The Sixth Station(97)

“I’m a drama queen, all right?”

“Ha! I knew it. By the way, do you plan on killing any tourists today?” I snarked, looking directly at the bulges under his jacket.

“Only if they ask directions.” He was lightening up. Oh, those crazy assassins!

We hiked for about twenty uphill minutes when we came to, of all things, a freaking parking lot at the base of the peak about a quarter of the way up.

“You’re not serious! We could have driven up here?” I was already panting.

He wasn’t.

“Have some water,” he said, taking it out of his knapsack, handing it to me, and walking a few paces to a small stone monolith with a round circle on top that was shaped like a wheel with spokes carved into it. Under that was carved the Cathar cross and the words STELE D RESSEE PAR LA SOCITE DU SOUVINIR ET D E STADES CATHARES PRINTEMPS 1960. IN THIS PLACE ON 16TH MARCH 1244 MORE THAN 200 PEOPLE WERE BURNED. THEY CHOSE NOT TO ABJURE THEIR FAITH.

He bowed his head, made the double sign of the cross, stood in contemplation a moment, turned, and said, “Are you ready, Ms. Roussel?”

“I told you not to call me that. And, yes, I’m ready.”

You may die trying to climb this thing. It’s straight up!

We began the trek for real this time. The “path” appeared to have been carved simply from the footsteps of the hearty pilgrims who had managed to climb this thing.

Thank you, Jesus, for the walking stick!

As we began climbing the mountain—it is the equivalent of climbing a more than three-hundred-story building—I quickly realized that if this was their idea of a French tourist attraction, it was no wonder there were no tourists.

It’s a straight climb up a slippery slope of a so-called footpath worn into the rocky soil that was a foot wide at some points, and so muddy in most spots it was like maneuvering on ice. The tiny path had no side rails whatsoever to prevent hikers from falling straight down.

And I was worried about that cliff in Rhinecliff?

If one side of the “pathway” was a straight drop down, the other side offered no solace. It was just rock face (think a rock wall in a gym) but covered with sharp, thorny bushes. I could see that the higher we would climb the steeper the fall to my untimely death would be. There wasn’t anyplace to go but straight down thousands of feet.

If he pushes me off the edge, no one will ever be able to recover my body: There’s no way to even get down there.

He was hiking ahead of me and clearing what nettles were impenetrable. I was breathing hard and wanted to stop. The mountain air was getting thinner, and I was more out of shape than I had ever dared to admit—before this.

He kept climbing.

What’s with this guy? Jeez. He’s killing me here. “In a pinch” was right: Even my trusty old boots are starting to cut notches into my ankles.

As I was wheezing and climbing and leaning on that walking stick like Old Mother Hubbard, my right foot gave out and I began sliding backward on the tiny dirt path. Within seconds I was on my face, my legs out from under me. My body was twisted, and my legs ended up hanging over the cliff.

I managed to grab onto a branch to keep from going straight down. Only my torso and arms were touching terra almost firma.

“Ayyyyy…”

Pantera turned then and stood there looking at me.

Oh, fuck. He’s going to push me.

He put down his walking stick and walked back to where I was half on, half off the cliff ledge.

“I can’t take you anywhere. All right, now just move your legs back away from the edge … slowly now, slowly.”

“I can’t. I’m terrified. Grab onto me.”

“No. If I do that, the ground could give way and for sure you’ll join the Cathars down there in the Prat des Cramats.”

“I can’t. I’m terrified.”

“Son of the Son! Just do what I’m telling you.”

“Okay, okay, ayyy…” I slowly turned my trunk and maneuvered my legs away from the edge until I was lying flat on the narrow path that was at that point a forty-five-degree slope and not quite as wide as my body.

I lifted my head and my torso up on my elbows and looked up at him from this prone position imploringly. “Now what?”

“Now say ‘Ommmm,’” he chanted.

“Very funny, you frigging … desperado!”

“Oh, for God’s sake! Just get up on your knees and then stand up.”

“What if I fall?”

“I will miss you deeply.”

“So you won’t help me?”

“There’s no room for two of us on this slope, so just do what I said so we can get on with it.”

Reaching out for a branch again, I held on and got up on my knees and then onto my feet. My jeans were ripped at the knee and I was bleeding. Palms too.