Murder on the Rocks

STRAIGHT UP Just one more run down, she said to herself. No, mustn’t say one more. You always get hurt on the last run. The speakers from the lodge sounded repeated warnings to the skiers about the possibility and danger of frostbite. “If white blotches appear on your hands or face, come into the aide station immediately,” they blared. “Do not stay out too long. Frostbite can be very serious.” The temperature had dropped to five degrees, yet icy pellets of snow continued to fall unabated, and were whipped by strong, gusty winds into swirls of individual rage that swept across the slope. The skiers wore as much protection as possible while still permitting unhampered body movement. All wore goggles to shield their eyes from the pelting snow. Hoods were drawn over their heads and ears. Many wrapped scarves over their faces to defend themselves from the numbing cold. Others wore face masks under their hoods. Overhead the sky was gloomy. The wind-driven black clouds seemed ominous as they marched in their parade around the mountain, encircling the slope, isolating it from the rest of the world. She pushed her way along the aisle leading to the chair lift. There was no line in front, only a few skiers up ahead. No one was coming from behind. She passed the large sign advising that the left was for intermediate and expert skiers only. She thought she saw someone wave to her from the departing chair, but could not be certain, for the snow lashed harshly against her goggles, obscuring her vision. A skier appeared from nowhere at the control booth just as she approached the chair lift. He came through the opening reserved for the ski patrol. “Single, too?” he muttered through his face mask. She nodded, barely looking in his direction, and the two slid down to position themselves for the next chair. An attendant, bundled in an enormous fur-trimmed parka, steadied the chair for an instant. They sat down and were carried aloft. Automatically they reached back for the safety bar, swung it over and in front of them so that it formed a protective rail. They rested their skis on the lower bar, and leaned back. She turned to her companion, but he was looking off to the slope on his right, apparently absorbed in watching the styles of the few skiers on the hill. The chair climbed toward mid-station. The higher it went, the more wind and driving snow it seemed to produce. The storm was slicing down the mountain. Riding up was more chilling than skiing down. A sign warned that the bar be raised for those getting off at mid-station. Other signs cautioned that the upper trails were for expert skiers only. She turned to her partner again to see whether he was getting off at mid-station, and could not resist chuckling when she saw him. His hood was pulled forward over his forehead. Large amber goggles were wrapped around his eyes and over his mask, which was white with bright red spots at the cheeks. The nose piece was jet black. A thick red lip line turned up at the ends in a fixed smile. A small red pompon dangled from the end of the black nose. What a clever idea, she mused. So much smarter than some of the gruesome masks you see on the slopes. She asked if he was getting off, but he shrugged his shoulders and cupped his hand over his ear. The noise of the wind made conversation impossible. She pointed to the sign and jiggled the bar, then pointed to him. He shook his head and motioned upward with his gloved hand. She signified that she, too, was going to the top. One of the skiers on the first occupied chair ahead turned around and was gesturing. It looked like Susan, but she wasn’t sure. Susan, if it really was she, dismounted at mid-station, dropping out of sight almost immediately as the lift began its much steeper climb to the top. They were approaching the most thrilling part of the ride, where the ground suddenly falls away from the slope, and the receding craggy rocks below give one the illusion that the chair is flying. The few chairs in front that were visible to her were unoccupied. She looked behind and could see no one. The sudden emptiness caused her to shudder, then to realize how cold and alone she was. Alone with this stranger soaring into space. Two main piling supports rose from the rocky bottom to the horizontal arms supporting the cables of the chair lift. On bright sunny days there was a churchlike atmosphere as the shadows of the crossed arms enfolded and intertwined with the rocky surface below. Today the scene was bleak and funereal. She touched his arm and pointed down. He nodded, looked down, turned and looked behind, then reached into his ski jacket and withdrew a strange looking object, like a tube or pipe, about a foot and a half long and an inch or so in diameter. What on earth is that? she thought. She nudged him and motioned toward the object. They were directly over the middle of the miniature gorge. He turned to face her squarely. The clown was laughing. He raised the object. She felt it crash on the side of her head. Laugh clown. Don’t you frown. Ooh, another. Stick-in-the-mud. It’s raining blows, and hardly a thud. Pull back my head And open the gate. Slide me off. Don’t be too late. Last run down, You naughty clown. She struck feet first on the big, jutting rock jokingly called “Die Jungfrau”. The powdery snow spewed like a geyser as her body skittered along the sloping side of the boulder. It tumbled down toward the center of the gorge, bouncing off the large rocks set in one side like giant stepping stones. Then it slid along a flat, table-like stone, and finally came to rest, stopped abruptly by a perpendicular rock standing as a windbreaking headstone at the bottom of the ravine. His chair continued its steep climb upward toward the summit. The smoky clouds on top danced to the flute of the whistling wind, and the snow circled down in rhythm, enveloping the land and the people below.