Hell Is Above Us: The Epic Race to the Top of Fumu, the World's Tallest Mountain, Jonathan Bloom [best ebook reader TXT] 📗

The events that happened from this point onward have been clearly documented in the writings of someone whom I wish to keep nameless for the time being, for any mention of sources at this point would give away far too much. I beg the reader trust me that evidence exists to support the occurrences of all subsequent events herein. In fact, although I am not living at home – at least not for the foreseeable future – and a fraction of the source material is here with me in Kirkburton, I invite the reader to visit my summer cottage in Kingsbridge. My housekeeper Ms. Bane will gladly show you the musty stacks of ledgers, journals, and loose scribbling comprising the data supporting the book in your hands. They are on the desk in my study, piled as high as the mountains that are their subjects, bindings fading in the swath of sunlight kindling the room in early afternoon.

Hoyt and Junk were almost motionless now, occasionally slipping a few inches down the slope, tapping one another’s back in the stead of punching. Without immediate rest and shelter, everything would be over soon. An explosion of lava nearby sent small boiling droplets in their direction. The fiery liquid came to rest on the cheeks of Hoyt and the back of Junk’s wool hat. As an indicator of their states, the two did not scream nor jerk in response. They simply groaned and slowly fell down a ledge five feet in height, coming to rest on a patch of untainted snow. Because the patch lay in a slightly sunken position under the ledge, it was protected from the ravages of the weather and eruptions. This trivial feature of the landscape allowed for a pristine spot near Fumu’s summit that was allowed to be like other mountains in the Himalaya, snowy, cold, and devoid of fire.

But there was more to this spot begging description. When the two men came to rest a few feet down from the ledge and the axe in Junk’s belt pressed into the ice, a large chunk of it gave way. The collapse exposed a snow cave. Affording room for one large man or perhaps two small men, the cave lay just above them on the slope, a God-sent haven, there for recovery or at least peaceful expiration. Independently, and probably not thinking of the other, each man took their remaining strength and pulled themselves up into the cave, the task made easier by gravity’s impotence. But their way was blocked by two boots. Boots! Up here, near the top of the Earth! They were of an ancient, European construction, easily a half-century old, black, fastening along the sides, and rising enough to meet a climber’s knee. To add to the curiosity, they were attached to a body. Its upper portions were still obscured in the darkness of the cave. Junk and Hoyt would have to pull the fellow out of it if they wished to identify him and then use the cave for themselves.

The task was simple. They pulled on the stiff legs and the body floated out as if on rollers. Time had been kind to this corpse. It was unmistakably George Malick, a giant of the climbing world, a contemporary of other giants Graham and Mummery, lost in Fumu’s cloud sixty years earlier. Nonetheless, he was still looking like the dashing man Hoyt and Junk had seen in daguerreotypes; strong jaw, conversation-stopping moustache, and eyes that had not lost their intensity even though clouded by death. Most bodies found in the Himalaya are ravaged by extreme conditions, with clothing torn off and skin bleached as white as the surrounding snow. But the wind, fire, and ice had not been given the opportunity to desecrate Malick’s noble bearing. His skin had certainly whitened, and the hair on his face and head had grown unrestrained post mortem, silver beard hiding his scarf and bushy moustache obscuring his mouth, but he was otherwise well-preserved in his frigid tomb. His dated clothing was immaculate for a gentleman lost in such a terrible place. The dark loden coat fit him handsomely. His wide-brimmed hat sat atop his overgrown locks and proudly retained its unmarred feather. No oxygen tank or mask was to be found. His climb had preceded such technology, the hearty bastard. Adding to the body’s stately mien was its pose. Malick died as if prepared for the end, body straight as a church pew, legs perfectly aligned, and mitts folded neatly upon the lapels of his coat.

Junk and Hoyt were not paying attention to one another any more. They were both in awe of this great adventurer who had come before them. Had he reached the top? Were they too late? With torn, wet mitts and yet another internal store of energy discovered, Hoyt pulled himself up into the cave and grasped Malick’s pack, which had for years stood upright at the head of the body like a gravestone. Shamelessly rifling through the contents without consideration of respect for the deceased, Hoyt found Malick’s writings. Nothing in the desperate penmanship suggested he had reached the top. It seems Malick had become lost before he could claim victory.

Glowing red ejecta passed through the sky over Aaron Junk’s head, illuminating a shiny object clasped in the corpse’s mitts. Forcing apart the folded hands, the two men gazed at the ancient totem now slowly spinning and floating on a chain extending from Junk’s glove. It was a locket. Junk opened it.

Inside, resting under cracked glass was the faded daguerreotype of a child. By the looks of him, he had been no more than five years of age when the bulb flashed and smoked. The lad sported a blond bob, a smile capable of calming the heart, and dimples big enough to shame the crevasses of Fumu. He sported the black shirt and starched white collar of a British independent school student of the late 19th century.One could almost hear the