The Abominable by Dan Simmons Read Free Book Online Page A

self, and there are frequent glimpses of a once near-perfect beauty. The shape of the peak itself—standing alone, unconnected to other mountains—is perhaps the cleanest and most memorable in all the Alps. Ask a young child who has never seen mountains to draw a mountain, and she will use her crayon to draw the Matterhorn. It is that iconic. And with its upper north face actually bending out beyond the vertical, like a wave breaking, the mountain appears to be constantly in motion. And that sheer, overhanging face breeds its own weather, gives rise to its own masses of clouds. It is that serious a mountain.
    And you love the ghosts.
    Oui. The ghosts are there to love and cannot be avoided. Edward Whymper’s loyal guide Jean-Antoine Carrel’s patriotic betrayal in choosing to lead Felice Giordano up the Italian Ridge for the glory of an all-Italian first summit on July 14 of 1865. The ghosts of 25-year-old Whymper’s desperate dash to Zermatt—to try the opposing ridge—with his hastily assembled party of young Lord Francis Douglas, Reverend Charles Hudson, 19-year-old Douglas Hadow, the Chamonix Guide Michel Croz, and the two local guides, “Young Peter” and “Old Peter” Taugwalder.
    The ghosts of the four dead men from that day speak the loudest from the stone to me, and any climber must learn to hear them and to love and respect climbing on the same stones they trod, sleeping on the same slabs where they slept, triumphing on the same narrow summit where Whymper’s seven shouted in triumph, and focusing hard on descending safely down the still treacherous section where four of them fell thousands of feet to their deaths.
    And, mon ami, you love the view from the top.
    Oui. I do love the view. It makes the aching muscles and bleeding hands all worthwhile. Better than worthwhile—forgotten. The view is all.
    While I’m chewing and staring out at this view, Jean-Claude, catechism lesson for me completed, straightens out the newspaper that had been wrapped around the cheesecloth covering our sandwiches.
    “Mallory and Irvine killed in attempt to conquer Everest,” he reads aloud in his soft French accent.
    I quit chewing. The Deacon is in the process of tamping the embers or ashes out of his pipe before eating, batting the pipe against the side of his hobnailed boot, but he also freezes in place, boot on his knee and now empty pipe against the boot, and stares at Jean-Claude.
    Our friend continues: “London, June twenty, nineteen twenty-four—The Mount Everest Committee has received with profound regret the following cablegram from…” He stops and thrusts the crumpled newspaper toward me. “Jake, it is your language. You should read it.”
    Surprised, not understanding Jean-Claude’s reticence—as far as I know he’s as completely fluent in reading English as he is in speaking it—I take the paper, smooth it out some more on my knee, and read aloud.
    London, June twenty, nineteen twenty-four—The Mount Everest Committee has received with profound regret the following cablegram from Colonel Norton, dispatched from Phari Dzong, June nineteen, at four fifty p.m.
    “Mallory and Irvine killed on last attempt. Rest of party arrived at base camp all well that day. Two climbers who were not members of the expedition die in Everest avalanche on last day after others have left.”
    The committee has telegraphed to Colonel Norton, expressing deep sympathy with the expedition. In the loss of their two gallant comrades, which must have been due to most unfavourable conditions of weather and snow, which from the first arrival at the scene of operations impeded climbing this year…
    I continue reading the columns, part sorrowful report, part hagiography:
    The tragic death of these two men—George Leigh Mallory, who alone of all those engaged in the present attempt had also taken part in the two previous expeditions, and A. C. Irvine, one of his band of recruits—is a terribly sad ending to the story of the