Chapter 60 - Nyal's Story part 9

Nyal groaned as she dragged herself over the ledge. She pushed her torso up and over the outcrop, arms trembling, then rolled onto her back, hauling her hips and legs after her.

She lay there a moment, breathing raggedly and staring up at the sky, her heart pounding against the inside of her ribcage. She had caught a rabbit barehanded once and felt its heart racing the exact same way. Tud-tud-tud-tud-tud! as she clutched it to her chest. She could sympathize. She was just as frightened as the rabbit had been.

Nyal turned and peeked over the ledge. Gilad still lay where he had fallen, his body tiny with distance now, sprawled across the gray scales of rock embedded in the grass at the foot of Old Stone Man. He was breathing when she'd abandoned him, when she started up the sheer face of the mountain, but was he breathing still, or had his spirit passed into the Ghost World? She couldn't tell. Her eyes were not strong enough to see so far.

If Gilad perishes and I cannot find Gon, that will be three grandchildren I've led to their doom, Nyal thought. Her frustration and guilt made her feel like howling.

So she did.

"Gon!" she shouted. "GOOOOON! Come to me! Your wife calls your name!"

Her voice did not echo, snatched away by the wind.

She waited to see if her heart would slow its drumming pace, but it did not, so she turned over and pushed herself to her hands and knees. Placing a palm against the face of the mountain to steady herself, Nyal rose—and an involuntary moan escaped her lips. Hazy blue mountains surrounded on all sides, looming giants, vaster than she'd ever imagined. And just a step away, a fatal drop to the earth below.

She fell back against the cold face of the mountain, legs weak and trembling.

No, no, you must go on, she thought. It is your fault the Foul Ones took your granddaughters. If you hadn't taken them down to the river, if you hadn't lingered there so long yesterday, they wouldn't have been stolen away. They would have been safe in the Siede when our enemy raided the village.

Not fair but true, so she turned to measure the climb that remained.

Up, up, an impossible distance up. She could see the dark crevice that Gilad swore was Gon's lair. She couldn't see it when she was down below, when Gilad had pointed it out to her from the foot of the mountain, but she could see it now—a dark fissure zigzagging up from a narrow ledge. That was where Gon took Eyya's body, Gilad claimed. She had no choice but to believe him now.

"GON!" Nyal shouted. "GON, COME!"

She waited.

Cursing, Nyal examined the rock face. She placed her hands and feet and tested the mountain's solidity. Gilad had fallen when one of his handholds crumbled loose. She didn't want to share the same fate, though she undoubtedly deserved it. She lifted herself from the outcrop where she had rested for a moment. She moved her hands and feet, hauled herself up again. The wind splashed across her like a wave of cold water, invisible fingers trying to pry her from the mountain. She ducked her head and clenched her teeth and climbed.

She climbed and climbed, and then paused to shout for her husband again.

"GON!"

It took her a moment to realize she'd fallen off the mountain.

It was the wind that did it. It had whipped up in a sudden gust, howling in all the little crevices, and plucked her from the mountainside like an errant leaf. She maintained her posture for a second or two, her fingers curled around stones that was no longer there, her knees bent and her back hunched, and then she realized what had happened, saw the face of the mountain rushing past her in reverse, and let herself go limp.

Oh, no, she thought, curiously calm.

She had always worried, when her time came, when death tired of playing with her and clamped its jaws around her throat, that fear would break her. She had always prided herself on her stubborn pragmatism, her indomitable will. She had rarely, if ever, lost her grip on her emotions, allowed fear or doubt to overwhelm her. Yet, she had always worried, deep down inside where she seldom cared to look, that she would lose control of herself when she died. That she would weep, bargain, soil herself in terror. It was the most terrible thing she could think of, a fear that had dogged her for years.

But she was not frightened. Surprised, yes. Disappointed that she had failed, that she was going to die and no one would save her granddaughters. But she was not afraid, and she was glad. She actually smiled a little in relief. The end had come and she was still Nyal.

Oh, there it is! she thought, her eyes widening. For the first time, as she plummeted to her death, Nyal saw the stone face that her grandson Gilad had spoken of. There is his big stone nose, and there is his chin, jutting out the way the chins of toothless old men do. That's funny.

And there was Gon, clinging to the side of the mountain, hands and feet spread out, his long and slightly curly auburn hair writhing in the wind. His upper body was twisted around so that he could watch her as she fell past. His expression was comical: eyes wide, mouth hanging open. She flew past him with a whooshing sound, and then he shrank with great rapidity.

Too late, Nyal thought, with more amusement than bitterness.

Perhaps he would be curious why she'd come. Perhaps he would investigate, and discover that the Foul Ones had raided the village. It was a comfort to think that Gilad's sacrifice had not been in vain, that her sacrifice would not be in vain, that her husband might remedy the mistakes that she had made.

And suddenly he was there again, scurrying down the mountain as fast as she was falling. His body was turned so that his head was pointed earthward, his hands and feet moving in a blur. He drew closer and closer, his head crooked back, his eyes fixed on her. There was a fierce scowl on his mouth, an expression of great effort, the muscles in his neck and shoulders standing out.

How close was the earth now, Nyal wondered. It seemed she had been falling for days, not moments.

Gon leapt at her, one arm straining out.

Then darkness.