The Climb

The Climb

Jennifer L. Luckett

    Aurora Martin laced the boot strap and wiggled her left toe. After a few steps, she was ready to go, ignoring the discomfort of her 30 pound pack.  Before good sense prevailed to change her mind, she departed into the darkness of a brisk, windless April morning. In an hour, she would reach the foothills, and if she made good time, she’d arrive atop the mountain before early afternoon. The practice climbs helped to acclimate her to atmospheric changes, but they didn’t topple Aurora’s tower of anxiety about her impending challenge. 

    All of the specialists agreed that physical activity was a great idea, though they cautioned her about her stamina. Her PCP jokingly told her he would make the climb with her.  She even became a vegan to drop her body fat and weight, once her treatment ended. When the specialist announced she had recovered, Aurora became determined to live as she chose, to the fullest, and she wanted to see the world from the highest points she could reach, places she once located on a globe, a Christmas gift from her grandmother when she was a girl.       

   Four decades later, Aurora stood, poised for the challenge. The photos on her laptop she viewed during those grueling days of treatment didn’t capture the formidable snow capped mountain rising above her. She began at a steady, vigorous pace, treading the marbled rocks that resembled the rugged terrain of a distant planet.  As she climbed the initial ridge, a glimmer in the pebbles appeared. Aurora picked up a shard of a mirror,  and she shuddered when she gazed at her reflection. She was a young girl, in thick lenses, her hair in a slender ribbon-tied braid. Days when her whole world was her mother and her Grandma, and Aurora’s longest journey was the one she made to and from school each day. It was Aurora, before she worried about premature births, painful treatments and arduous recoveries, and the world for her beloved Alexandra, if she were no longer in it. She recognized the girl in the mirror, but in another way, she was a stranger. 

  Aurora pocketed the mirror, ensuring an unsuspecting climber would avoid a cut on its jagged remnant.  The idea of an injury terrified her, though she knew cures and salves existed in the flora. The carefully wrapped oozing aloe leaf in her pack would have to suffice if she needed first-aid out here.

   The sun beamed on Aurora’s face, pools of perspiration running laps down her cheeks, and she paused to inhale the lighter, fresher air. Her calves ached from the ascent, but not enough to rest. Then, she detected the unexpected scent of acrid smoke, and as she neared the heat source, Aurora heard applause.  A man in a red, green and blue costume, adorned with dragon eyes and twisted torsos, wielded a torch, a bouncing blaze of yellow orange. He slid the stick between his lips, which transformed the fire eater into an eagle. The crowd began a frenzied chant,  “Soar, Soar, Soar!” as they watched the eagle glide toward the peak, and  a sultry, trailing wind raised the temperature of the smoky air.

     Aurora dropped her pack against a rock and knelt beside it, covering her face, and 100 pairs of eyes turned to her.  A man in a green hat and an all white ensemble, shook his head and pointed to the spot she’d vacated.  When Aurora took the hint and stood, the man in white hoisted a staff and began a new, louder incantation.  The audience formed a procession behind him, with Aurora at the rear. When they reached the top, the climbers' chanting ceased, until a helicopter hovered, and the man with the staff reached for an enormous black suitcase descending towards the crowd.  He grabbed the bag and pulled out a wicker basket containing an assortment of yellow lanterns, distributing one to each climber. A sketch of the peak appeared on its corner, beside Aurora’s name in an oversized, intricate script. Aurora scanned the faces of the other climbers, a collection of strangers who had no idea about her life, or why she’d chosen this location. The lantern dangled from her trembling fingertips, and a female climber, in a wide khaki hat, white t-shirt and beige cargo pants, approached Aurora. 

     “You have nothing to fear. Let it go when the time comes,” she whispered. 

     Aurora stepped back, catching herself to avoid tripping over her pack. The climber’s hand on her arm made her shudder again, but she managed a weak, “Thanks” for the save.

     Aurora turned to the other climbers standing in a line near the edge of the rocks, their lanterns stretched and poised for release, waiting for their signal. When it came, Aurora  watched the release, grasping hers until she felt a nudge.  She marveled at her lantern’s climb, riveted by her name floating above, drifting toward the endless sky.

    The sight evoked her memory of a pendant belonging to her grandmother, a silver dragonfly charm, with iridescent wings tinged with pale pink. When she read that dragonflies have short lifespans, spending much of their lives underwater, she asked her daughter to bring the yellowed box to the hospital. During her most grueling days of treatment, Aurora had finally worn the pendant, to remind her of her grandmother and all the good things she’d nearly forgotten.

    “Aurora, you are welcome here.” the voice whispered. 

    “Stay on the path,” another of the climbers said.

   “What?” Aurora said.

    “You are the light,” one of them said.

    Aurora took a step closer to her. “How do you know my name?”

    “Keep going,”  She extended her hand, as if to usher Aurora back to the path. “Continue into the light.”

     And the climbers vanished.

     Before she continued, Aurora set her pack on a rock, taking a moment to admire the vista. The smaller peaks appeared close enough to touch, and the colors of the landscape resembled those on her globe, deep indigo and forest green, unexpected hues in an arid climate. She created an image of the majestic view in her mind’s eye, one that would outlast any photograph.

    Just before she returned to the path, a drone hovered just beyond Aurora’s reach. The device landed and raced toward her, closing the distance in seconds to nudge her boot.  Aurora almost stumbled over the wheel of the drone when she pulled from its attached box a photo of her with Alexandra, immediately after she rang the bell following her final treatment, feeling weak and ecstatic that afternoon. She sported a buzz cut, and Alex’s hands were wrapped around Aurora’s tiny waist. With the photograph were a wide-mouthed bottle of citrus mint water, an enamel dragonfly charm, and a hotel key card.

   After she stored the box of items in her pack, Aurora descended into the deserted base camp, sipping the water. A van approached. a hotel’s logo on its panel, and parked nearby. The driver stepped out to greet her.

  “We’ll be leaving soon, Aurora. Dinner will be served there in an hour, where your room awaits,” the driver said. He wore a blue polo shirt embroidered with the hotel’s logo, standing a head taller than Aurora. He seemed familiar to her, though she didn’t have a clue as to why he did.  

    When she was seated,  Aurora reopened the box and eyed the key card.

   “Keep it close, dear. You look like you’re ready for a long pleasant rest,” he said. Aurora looked out the window at the empty landscape as the van departed the camp, a chill raced between her shoulders. 

    “Sir, who are you, and how the hell do you know who I am?” it sounded harsher than she intended, but Aurora didn’t regret her choice of words. 

     “My name is Henry. Nothing to be afraid of, Aurora.”

      She glared at him. “Well, I am afraid and exhausted.”

     “So sit back, and we’ll be there before you know it.”

      Aurora reclined in the chair, adjusted for her. It vibrated to soothe her aching neck and back. Massages she’d had during the treatment had left her feeling renewed, yet teary and exposed, not unlike her current state. She had almost drifted off to sleep when Henry spoke.

     “You were amazing up there today, like you’d done it for years. I was in awe”, Henry said.

She bolted upright and fought the urge to bolt the van. 

    “I guess asking why you were watching me is pointless,” Aurora said. 

    “It’s my job to watch you in case you need anything or become injured,” Henry said.

    “I needed to do that climb for me, not for an audience!” Aurora yelled.

    “I was sent by someone,” Henry said. He applied the break evenly, then rested his hands on the steering wheel.

   “Who? My daughter?”

   “I can’t say, but you are in good hands here, Aurora.”

    “Not if you don’t tell me who paid you to watch me climb a mountain!”

    Henry turned to her, his smile had morphed into an expressionless gaze. “You may not believe it, but I know exactly what you need and want, which is why I launched that care box.”

    “What??””

    “Aurora. You are alone, but you don’t need to be.” 

    She looked out the window at a twisted tree, with abundant green leaves, the only life she could see for miles. 

    “It’s just like you,” Henry said. “So full of life beyond explanation, thriving in the bleakest of circumstances.”

    Aurora ignored the tear stuck under her bottom lash.  “It’s OK to cry, my dear. It’s part of the healing,” Henry said. 

   “I was so scared, when I saw all of those other people up there,” Aurora said.

   “I would have been terrified, and you didn’t bat an eye. So brave.”

   “I just wanted to do it. It kept me going, when I didn’t think I’d ever get out of that bed.” Aurora could no longer stifle the dam of tears.

    “And you reached the top, but no one can do anything completely on her own. Why are you so afraid to let yourself need anything?” Henry said, the corners of his mouth upturned into a soft smile. 

   “I’m not afraid. I’d rather need no one.” Aurora sniffled. She wanted to sleep and awaken in a dark, cool space, far removed from the day she’d just experienced.

    When they arrived at the hotel, an unimpressive green hut-like structure, like a quirky, adorable dollhouse her grandmother found in an antique shop.

   Aurora refused Henry’s offer to carry her bags. In the lobby, she checked in, admiring the navy and aquamarine walls, adorned with renderings of the peak in the same shades of clue, and Italian leather chaises and plush sofas. 

  “Thank you for everything,” Aurora whispered, using the card to open the door to her third floor suite. 

  “You are welcome,” Henry said. 

  When Henry was gone, Aurora settled under the silky, white duvet, replaying images of the day. It was done, and Aurora never felt happier.  “You are the light’, they said, like a favorite melody of which she’d never tire.

    Aurora imagined the wings of the dragonfly, and she concluded she could do it. Before she could change her mind, she reached for her pack, locating the desired item in an instant.  It looked to be a perfect fit. Aurora slid the dragonfly charm into the half filled bottle, watching the charm skim the surface of the water. The iridescent wings fluttered, appearing to change its color from vivid pink to deep orange, and finally, golden honey, like a sunset she’d once watched as a girl. When the dragonfly settled at the bottle’s nadir, Aurora sipped the liquid and yielded herself to weightlessness, ascending inch by inch, floating into the indigo sky, hands to heaven, infinite warmth and brilliant light surrounding her.