The Mission By Vanessa Couchman
Every step is an act of will. Each time I look up the summit is no closer. I have to stop every ten paces to suck in the air my muscles are screaming for. But I promised I would do this. I must go on.
I adjust the rucksack so it sits on my hips. The most important part of my burden doesn’t weigh much but the two litres of water and the heavier bottle are like lead weights.
Scrambling up a stony path I arrive at a plateau, although my goal is still some way off. From here, the view down the valley is so green it’s almost blue, tinged with a gauze-like haze. In the far distance, other mountains loom like sleeping prehistoric monsters.
This was one of our favourite spots. The chocolate stop, we called it. My heart contracts. When you were well and fit and we had so many years before us, we thought.
I screw up my eyes but the moisture seeps out, mingling with sweat and dust.
I see the pallid, almost transparent body, as white as the sheet covering its skeletal thinness. I see the fire quenching in those once luminous eyes. This is not how I want to remember you. But my memory won’t let me go back beyond those last days. Until I have carried out my promise I am in a limbo that binds us both. You gripped my hand in yours, your failing flesh clammy with fear. How could I refuse?
Fortified by squares of chocolate and gulps of water, renewed energy wells up. I set off again. The path seems easier, the peak closer.
A last lung-splitting effort and I am standing on the top. Our top, where we always ate our picnic and marvelled at the matchbox houses dotting the emerald valley; where the jangle of cowbells swells up through the pure air.
Shrugging off the rucksack, I stretch my back and shoulders. A flat rock makes a perfect table. I spread out my frugal meal. Then I feel in the rucksack for the bottle. The gold foil tears off and I undo the wire mesh around the neck. The cork eases out slowly until it gives with a crack that echoes down the valley.
I pour the champagne into a plastic cup – incongruous. I raise it in a silent toast. The lump in my throat blocks the liquid at first. Then the bubbles flow down in a sparkling waterfall. I pour the final drops on the ground – a libation to your soul.
We once watched a hang-glider taking off here. You envied him and had tears in your eyes. One final thing is left. I remove the plastic bag from the rucksack. Sorry it couldn’t be more fitting. This is what you wanted: I kept my promise. As I pour what’s left of you onto the ground, a gust of wind comes from nowhere and swirls the dust off down the hillside.
Copyright Vanessa Couchman 2012
I adjust the rucksack so it sits on my hips. The most important part of my burden doesn’t weigh much but the two litres of water and the heavier bottle are like lead weights.
Scrambling up a stony path I arrive at a plateau, although my goal is still some way off. From here, the view down the valley is so green it’s almost blue, tinged with a gauze-like haze. In the far distance, other mountains loom like sleeping prehistoric monsters.
This was one of our favourite spots. The chocolate stop, we called it. My heart contracts. When you were well and fit and we had so many years before us, we thought.
I screw up my eyes but the moisture seeps out, mingling with sweat and dust.
I see the pallid, almost transparent body, as white as the sheet covering its skeletal thinness. I see the fire quenching in those once luminous eyes. This is not how I want to remember you. But my memory won’t let me go back beyond those last days. Until I have carried out my promise I am in a limbo that binds us both. You gripped my hand in yours, your failing flesh clammy with fear. How could I refuse?
Fortified by squares of chocolate and gulps of water, renewed energy wells up. I set off again. The path seems easier, the peak closer.
A last lung-splitting effort and I am standing on the top. Our top, where we always ate our picnic and marvelled at the matchbox houses dotting the emerald valley; where the jangle of cowbells swells up through the pure air.
Shrugging off the rucksack, I stretch my back and shoulders. A flat rock makes a perfect table. I spread out my frugal meal. Then I feel in the rucksack for the bottle. The gold foil tears off and I undo the wire mesh around the neck. The cork eases out slowly until it gives with a crack that echoes down the valley.
I pour the champagne into a plastic cup – incongruous. I raise it in a silent toast. The lump in my throat blocks the liquid at first. Then the bubbles flow down in a sparkling waterfall. I pour the final drops on the ground – a libation to your soul.
We once watched a hang-glider taking off here. You envied him and had tears in your eyes. One final thing is left. I remove the plastic bag from the rucksack. Sorry it couldn’t be more fitting. This is what you wanted: I kept my promise. As I pour what’s left of you onto the ground, a gust of wind comes from nowhere and swirls the dust off down the hillside.
Copyright Vanessa Couchman 2012