The Edge by Roland Smith Read Free Book Online

the kids for a hike several hours ago. He said he wanted to see what kind of shape they were in, which was ridiculous, because the only one that looks out of shape is him. I bet the guy is a hundred years old. The camel and the donkey are his. Apparently he rode them here instead of taking a helicopter. So there’s a good chance that he is a nutcase.”
    â€œWhat’s his name?” I asked.
    â€œHe was here when we got here,” Cindy said. “I didn’t catch his name. Short, bald dude with a funny accent. Not very friendly.” She looked at Mom. “Anyway, I’m glad you’re here. It will be fun to have someone to talk to for the next ten days. About the only thing to do around here is skip rocks in the river. I didn’t know what I was going to do when everyone was off climbing. To be honest, our so-called Afghan guards creep me out. All they do is stare at me, or leer, and I’m pretty sure they’re making snide remarks, but I don’t know what they’re saying.”
    I looked at her snakeskin pants and had a pretty good idea what they were saying. Women in Muslim countries don’t dress like Cindy.
    â€œWell,” JR began, “Teri here is a world-class—”
    Mom cut him off. “I guess we should grab our gear and set up our tents before it gets dark.”
    Cindy pointed at the campsite. “Phillip’s and my tent is the big blue one over there. The Afghan guards will clear the rocks away. Well, most of the rocks. I swear they left some under our tent intentionally to make us uncomfortable. I better catch up with Phillip before his pout gets out of hand. You know how artists are.”
    We watched her walk away.
    â€œI am so sorry,” JR said.
    â€œNo worries,” Mom said.
    This made me smile because “no worries” is one of my dad’s favorite sayings (usually when there is nothing but worries, like right then). I wondered if Josh had picked the phrase up from her when they were together or if she had picked it up from him.
    â€œWhat’s so funny?” Mom asked.
    â€œNothing. Guess we better set up our tents.”
    She looked up at the other tents. “I’m setting mine up as far away from the artist and his PA as I can get.”
    â€œI’m completely with you on that.”
    There were two large duffels with our names on them. I offered to take Mom’s.
    â€œYou’re my son, not my Sherpa.”
    She shouldered her bag, and after a short search (and a little mom/son debate, a.k.a. argument) we found a semiflat spot to pitch our tents, closer to the river and about fifty feet from the other tents.
    The two Afghans in camp carried assault rifles slung over their shoulders. It was hard to say how old they were, because both of them had clearly been baked by the sun and dried by the wind for decades. They gave Mom a small bow and shook my hand. Ebadullah and Elham. Unlike Phillip’s, their hands were as hard as obsidian. Ebadullah had a black scraggly beard. Elham had a red beard, which had obviously been dyed. I remembered reading that village elders dyed their beards red. I wondered what village they were from. The closest village I’d seen was at least a hundred miles away. A three- or four-day walk.
    Both men were wearing traditional Pashtun clothing. Leather sandals, baggy linen pants, kurtas, which were long shirts that hung almost to the knee, and turban caps. They squatted down and watched us unpack the duffels. Our domed tents, one green, one red, popped into place with a single jerk of the main support pole.
    Mom laughed in delight. “We didn’t have these when I was climbing.”
    â€œWe still have to pound in the tent pegs the old-fashioned way.” I used an ice ax to set the pegs.
    With that taken care of, it was climbing gear time. As promised, the gear was the best that Plank’s considerable money could buy. And there was plenty of it. The duffels were