42 Climbing

“How in the name of all that’s holy did I end up here?” I ask out loud for perhaps the hundredth time.  Every single muscle is screaming but I am too far along to give up now.  Giving up really isn’t an option, anyway.  If I let go I fall, and it’s a very long way down.

I glance up at my fingers, wedged into the narrow gaps between the stones above me, aching and bloody from so many cuts and grazes I’ve given up counting them.  I can see the next hand-hold, and I ease my left hand out from its current position, shifting my weight, stretching out and up, ignoring the pain.  My fingers find the gap, slide in, take up their new position and I rest, just for a moment.

Then I look down for the next foothold, keeping my eyes on the wall just below me, ignoring the great expanse between me and the ground.  As I place my foot in the gap, a chunk of stone gives way and goes hurtling down.  I close my eyes so I don’t follow it with my gaze, then I wedge my foot into the enlarged space.  Now for the right side.

How many times have I reached out, a little further over, a little further up, since this night began?  The moons are both in different places from when I started but there is still no sign of dawn.

Two moons seems odd, somehow.  I know there have always been two moons, so why do I feel there should be only one?  It’s part of the amnesia, reason tells me, but I can’t shake the feeling that something more is wrong than my memory.

As I’ve thought all this, I’ve moved three more ‘steps’.  There is a ledge, the flat roof of a small turret, not far away, unguarded.  I can see light and hear voices coming from the turret itself, however.  Sounds like two guards.  One of the slit-like windows I can see is blocked – I guess that one of the guards is leaning against the opening – and firelight shows at the other.  I’m desperate to rest, even for a moment, but they might hear me if I’m right over their heads.  The question is, are they not on the roof because they are lazy and complacent, or because there is no trapdoor in it?

One more ‘step’ across and up, and I can see the roof itself – with a trapdoor that opens outward.  I have no idea if it’s locked on the inside, or how long it would take the guards to open it and get outside.  If I do rest, I will need to get above the turret anyway, so I stretch out again, up and left, making as little noise as possible.  Repeat, repeat, each time a little further, a little higher.  By the time I can step, quietly (quietly!) on to the flat surface, I am at the far side of the turret.

The noises from below haven’t changed and I take a deep breath.  I might actually get away with this!

I lean against the wall, feeling its rough surface under my cheek, grateful for the chance to place my feet on something wider than the crack between two stones.  My legs want me to sit down but I daren’t; I might not be able to stand again.  It would make too much noise, anyway.

Glancing up, I think I can see my final destination.  The Round Tower, with its precious contents, treasures beyond imagining.  At least that’s what the legends say.  I hope they’re right; there has to be some point to all this climbing around like a spider, after all.

A spider?  What’s that?  I have an image, small body, eight legs…  There’s nothing in the world that has eight legs!  Nothing in this world, anyway, whispers a small voice at the back of my head.

But, I have no time to ponder this, or any other riddle.  Not much of this night remains and I still have a long way to climb.  Taking a deep breath, I force the protesting muscles of my left arm to stretch out and up, again.