[08.06.2019]
{08.06.1924}
the eyes
A long time ago. A memory. Like a vision of madness.
Real? No. Maybe. Yes, once. A long time ago. Even so, not all of it real—some of it a vision within a vision. Imposed.
By him.
The dark fell away. The light flooded in. A shimmering collection of bands, pale coral to a wisteria violet, for every slope of the mountains. He remembered the cold biting at fingertips, toes, nose tip and ears through layers of cotton and wool and goggles and boots. But still he was filled with a vital warmth. Still game, if woozy.
Ahead on the narrow route, many yards below but merging with the snow-crusted ridgeline: A similar, smaller figure trudged and set the crawling pace. Hobnails and axe bit into the ice a foot at a time, the slack line wobbling at each step.
George. He was more poorly, the elder but weaker. He had pushed too hard, determined to summit. Run out of oxygen, had discarded the last empty canister an hour back. They were both so run dry, but so close. The arrival of the beautiful hues signaled the hideous danger they were in. So late—but camp just ahead. They had cleared the First Step on the return. There was hope yet.
His elder swayed, his footing sliding unexpectedly, barely catching himself by wedging the ice ax into the crust. He made up the distance in a spurt—sucking down the dregs of oxygen from the finicky tank on his pack, as George caught his breath.
"Just a bit further," he wheezed through balaclava, hood, and mask, "We're 'bout out the cloud."
He groaned, pawing the goggles free with numb fingers to tuck them in a breast pocket, then patted his young cohort on the shoulder. Feigned energy—the younger could feel how drained George was. Even compared to him. The sun was leaving ever faster.
They pushed on. Nobody could survive the mountain above the last camp, especially not in the approaching night. It was likely already twenty below zero.
Which was why Sandy paused his descent in puzzlement as the third figure caught his eye. Ahead of him, but behind George. Not even on the ridge or route, seated ponderously on an icy crag, head down, a few yards to the side on the Kangshung slope. He needed a long moment to process this.
"Hey there—" His voice? He heard it hollowly now. His free arm raised to hail the stranger. Before he'd completed a stiff wave the figure's head raised and centered on him.
The eyes.
His balance evaporated the moment he focused on the face, goggled and hooded as his was. Yet somehow he knew—he felt—George plodding further and further unaware. Five yards, now six. Was this altitude edema? Who needed help more now—he or this white-coated stranger?
The figure stood. Vital warmth drained from him. The white-coated stranger strode up the sheer slope, impervious to the frigid winds beginning to whip across it.
"Ge…orge…"
Don't bother.
Something wrong. The eyes. The stare began to blind him; the darkening landscape blurred and melted at the edges. The breath no longer filled his lungs, and his knees crumpled in a flash of unnatural weakness. The eyes filled his vision. And the vision of madness bored into him.
Heat. Comfort. Balmy breezes, and the riverside. Oxford? Impossible. The impossible apple trees rustled, and the impossible river rippled in the impossible warm wind.
No—wasn't real. Couldn't be real. This was a lie.
You would accuse me, worm?
The eyes consuming his view returned, accompanied by a powerful gloved hand, clamping the sides of his coat's hood together, which wrenched him to his feet again by the throat. His own hands fumbled against this stranger's wrist, but it had the stability and tenacity of a steel beam.
It was no lie,
the voice of the eyes, it thundered in his brain,
it was an offer. You will accept, or…
The apple trees withered. The river froze, cracked, pieces like a shattered mirror upending and screeching against each other. The illusion of warm breezes became shredding gales. A hoarse croak of pain died in his throat. Close eyes. Look away. He had to close his eyes. He had to escape the eyes.
You will suffer—
Above the harsh hate drilling into his skull he felt the line secured around his waist tighten sharply. Suddenly there was a hiss. The eyes had torn away. He was free. For the moment.
But God forbid what it meant. He blinked, vision returning as he was dropped to hands and knees, frozen hands digging into snow and scree as the line tightened. Through wisps of muted cloud, he could see George some twenty yards on, sprawled and crawling back onto the ridgetop. It would have been bad enough. The beast had turned, digging in against the taut rope against its legs, threatening to trip it up. He felt the hatred emanating from its blank goggles. Eyes on George. God no, God no.
He tried. God, he tried. His throat could only roar out silence. His legs were ice. It kept plodding to George, just rising to sit, chest heaving with effort.
George's cry of shock was muted by the rising weather. The dark brought cloud and squall. The mountaineer with the eyes had not even bothered to lock them with the man's: He watched in horror as it latched its grip into his companion's shoulders like talons. It stamped down on the connecting rope. Suddenly he was aware of the swirling rage of the thing, at such distance. So aware. He finally found he could cry out when the thing double-checked the trapped line, and then heaved its victim over the ridge.
The line twanged. It went slack.
The beast peered back over its shoulder. Locked eyes with Sandy. Proud.
Sandy felt heat, and strength, flood him again. As if the death zone were a rolling hillside. Eyes perceived a brightness and clarity that broad daylight could never provide. It was not just heat; fire filled him. Every muscle burned with pain. He realized he was screaming as his volume matched and overtook that of the rolling storm. Surged to his feet. Knuckles whitened on the ice ax.
A whirr. A crack.
He saw the ice ax bounce high from its impact, arcing off into the thick cloudbank and gone further down the ridge. And the beast. It clutched its eyes. There was no sound. There was… blood. It was not blood. His brain throbbed with the echoes this thing made. Soundless howling. Insulted. Injured. Tried not to admit the last, but yes: Afraid.
But there was no victory, not here. All the strength leaked out as soon as he acquired it. Fire left him; frostbite crowded in. His lungs pumped at what felt like nothingness. His brain throbbed. Vision failed, only streaks of dark and less-dark remained. He slid from weak hands and knees. Goggles pressed into the crackling snow. Aware. Unaware. Aware of what mattered now. Feeling everything.
It drew away. Hared down the north slope. After George.
This, it wanted him to know. It told him. It sneered. Somehow the tears were still hot as they filled the cups of his goggles before slowly leaking out.
It reveled; it showed him everything. Through its eyes he saw George. He was waving, fiercely hoping. The left leg was broken from the fall. God no. George couldn't see in the dusk and mist. He must have thought the beast was him, or Noel out searching for them both. Sandy had to watch his friend's expression twist to emptied horror as it drew near. Not a friend—and still trickling not-blood from its shattered eyes. True form revealed.
God help us.
He sunk into the ice, with nothing left.