The Mountain Story by Lori Lansens Read Free Book Online

for Wilfred?”
    “It’s just Wolf,” I said. “That’s what my mother called me. That’s the way everyone says it. Wolf.”
    The girl in the green flip-flops did not tell us her name or attempt to communicate in any way. It occurred to me that she was mute.
    “We need to find our way back,” Nola said, adding gratuitously, “before dark.”
    When we came to a juncture of sorts, I sniffed the air, hoping to catch a scent of the trail home, but all I could distinguish was Nola’s lavender sachet, the ginger sweat of Bridget, and the soapy teenaged girl.
    “Which way now?” Bridget asked.
    “The lake’s this way,” I said, pointing.
    We walked silently for nearly an hour, over the rocks, through the granite passes and the village of thick white firs. We carried on past the cluster of live oak. No acorns, just leftover shells from the rats and squirrels. I was sweating in spite of the dropping temperature. At some point I realized we’d begun making a gentle descent . I knew that the way back to Secret Lake should be a gradual ascent . I remember telling myself that it was just a different way, a shortcut that would eventually take us back up. And so I led them. That must be said.
    Nola’s cheeks were pink from the cold. Bridget had zipped her hooded jacket all the way up over her tousled blond hair and pulled her second coat on too. The mute girl was shivering in spite of her peacoat, and I found myself twitching with empathetic pain when I lowered my eyes to her scarlet toes in the green flip-flops.
    I found a rock, and leaning against it yanked off my boots, tore the sub-zero hiking socks—Byrd’s gift to me one Christmas—from my feet and passed them to the girl, stupidly mouthing, take them . She pressed the woollen socks back into my hands, shaking her head.
    “We’ll be back before it gets too cold anyway,” Nola announced with conviction. “But that was a very nice gesture, Wolf. Does anyone call you Wilfred?”
    I thought of my aunt Kriket. I thought of my father. I thought of my friend Byrd. “No.”
    The wind danced in the trees, scolding the heckling jays as we trudged on. “Come on, everyone,” I said, “this way.”
    Time on the mountain could be deceitful and disappointing, like the girl I once thought I loved. Time shifted and shrank, bounced and echoed, slept with college professors and rejected true love. We walked on in silence for what seemed like a very long time before we stopped to catch our breath and consider the course.
    “I think we came around here,” Bridget said. “Remember you pointed out that tower? Shouldn’t it be right over there?”
    We moved forward, unexpectedly knocked off balance by a patch of small, loose rocks when we started down a short slope. We only slid a few feet though, and none of us were toppled.
    “That could have been much worse,” Nola said.
    By accident, the mute girl and I locked eyes. She blanched, and gagged, and then turned to vomit in the bushes. I tried not to take it personally.
    Together with Nola and Bridget, I watched the heaving arch of the girl’s spine. Nola moved toward her but Bridget held Nola back by grabbing the red poncho. I didn’t pretend then, or now, to understand the ways of women. I reckoned they knew best when one of their kind wanted to be left alone.
    “Are you all right?” Nola called.
    The girl wiped her mouth with her coat sleeve and nodded in response—so, not deaf. She rose to her feet and stepped up to join me in the lead.
    Bridget shared a look with Nola and we walked on, until we came to another fork in the overgrowth.
    “I wonder what time it is,” Bridget mused, crossing her arms over her chest. I judged it to be somewhat later than four in the afternoon. In an hour or so the mountain would be dipped in night and Nola and I were the only ones properly dressed for the cold. I hadn’t bothered to check the mountain weather forecast back at the tram station but I knew, at this time of year, we’d be