The Dust from Falling Stars

THE DUST FROM FALLING STARS
by
Jim Mastro

Alex Duval needed oxygen.

He dropped his backpack and fell to his knees, gulping air. The cold, thin atmosphere seared his throat. He closed his eyes and stars danced before him.

Stars.

White hot and unblinking.

"You right, mate?"

Alex looked up, startled, squinting against the harsh sky. A wiry old man was staring at him. Thin white hair, tattered parka, and a dirty burlap sack draped over one shoulder. One missing tooth.

The man's eyes narrowed. "American, aren't you?" He shook his head. "You blokes think you can bulldoze your way through everything. Look at you. You can't even breathe. Christ!" He pulled a pouch out of his parka and dug through it, muttering to himself. After a moment, he withdrew a sprig of leaves and thrust them toward Alex. "Here, chew on these."

When Alex hesitated, the old man shook the sprig in annoyance. "Go on, go on. Take 'em. Unless you want to sit there gasping like a fish in a boat."

Alex took the leaves, glanced at them, and stuffed them into his mouth. They were tangy and bitter. He swallowed the juice between breaths and in a moment the fuzziness in his brain began to dissipate. His vision sharpened.

The old man nodded, a look of satisfaction on his face. "Bloody amazing, eh? Only good to about 6000 meters, though, and you'll pay for it in a few hours."

"Thanks," Alex said.

"Yeah. Well. Save your thanks 'til you pay the piper." He cocked his head. "I don't suppose you have the strength to get yourself down about 1500 meters." The look in Alex's eyes seemed to be enough. "Didn't think so. You'd better come with me then." He hefted Alex's backpack onto his shoulder and started walking.

"Wait! Where are you going?" Alex jumped to his feet and nearly collapsed under a wave of vertigo.

"Don't worry," the man shouted over his shoulder. "Not far. You'll make it without this on your back."

Alex staggered forward then stopped, his chest heaving. He'd never catch the old guy, who was walking as though the pack weighed nothing at all, but he knew he couldn't let him out of his sight. Without the gear in that pack, he was dead.

He spit out the leaves and started moving. The path followed a gurgling stream up the center of the wide valley through waist-high, tawny grass. A breeze moved the grass in long, gentle waves. In the distance, snow-covered peaks loomed under a cloudless sky. The big backpack, hiding the old man's head and torso, looked as if it were floating by itself through the sedge.

#

Sheryl walks lightly, four meters in front of him, her daypack bouncing, her slim legs swishing through the knee-high grass. They're in the Adirondacks, looking for a trail not thick with people, talking about other places, better places.

She stops and waits for him to catch up. "It's not the 'Himalayas'," she says, indignant that he of all people should be so ill-informed. "That's a silly anglification that makes it sound like each individual mountain is a 'Himalay.' They're called the Hi-mal-aya."

"Hi-mal-aya," he says, smiling. "I stand corrected."

A breeze whips thin strands of sandy hair across her face. She pulls them back with a single finger and returns his smile, brightly.