Susannah strolls into the Internet café.
“Ixchel told me that you’re both headed up the mountain tomorrow. That can’t be right—is it?”
“Uh-huh.” I’m partly amazed, partly relieved to hear that Ixchel’s on board.
Susannah gives the most delicate shrug. “Well, okay.”
“You don’t think it’s too soon to climb?”
“It surely is.”
“So … ?”
“Arcadio gave me some advice about how to deal with you, Josh. Warned me that you’d be impetuous. Told me not to interfere.”
“But … I could get hurt.”
It’s strange, being around an adult who actually lets me take responsibility, make my own choices. It takes some getting used to.
Susannah wrinkles her nose. “No, sir. You’re gonna live a long life.”
“You know that?”
Susannah nods, and to my astonishment, tears spring to her eyes. A look of deep melancholy crosses her features. Her lips tremble, her chin shakes. She holds out her arms to me in a sudden gesture of yearning.
“Hug me, Josh. Give me a hug for the girl I used to be.”
Mystified, I put my arms around Susannah, until a few moments later, she releases me. She’s been so great to two kids she barely knows. After our hug, Susannah won’t look me in the eye. She stands up, walks briskly to the window, where she stares at the massive volcano, a perfect cone of granite and snow in a green meadow, under a flawless blue sky.
“You’d better go pack your climbing gear,” she tells me, still looking away. “It’s best to get an early start. There’s a jeep leaving for the first hut in an hour or so. An early night and you can be up and about by five tomorrow morning.”
39
We wave good-bye to Susannah and board the four-wheel-drive jeep that leaves for the first mountain hut. The sun has just set; a heavy layer of clouds rolls in from the Orizaba mountain range, smothering the roads with a film of mist. As we arrive at the hut, the sky is a gloomy, charcoal gray. The plan is to get a decent night’s sleep, but it turns out that the hut has been taken over by a group of high-school kids from Mexico City, a bunch of sixteen- and seventeen-year-olds. They want to party until the wee hours, by the sounds of it.
Ixchel’s in the bunk next to mine, both lower bunks. I roll over and look at her. Like me, she’s still awake.
“I wish they’d shut up,” I whisper.
Ixchel grins. “Yeah,” she hisses back. There’s a long pause. After a while it feels awkward. But Ixchel is still gazing back at me. “How are you feeling?” she asks.
“Crummy,” I say with a dramatic frown. We both laugh. “The last thing I want to do tomorrow is climb.”
“I’m really excited,” she says. “And scared. Josh … are you scared?”
I reply slowly, “Are you kidding? I’m petrified.”
“We don’t have to do this,” she whispers.
“Yeah,” I say, nodding, “I do.”
There’s so much at stake, I can hardly bear to think about it. All my questions answered …
But what if I don’t like the answers?
Before we go to sleep, we take Diamox, to prevent altitude sickness. I eventually fall asleep, but it’s not a good night. I’m woken several times by the sound of the older boys talking, laughing. By five the next morning, I’m only vaguely rested. At least the gunshot wound feels better than it has up until now.
Ixchel sits up on her bunk, looking across at me. Like me, she’s slept in her thermals and a T-shirt. In silence, we both pull jeans over our leggings, then dress in the walking socks, hiking boots, and ski jackets that Susannah bought for us.
As we walk out of the dorm, twelve alarms go off. The hut fills with the sounds of teenagers cursing, kicking in their sleeping bags. Their racket does nothing but make me miserable. Everyone else is here for fun. Well, not me.
I’m on the brink of something; I sense it.
Our guide, Xocotli (he pronounces it Shock-ott-lee), is waiting for us outside, tying up his horse. He’s a thin, wiry guy in his fifties, with a deeply lined face that’s straight from the Aztecs and narrow brown eyes that bore into ours. He wears a woolen poncho and a knitted hat. He hands out still-warm tamales—steamed cornmeal spiced with green tomato chilli sauce and wrapped in corn husks. Ixchel and I eat them straight out of the husks. Our hot breath billows like fine powder into the air around us.
Xocotli’s brown features break into a huge grin. “You enjoy the tamales, yes?” he asks, speaking Spanish in a reedy singsong voice.
We answer with enthusiastic nods. Xocotli stares closely at Ixchel. “You have Mayan blood, yes?”