The Pass (Wattys 2019)

Chapter Eighteen

The wind was howling that morning as Nika woke up. She could hear it against the canvas of the tent, like a ravenous animal trying to rip them apart from the outside. It wouldn't take much more of that to send all of them off for a ride. And not in a fun, May Day carnival way.

They'd have to get moving, and fast.

She sat up, ignoring just how stiff her body was. "Alright, everyone: time to get up!"

She heard groaning as her team members woke around her. Obviously, none of them were exactly excited about the prospect of waking up, right then. She couldn't exactly blame them, but... well, the clock was ticking. And she was fairly certain that all of them would rather be awake and annoyed than still asleep and careening down a mountain side in a tent.

"Are you deaf?" Nika asked. "All of you need to get up and get ready: we don't have much time before this wind sends us off this damned mountain!"

More wind punctuated what she'd said. Wind that really did just about take them off the side of the mountain.

Peter cursed. "Alright: you heard the lady. Let's pack it up!"

Everything from that moment on was in a state of jumbled confusion. Ordinarily, they would all have jobs to do in the morning in order to get ready. However, that morning, it was every man for himself. Everyone threw on their clothes as quickly as possible, got out of the tent even faster. They were able to get the tent down in record timing, and it was a good thing, too: the wind only got worse from there, and it was all any of them could do to stay on their feet and avoid getting blown away.

It didn't take them long to take down the camp. Especially since the wind had already practically ripped the tent from the ground for them. Once the tent was down, they ate their oats and began to head down the trail.

That day was far more difficult than the others. There hadn't been so much as a breeze in the past two days, and the sun had been shining. Now, though, they weren't so lucky. The sky was dark, and the wind and snow whipped past their faces. It was difficult to see where they were going: everything around them looked the same. The only sort of marker they had were the Urals, themselves. They loomed in the distance, dark masses against their snow swept fields of vision. Eerie. Forboding. Seeing the mountains like that, it was easy to see why so many people were afraid of those mountains.

There really is something about this place, isn't there? Nika thought to herself. She'd never been one to believe in superstitions, like her family on her father's side, who went to secret Masses in their friend's basement and hid Russian Orthodox icons in their closets: the idea of some magical being who sat in the sky and set arbitrary rules for people that might work to keep them safe from evil was ridiculous to her, and she'd never been able to understand why anyone believed it. Now, though, she could see it. Could feel it. There was something evil in that place.

Stop thinking like that, she scolded herself. You're sounding like an idiot!

They made their lunch site in the tree line. They were able to get some relief, there, though not much. Just enough that they could hear themselves think. Nobody seemed like they were in much of a mood for conversation: all of them were cold and exhausted. They could barely open their respective packs to get out their lunch.

"How far are we from our next camp?" Nika asked as they ate.

Peter got out his map and began to study it. "I think... we're about... ten kilometers away."

All of them let out a collective groan.

"Hey: don't shoot the messenger," Peter said. "I don't like it, either."