From the October issue of Deb’s Quill
THE VEIL
October 31, 5:50 p.m.
The helicopter skimmed the shoulder of Mont du Voile, and Azucena stared down at a landscape that seemed to wait for her. Snow covered most of the plateau in the purest white, pushed into drifts by the unforgiving wind. Black rocks thrust through the white, tall and jagged, an irregular line disappearing into the distance.
It was a natural formation and yet, they reminded her of sentinels.
In front of them lay oddly shaped, evenly spaced indentations that seemed to march into the distance.
As they flew closer, her pulse began keeping time with the helicopter’s rotors. Thwap. Thwap. Thwap. She pressed a hand to her chest, as if she could force her heart to calm.
The sun hung low over the western peaks, dazzling against the snow. At thirty-five hundred metres it seemed absurdly close, close enough to touch.
But she hadn’t come for the sun.
She’d come for what happened in the dark.
Then the mist rolled into view. It drifted across the far end of the plateau, thin at first, but thickening as it spilled between the black rocks, and curling around their bases. One sentinel vanished. Then another. And another.
A moment later, they emerged again.
The locals called this peak the Misty Mountain. An old legend claimed spirits gathered here when the mist descended. Some climbers heard voices. Some saw things. A few had been found wandering far from their camps, unable or unwilling to explain what they’d followed.
It was folklore to most but not to her.
Azucena was a CEO, a computer scientist, a woman who trusted things that could be tested and proven. One plus one equals ten in binary, that was a fact. But she was also a child of Mexico, steeped in the beliefs of Día de Muertos.
Everything had rules, even systems no one yet understood. Including death.
Four days ago, those rules had taken Henry. Tonight she intended to break them.
She looked down the length of the mountain, at its ledges, crests and valleys receding beneath her vision. They were so high and the land was so empty. Her breath stopped. She would be completely alone in her quest. She gasped frigid air in and coughed out ice crystals as panic surged, squeezing her chest, strangling her lungs, and crippling her mind. Doubt crept in and gained a home in the pit of her stomach.
“Hey, you okay?” Alan, her pilot, touched her arm, and the warmth of his hand drew her mind back.
“I’m okay,” she said in a strangled half-whisper.
“Don’t worry, Azucena,” he said, misunderstanding. “I’ve landed this baby a thousand times. I’m more worried about you. Once I leave, you’re on your own until morning. Anything can happen up here.”
Though she’d thought the same thing, his words pricked her pride, bringing her back to herself. She was not a helpless female. She was a goddamn CEO who’d conquered more business opponents in her lifetime than — what? The metaphor escaped her — but she squashed her fear like this quest was just one more opponent.
“You’ve got my liability waiver. And I know what I’m doing.”
He shrugged, set the helicopter down, and helped her unload her gear.
“Last chance,” he said, climbing back aboard.
She waved him away without answering. As the rotors roared, she barely heard them over the silence of the mountain. And that kernel of doubt and fear crept back in. What was she doing? Why?
You know why.
She did. She was doing this for Henry. For them, for the many more years they could still be together. If only — if only he’d come home.
The cold bit in, pinching her cheeks. She dug through her gear and pulled out the thermal tent and put it together, one of those easy assembly kits she managed without taking off her gloves.
Her sleeping bag came next. A double. His scent wafted up as she unrolled it along with the scent of their lovemaking from last year’s camping trip through Algonquin. She’d meant to wash it after, but a crisis at work had drawn her attention. And now she was glad she’d been distracted.
Next came the portable heater and camp stove. She set the heater in a far corner and turned it on low. Within minutes, the temperature rose enough to remove her gloves, but that’s all. She couldn’t risk a high setting draining the battery, so she kept the rest of her winter gear on.
She placed a thin board in the center as a tray for the candles — she’d settled on three, one for every ten years of their marriage — arranged on the board in a triangle for stability.
And now the ofrenda, the offerings. She sat back, focusing inward, drawing out the rituals from her childhood.
First, Cempasúchil petals as the base within the triangle to show Henry the way. They looked like marigolds, which were easier to find in Calgary, but she wasn’t taking any chances. She’d asked her cousin, Javier, to express-ship them to her from Mexico City, along with dried peyote.
“What are you doing, Azu?” he’d asked. “You aren’t going to do something crazy, are you? Henry’s gone.”
I’m not crazy. Henry’s dying was a mistake. I’m going to correct it.
Up here on the plateau of Mont du Voile, the veil between the living and dead was thin all year, but tonight, at midnight, it would be thin enough to cross over.
“That’s nuts, Azu,” Javier scolded. “Crossing is one way. The dead visit us. We don’t visit them.”
She placed a photo of Henry in a place of honour within the triangle. Last month, she’d caught him unaware, sunken deep into his recliner, immersed in a book. He’d looked so peaceful, and oblivious to her camera. It was the last photo of him she had.
She kissed her finger and touched it to his lips and chanted. “Come back to me, Henry. You don’t belong there. You belong with me.”
She wasn’t nuts. Crossing would work both ways. Didn’t action create reaction? Push create pull? In create out? And this plateau, one of the highest mountains in the Rockies, was the one place she could make this happen. The mist. The sentinels. The legend. This was the place. She knew it.
“How is the peyote supposed to help you, Azu? It’s just a hallucinogen.”
Opening a bottle of water, she poured it into the metal dish. Henry had been dead for four days now, and being dead was thirsty business. Just the scent of water would be a beacon.
She’d heard tales of peyote. About how users could walk among the dead. Javier was an unbeliever. He thought there was no life after death. Día de Muertos was just a fun Halloween tradition for him. He was wrong.
Outside, the sun had gone to bed and enticed his lover, the moon, to sleep beside him. The stars were clearer here than anywhere she’d ever been, and still, the night was nearly pitch black. But she was safe inside, with the candles giving off a subdued, dancing glow.
“Come back to me, Henry,” she chanted. “You don’t belong there. You belong with me.”
The wind whistled under the tent door, making the petals swirl, but she caught them mid-air and patted them back into place. “Not yet. Not until midnight.”
Her hand reached into her pocket. Yes, the tin of peyote was still there, and she breathed more easily.
The album on top was of their wedding and early years. She studied each photo, remembering each of their days together. He’d remember, too.
Here was their wedding. Henry was so handsome in his black tux, his blond hair swept back and framing his face, like a young lion. They’d practiced for weeks for that first dance. No staid waltz for them. The tango, instead. Latin. Sultry. Passionate. An inferno of love, lust and promise in every step.
“Remember, Henry?” She placed the albums on top of the petals and brushed a tear from her cheek. “Remember how in love we were? Still are. Come back to me. We belong together.”
She dug out his favourite candy, Werther’s. He’d carried handfuls in his pockets, always. “All that sugar, love, it isn’t good for you,” she’d nagged. He’d shrugged. “Neither is all that coffee you drink.” He’d winked, popped another candy in his mouth. “I won’t tell if you won’t.”
She’d brought him a piece, knowing it would help him remember, and placed it among the ofrenda.
She sat back on her heels, holding his wedding ring, a twin to hers. Without him, it was cold, inert. Just a chunk of gold. But on his finger, it had glowed with warmth and life. Their life.
“You’ve never been without this, love,” she said, placing it with the other offerings. “Here it is. It’s yours if you come back to me. Come back to me, Henry.”
Her phone alarm chirped. 7 p.m. The camp stove fired up without a hitch. The potato would take an hour to cook, then steaks just a few minutes more. Bringing a cooler of meat was impractical but necessary because this was Henry’s favourite meal. It was the first dinner she’d ever cooked for him, the same meal they shared every anniversary.
“It’s the only meal you know how to cook,” he’d teased.
He was right. But she didn’t care, and neither did he. In the early years, they’d dined in restaurants most evenings, discussing their day, without worrying about clean-up. Once their son came, they’d shared cooking like they shared everything else.
The aroma from the sizzling steaks would reach him across the veil. After four days, he’d be as hungry as he was thirsty. He’d want to come home for this, too.
Her watch pinged 9 p.m. She set aside the album again and retrieved the peyote from her pocket. One dose. But what if she took two?
“One, Azu. Just one. It’s slow-acting; 2 to 3 hours until you hit the state you’re after. You’ll be tempted to take another. Don’t. It won’t make time go faster, but it will make you nauseous. Or worse. Trust me.”
She took one and stuffed the other back in her pocket, then picked up the album, reciting more stories aloud from their past. After each one, she implored Henry to find her. And she waited.
Time crawled. By eleven, the candles needed to be replaced with new. Always keep the light on, she knew, so Henry could find her in the dark.
Was the peyote working? She didn’t know. The photographs were strange. The colours were a little brighter, the faces not quite right. And the beginning of a headache twinged behind her eyes.
Mist seeped into the tent, through the seams and zipper. Outside, something moaned, and something rippled across the tent fabric. Henry?
No, not yet. The wind, the mist, the peyote. It must be. She studied her hands, the veins she’d never noticed, the muscles bulging below the surface. Why hadn’t she noticed them before? They were fascinating, and her eyes traced each muscle and vein as they intertwined along the bones. She could see the bones, too. How odd.
Her watch pinged 11:50. There was something she had to do. But what?
Come.
Yes. She had to go somewhere. But where?
Out. Come.
Out. Yes. She unzipped the tent. The wind, strong and demanding, whipped inside, blew out the candles and grabbed the petals in a whirlwind that escaped into the night air.
Pretty.
Bring my ofrenda. Come.
Relighting a candle with fingers shaking against the sudden cold, she gathered Henry’s dinner, the candy, his ring and photo, and crawled from the tent. A wave of nausea had her bending double, the ofrenda clutched to her heart.
Breathe.
It passed. She straightened. Starlight sparkled off the snow, more intensely along the sentinel line. She had an urge to touch the first stone, but why? Her feet decided, and she approached. How black it looked. Not pure black, but shades of silver with grey threaded through it. Stunning.
She reached out, but something pushed her hand away, causing her to fall. Her eyes found the indentations she’d seen from the air, but from down here, they looked like footprints, yet much too large for humans or animals. Unless it was Bigfoot. She giggled as she climbed to her feet.
The wind howled in again, sweeping her ofrenda from her hands. “No!”
Henry’s dinner and his ring fell to the ground and sank beneath the snow, but his picture and the candy flew along the sentinel line and disappeared. And yet, the candles were untouched; still clasped in her hand, still lit.
Come.
Henry?
She trudged onward. And as her watch chimed midnight, the colours of the night changed.
The sky turned opaque.
The wind stilled.
Her body warmed.
Silence became absolute.
Her steps eased, like she was floating across the snow. And when she looked back, there were no footprints.
“Henry, I’m coming. Find me.”
And there he was, standing ten feet away, looking as he’d been at their wedding. Forever beautiful, his jaw stern, but with love in his eyes.
“You shouldn’t have come.”
“I had to. You weren’t supposed to …”
“I was.”
She took a step forward, aching to feel his arms around her once more. But as she did, he moved back.
“No, my love. You were healthy. We are supposed to grow old together.”
“I was sick. My heart.”
“Let me touch you. Please.” She stepped forward, but he moved back.
“No. We can’t.”
“I brought you things. To help you remember. So you’d come back to me.” Tears flowed, but she didn’t care. He was so close. Why couldn’t they embrace?
“Because the living and dead cannot,” he answered.
She took a step back. “No. That can’t be right. You can come through the veil. You can. With me. That’s the rule.”
“You don’t know the rules.”
“No. I do, I…” She’d researched. Looked into all the lore from Mexico, Ireland and more. And as a child, hadn’t her own father come to her on November 1st to tell her to stop crying, that he was safe? That she was safe and loved.
“He did, Azu. And so can I, once each year. But that’s not what you’re asking. Go home.”
She shook her head. “You told me to come. I heard you.”
“Did I?”
She dropped to the snow and wrapped her arms around her knees, sobbing. Cold seeped back in, freezing tears onto her cheeks. “I heard you.”
“Did you?”
She’d heard him. She had. She swiped her hand across her cheek, breaking fragile icicles off her skin.
“There must be something,” she begged. “I’ll resign, take early retirement. We’ll travel, like you’ve always wanted.”
“You should resign. Travel. Meet new people.” He looked away and time ticked past. “But I must remain here.”
“No,” she cried. “There is no me without you.”
“There is. In time, you will find yourself again.”
Henry was being intractable, something he’d never been in life. How did she reach him?
“The project you were working on. The … what was it? You told me, just last month. It’s the one thing you …”
“It’s irrelevant now.”
“No. No. It’s not. I remember. It’s a … thingamajig … that will revolutionize driverless cars. It’s important.”
“It’s not. I’m not. You’re not. There is only life. And Death.” He paused, touched his heart and pleaded. “Go back now, love.”
She wouldn’t give up. Couldn’t. “There must be something. Anything. Tell me what you want, and I’ll give it.”
Henry stared off into the mist and shook his head. His eyes pleaded with her. “My leaving would create a void that must be filled.”
“Okay.” She could work with that. “Then, take years off my life. We’ll grow a little less old but together. And we’ll die together.”
“A life for a life.” A stranger’s voice carried in on the mist, no emotion, no inflection, more air than sound.
She looked around but saw no one else. “Who was that, Henry?”
“The Guardian.”
Okay. The person in charge. She could negotiate with the Guardian. “There are bad people in the world, Guardian. Take one of them. Or two. Or ten.”
“Their lives cost you nothing,” the Guardian said. “Choose someone you love.”
What? “Henry? No! Tell him that’s too much. Make him be reasonable.”
Henry closed his sad eyes. “I can’t. Go home, love. Please. Grieve. Move on.”
“Choose,” the Guardian demanded. “Or leave.”
She couldn’t move on.
“Choose now,” he demanded again.
She stood and squared her shoulders, and though she answered the Guardian, her eyes never left Henry. “Then I choose myself.”
The Guardian’s hollow laughter swirled by her on the wind. “No, not you. That’s still too easy. Someone else. Someone you love.”
Could she trade someone else? Who?
She loved her son and her grandchildren but, no, not them. Never them.
She loved her mother. Admired her and cared for her now that she was in her nineties. Maybe her?
No! No! How could she think such a thing?
Despair washed over her. “I cannot.” She looked at her husband, her eyes pleading. “Is there no other way, Henry?”
“No.” He reached out, as if he could touch her hand. “Go home now, love. Please.”
“Enough,” the Guardian bellowed, his words ringing in her ears. “Choose.”
Henry was so close. A few steps and she could grab his hand and pull him back into the living world.
Henry smiled gently. “You cannot, love.”
She knew that, deep in her gut. She thought he’d come willingly, eager to be with her again. She hadn’t expected this, an entity who wouldn’t negotiate, who set a price too steep to pay.
“I can’t sacrifice anyone else, Henry. I’m sorry. I just can’t.”
His smile widened even as he started to fade. She recognized that look in his eyes. It was the same look he’d worn each time she’d given birth. And when she’d gotten her first and every promotion since. Love and pride.
She blew a kiss to him, her heart breaking. He caught it, touched his lips and heart — and disappeared.
She shattered and fell. The wind howled through her, stabbing her fingers and toes, each breath like glass shards. Tears streamed down her cheeks, freezing in place. Icicles hung from her nose. Her eyelashes grew laden with ice.
She looked up, imploring God. But there was no answer except the night sky turning into the deepest, darkest black.
Then the stars reappeared in between wisps of mist.
The footprints were gone, now just irregular depressions in the snow.
The mist retreated.
She listened to the night, straining to hear Henry’s voice, but she was alone again. Her head felt light enough to lift from her body and soar to the stars. She wanted to let go and soar away from her grief, from the pain that twisted her insides and poured out of her eyes in a fresh flood of tears.
Minutes or hours later, the cold broke through, and she knew she had to move or die. With a teary sigh, she rose, stumbled, caught herself, and made it to the tent before she passed out.
The helicopter returned at 9 a.m. The pilot, Alan, shook her awake. “You okay, Azucena? You were sleeping like the dead.”
She sat up, yawned, and brushed sleep dirt from her eyes. Her altar and ofrenda were missing, and she was alone in her sleeping bag. She cried in great, wracking sobs. Alan patted her shoulder and shuffled back and forth.
“You’re safe,” he said, not understanding. “It’s okay. Let’s get you on board.”
He led her to the helicopter and loaded her inside, fastened her seatbelt and placed the ear guards on. Then he gathered up her gear and loaded that too. Azucena sat stiffly, not reacting to sight or sound.
Had she visited Henry last night? Or was it the peyote?
As the helicopter lifted off, the sun snuck out from behind the clouds and beamed into the cockpit. She loved the sun, usually, but she looked away, then down, searching for — what? A sign? Something, anything to prove she’d had that one last moment with Henry — but the wind had erased all evidence that she’d even been there.
Suddenly, a gust of wind swept through the cockpit, buffeting the helicopter and roiling her stomach. She held on, white-knuckled, as Alan fought for control.
“Don’t worry,” he yelled over the din. “I’ve got this.”
She squeezed her eyes shut, riding out the fear, and shoved her hands in her coat pocket to wrap it more tightly around her. Her fingers brushed something small and round. She pulled it out. The Werther’s candy.
How? She’d seen it blown away last night, hadn’t she?
But she knew.
More tears fell. She didn’t try to stop them, even though Alan looked at her with concern. She didn’t want to stop them. She’d lost Henry, and she was hollow inside.
She stared at the candy as they flew down the mountain to Calgary. To her home that wouldn’t feel like home ever again. Yet by the time they landed, a tiny seed of peace wedged itself into her heart. She sniffed back the pain and closed her fist around the Werthers, his last gift to her.
“Thank you, Henry,” she whispered.
The End.
© Deborah Sarty. All rights reserved. This story may not be reproduced without permission.
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