twenty-six?’
She had never revealed her age to Mitch. Now she appraised him as if he were a gemstone she might reconsider purchasing. ‘I am thirty-two. Franco is forty but he’s faster than you.’
‘To hell with Franco,’ Mitch said without anger.
Tilde curled her lip in amusement. ‘We are all weird today,’ she said, turning away. ‘Even Franco feels it. But another Iceman … what would that be worth?’
The very thought shortened Mitch’s breath, and he did not need that now. His excitement curled back in on itself, mixing with his exhaustion. ‘I don’t know,’ he said.
They had opened their mercenary little hearts to him back in Salzburg. They were ambitious but not stupid; Tilde was absolutely certain that their find was not just another climber’s body. She should know. At fourteen, she had helped carry out two bodies spit loose out from the tongues of glaciers. One had been over a hundred years old.
Mitch wondered what would happen if they had found a true Iceman. Tilde, he was sure, would in the long run not know how to handle fame and success. Franco was stolid enough to make do, but Tilde was in her own way fragile. Like a diamond, she could cut steel, but strike her from the wrong angle and she would come to pieces.
Franco might survive fame, but would he survive Tilde? Mitch, despite everything, found he liked Franco.
‘It’s another three kilometers,’ Tilde told him. ‘Let’s go.’
Together, she and Franco showed him how to climb the frozen waterfall. ‘This flows only during mid-summer,’ Franco said. ‘It is ice for a month now. Understand how it freezes. It is strong down here.’ He struck the pale gray ice of the pipe organ’s massive base with his ax. The ice tinked, spun off a few chips. ‘But it is verglas, lots of bubbles, higher up – mushy. Big chunks fall if you hit it wrong. Hurt somebody. Tilde could cut some steps there, not you. You climb between Tilde and me.’
Tilde would go first, an honest acknowledgement by Franco that she was the stronger and better climber. Franco slung the ropes and Mitch showed them he remembered the loops and knots from climbing in the Cascades, in Washington state. Tilde made a face and retied the loop Alpine style around his waist and shoulders. ‘You can front most of the way. Remember, I will chisel steps if you need them,’ Tilde said. ‘I don’t want you sending ice down on Franco.’
She took the lead.
Halfway up the pillar, digging in with the front points of his crampons, Mitch passed a threshold and his exhaustion seemed to leak away in spurts, through his feet, leaving him nauseated for a moment. Then his body felt clean, as if flushed with fresh water, and his breath came easy. He followed Tilde, chunking his crampons into the ice and leaning in very close, grabbing at whatever holds were available. He used his ax sparingly. The air was actually warmer near the ice.
It took them fifteen minutes to climb past the mid point, onto the cream-colored ice. The sun came from behind low gray clouds and lit up the frozen waterfall at a sharp angle, pinning him on a wall of translucent gold.
He waited for Tilde to tell them she was over the top and secure. Franco gave his laconic reply. Mitch wedged his way between two columns. The ice was indeed unpredictable here. He dug in with side points, sending a cloud of chips down on Franco. Franco cursed, but not once did Mitch break free and simply hang, and that was a blessing.
He fronted and crawled up the bumpy rounded lip of the waterfall. His gloves slipped alarmingly on runnels of ice. He flailed with his boots, caught a ridge of rock with his right boot, dug in, found purchase on more rock, waited for a moment to catch his breath, and humped up beside Tilde like a walrus.
Dusty gray boulders on each side defined the bed of the frozen creek. He looked up the narrow rocky valley, half in shadow, where a small glacier had once flowed down from the east, carving its characteristic U-shaped notch. There had not been much snow for the last few years and the glacier had flowed on, vanishing from the notch, which now lay several dozen yards above the main body of the glacier.
Mitch rolled on his stomach and helped Franco over the top. Tilde stood to one side, perched on the edge as if she knew no fear, perfectly balanced, slender, gorgeous.
She frowned down on Mitch. ‘We are getting later,’ she said. ‘What can you learn in half an hour?’
Mitch shrugged.
‘We must start back no later than sunset,’ Franco said to Tilde, then grinned at Mitch. ‘Not so tough son of a bitch ice, no?’
‘Not bad,’ Mitch said.
‘He learns okay,’ Franco said to Tilde, who lifted her eyes. ‘You climb ice before?’
‘Not like that,’ Mitch said.
They walked over the frozen creek for a few dozen yards. ‘Two more climbs,’ Tilde said. ‘Franco, you lead.’
Mitch looked up through crystalline air over the rim of the notch at the saw-tooth horns of higher mountains. He still could not tell where he was. Franco and Tilde preferred him ignorant. They had come at least twenty kilometers since their stay in the big stone Gaststube, with the tea.
Turning, he spotted the orange bivouac, about four kilometers away and hundreds of meters below. It sat just behind a saddle, now in shadow.
The snow on the mountains seemed very thin. The mountains had just passed through the warmest summer in modern Alpine history, with reduced snow pack, increased glacier melt
The relative heat and dryness had opened up a route to the old cave, allowing Franco and Tilde to discover a secret tragedy.
Franco announced he was secure, and Mitch inched his way up the last rock face, feeling the gneiss chip and skitter beneath his boots. The stone here was flaky, powdery soft in places; snow had lain over this area for a long time, easily thousands of years.
Franco lent him a hand and together they belayed the rope as Tilde scrambled up behind. She stood on the rim, shielded her eyes against the direct sun, now barely a hand-span above the ragged horizon. ‘Do you know where you are?’ she asked Mitch.
Mitch shook his head. ‘I’ve never been this high.’
‘A valley boy,’ Franco said with a grin.
Mitch squinted.
They stared over a rounded and slick field of ice, the thin finger of a glacier that had once flowed nearly seven miles in several spectacular cascades. Now, along this branch, the flow was lagging. Little new snow fed the glacier’s head, higher up. The sun-blazed rock wall above the icy rip of the bergschrund rose several thousand feet straight up, the peak higher than Mitch cared to look.
‘There,’ Tilde said, and pointed to the opposite rocks below an arête. With some effort, Mitch made out a tiny red dot against the shadowed black and gray: a cloth banner Franco had planted on their last trip. They set off over the ice.
The cave, a natural crevice, had a small opening, three feet in diameter, artificially concealed by a low wall of head-sized boulders. Tilde took out her digital
