then there was the simplest of bets: Live or die?

Among the spectators, Bane felt one stare in particular, followed its weight to the source: Omar Alam. He stood halfway around the shaft, his dark eyes aglow with hate, a small, enigmatic grin amidst his beard. Yes, today would be a good day for Alam no matter the outcome of the climb—if Bane succeeded, then Alam would be free; if he failed, Alam could gloat over yet another of Bane's failures. Yet there was something even more malignant than usual in the Arab's gaze, something that struck an instinctive chord of fear in Bane, a warning.

Bane scowled at the man and pried his attention away, his focus now fully upon the shaft and the monumental task before him. Various prisoners called encouragement to him. He smiled grimly at the realization that today, at least for this moment, he was no one's true enemy, perhaps not even Omar's. Momentarily Bane closed his eyes, breathed deeply, allowing the cleansing breath deep into his lungs, then slowly exhaled, relaxation flowing down into his limbs, into his feet, calming the twitch of his fingers. Then he opened his eyes and began to climb.

The first one hundred feet passed below him with little effort, an ease that surprised and pleased him, yet he cautioned himself against over-confidence, harkening back to the doctor's words. He kept his gaze always upward, recalled the painful price he had paid for glancing downward during the previous climb. Even now he remembered with ease the height to which he had ascended three years ago, recalled the specific spot that had been his undoing. He stared at that location, still far above him, used that as a goal, that before the ultimate goal of the shaft's opening, a strategy he had developed last night as he lay awake—to break the climb into increments of one hundred feet, not to think about the top until the final one hundred.

His handholds were strong, his feet—bare this time for better grip—sure upon the outcroppings. Now that the first one hundred feet were past, the trembling in his limbs from adrenaline had calmed. Later it would return, he knew, once fatigue shouldered its way in, but for now he used his fresh strength to make steady, economic progress. He squinted against the filtered light pouring down upon him. The day's cloudiness kept the shaft cool. For a moment he allowed himself to imagine standing above ground, the day—even in its gloominess—dazzling his eyes. Would he be able to tolerate it?

"Deshi, deshi! Basara, basara!"

By the time he reached the spot where he had fallen last time, the chant from below had gained in volume and numbers. They could see that this was not a boy who climbed now. He heard their hopes in those two words, a fullness that bespoke far more than inspiration—they told of the pain suffered by everyone who shouted the words, they told of dreams, they told of planned revenge or redemption once freedom was achieved, of new beginnings, of murderous ends. Somewhere amidst those voices he imagined that he could dissimilate Melisande's and Talia's voices. Yet did Talia even understand that for which she cheered? At her age, he certainly had not comprehended a world beyond the pit. Did she have some vague image of her father in her mind—as he did of his own father—something of specific substance to focus on instead of the unimaginable world of light and warmth? Or were her shouts simply for his safety? Physical pain was a tactile reality that she, even at her young age, understood far better than the mysteries that awaited above ground. Whatever her motivation, the thought of her small, shrill voice chanting for him amidst the male chorus helped propel him past that fateful location from which he had fallen.

By the time he was at the halfway point, fatigue started to set in. He paused there for some time, clinging to the face of the shaft, his cheek pressed against the rock, his heart thudding in his ears—steady and strong, not racing yet; he had kept his fear just beneath the surface, close enough to utilize it for incentive and caution but not close enough that it could swell and overwhelm him. The three years that had passed had allowed the terror from his fall to be dulled, yet he could feel its presence deep within, fighting to reclaim him. He needed to get to the top before that could happen.

When another hundred feet had been left behind, his progress had slowed considerably. He adjusted his goals, focusing now on twenty-foot increments, talking softly to himself, encouraging himself since the distance dulled the chant to what seemed only a dream-like drone. His words tumbled out, a stream of consciousness, whatever came to mind as he reached ever upward, pausing only when all strength left him except the strength to cling to the wall.

He wondered if the light was really as close as it seemed. Were his eyes playing tricks on him? Surely he had no more than a hundred feet…then…freedom. He was tempted to look down in order to assure himself of his great progress, but he denied the deadly urge. He swallowed in a dry throat, realized he was now breathing through his mouth, exhaustion taxing his lungs and heart now, blood pounding in his ears, his head aching. Focusing upward, he could actually make out the definition of the gray clouds. They were no longer simply a blur of blended colors. There were lighter grays and darker grays, fascinating textures, moving like a caravan across the sky. The wind that propelled them strengthened as he rested there, hands and feet abraded and bleeding from the outcroppings and crevices; he could actually feel its breath as it spilled over the sides of the shaft's opening. A clean breath; no sand, not after so many days of rain. He closed his eyes, inhaled deeply, relished the freshness of the air, the caress of warmth.

At the thought of moisture for his parched tongue and throat, he felt a drop of rain upon his forehead. His first thought was to open his mouth and welcome the relief, but as he clung there to the wall and enjoyed the tiny splashes against his face, the sudden danger struck him, opening his eyes wide in fear. The rain would make the shaft walls slippery once again. He needed to move…quickly.

He surveyed the wall above him, mapping out his handholds, where he would place his feet, which outcroppings would get him to that tantalizing ledge just below the mouth of the shaft in the shortest possible way. As he gathered his tenuous strength, a black bank of clouds darkened the sky, and rain crashed against him in a battering torrent, stealing his breath.

"No," he moaned, starting upward.

His progress was painstakingly slow, for whenever he looked up to locate his next handhold, the rain poured into his eyes, blinding him. He used one hand to attempt to swipe his vision clear, for he dared not shake his head out of fear of losing his balance. But such an effort was nearly pointless; the minute he squinted just one eye upward in search of the next outcropping, his vision was drowned again. Now he could feel the old fear growing stronger, feeding off of his desperation. It invaded his chest, squeezing out his air, making him pant and struggle for each breath as his fingers crept sightlessly upward, seeking the next rock.

Hand over hand, every muscle screaming, demanding he let go. Higher, foot by foot, his arms like lead, drained of blood, of power, his fingers trembling. Rain streamed down his body, weighted his shirt and pants…and the rope. The safety rope's block and tackle lay below him now, and though that signified how far he had climbed, it also meant that if he fell now he would tumble at least a hundred feet before the rope could stop him, and when it did so, the jolt alone could snap his spine. His shoulder ached when he recalled the agony of his separated shoulder. If he failed at this height, he knew he would be lucky if all he suffered was a shoulder injury.

His body demanded that he stop and rest again, but just as he was about to give in, his outstretched fingers scraped against the first broad ledge. He gasped in relief and opened his eyes. The stone platform directly above his head protected him from the rain, and he allowed himself one last pause to gather himself, shaking first one arm then the other beside him to force blood back into them. Then he did his best to calm his breathing before continuing, moving laterally from beneath the ledge so he could climb onto it from one end.

When he pulled himself atop the ledge and rested on hands and knees, the chant surged up from below with fresh vigor, almost a frenzy. Exhausted, he allowed himself to sit, his knees drawn up, back against the wall, mouth open to gulp in the fresh air. He leaned his head back, allowed the rain to beat against his closed eyes as he listened to the chant. Neither of the two men who had attempted the climb during the past year had reached this height. In fact, he had to think back more than two years to remember anyone achieving this lofty goal, and that prisoner had later committed suicide in his cell, unable to bear the knowledge of how close he had come to freedom.

He opened his eyes, knowing he should not delay. Already the rain had drenched the ledge, and he had intended to have dry footing to help him make the twelve-foot leap to the next ledge, a ledge that was also about eight feet higher than the first. Though he had grown to the height of a man, he would need the full extension of his arms in order to snag the edge of that next perch. Then, above that, two smaller ledges—just wide enough to precariously stand upon and no more—jutted out from the wall, within reach of the ledge and each other. Beyond that last small protrusion, he would be able to pull himself up to the rim of the shaft. These four ledges were the only means to climb the rest of the way, for the walls—while still rough from the strange diagonal rifling caused by whatever had created the shaft—lacked any crevices or outcroppings to grasp.

"Deshi, deshi! Basara, basara!"

The chant was impatient now, demanding that he continue, spurring him to his feet. Bane pressed his back against the wall, his arms spread out to either side as if he could somehow cling to the wall with his bleeding fingers. Against his better judgment, he chanced a curious glance beyond his toes, down toward the gathered prisoners, the pool's surface mottled by the rain. He gasped at the shaft's depth and flattened himself even tighter against the wall as fresh fear burst in his chest. Squeezing his eyes shut, he gritted his teeth, fought against the panic. Perhaps he should wait, stay here until the rain passed and the ledges dried out. But when would that be? Minutes? Hours? Days? And if he lingered, would he ever be able to move again? The doctor had once told him of a prisoner long ago who had made it to the first ledge then had been overcome by terror and remained there for two days, calling out in the hopes that someone on the surface would hear him and come to his rescue. In the end he had made a pitiful attempt to reach the next ledge, only to plunge downward, never to try again.

Bane waited until he could conquer his panic and control his breathing again. He listened to the chant, to the voice of the rain, to the beat of his heart, and he imagined that he could hear Melisande and Talia. They would not be able to see him this far up, not in their cell, slightly recessed from the stepwell, but they would know; the chant's manic tempo and volume would reveal his progress. He would not let them down. He would not remain frozen here like a frightened child. Thinking of his mother, he opened his eyes, focused on the next ledge, imagined the feel of it beneath him, just as he felt the stone beneath him now, supporting him so far from all that he cared about, so far above his home. No, he should not consider this place his home. To do so made it an anchor, holding him down, keeping him from his father, denying Talia and Melisande of their freedom, their family.

Carefully he moved to the far end of his perch, facing the next ledge. Only a few feet of runway, but he had been practicing this leap for years now out in the stepwell. Other prisoners had laughed at him, but no doubt those men were not laughing now. He checked to make sure the rope was snug then wondered if perhaps the weight of the rope would hinder his leap. Yet, to remove it… His fingers hovered over the knot, but then he shook his head and fruitlessly wiped his hands against his shirt. No use. Everything was soaked by now.

Gathering himself, he breathed out, breathed deeply in, closed his eyes, settled. When he opened his eyes, he glanced once toward the sky before returning his gaze to his goal and coiling his body. Then he sprang forward, leapt with all his renewed energy, reached upward and out into the yawning space.

His fingers grasped the edge of his salvation, his momentum swinging his body beneath the second ledge. One foot scraped along the wall in an attempt to stabilize him. His left hand slipped on the wet rock, pulling a terrified gasp from him, allowing the fear back in. Frantically his feet searched for something to support him, to lift him up, but the hand slid away, leaving him dangling by one arm.

The chant had stopped.

"No," he pleaded, trying to regain his handhold, stretching, kicking. The rain pounded against him like a sledgehammer attempting to drive him back into the earth. His right hand slipped, pulled inexorably away from the ledge by the weight of his body.

"No…no…"

He flailed wildly with his free hand, the light, the rain beating down upon him, eroding his strength, his balance until, at last, gravity tore freedom from his grip.

The light sped away from him as he fell, still grasping for what was beyond his reach. He fell with the rain, traveling faster and faster, faster than the rain. Closing his eyes, he waited for the pain.

When his meteoric body took up the slack on Hans's line, he slammed to a halt, his whole body jerking, the pain pulling an outcry from him, the rope biting into him. But before the line could swing him like a pendulum against the shaft wall, he heard a snap from above, and downward he plunged again, the severed rope trailing behind.