Rescue

by
Larry Eugene Meredith

The wind got stronger at twilight. It rattled through the narrow end of the canyon, howling up from the black abyss at his feet. Art Wright shivered. The air was cold, although warmth was still visible in the pink western sky where color tinted low hanging clouds in a postcard sunset. This section of the country was famous for its sunsets, that was one of the tourist attractions, and one of the things Chuck had talked about all the way down in the car. Chuck was a camera buff and had come as much to photograph the famous sunsets as Art had come to hike the many trails.

Art stopped looking at the sky. The glow was too far to give him any heat. Instead, he looked to his right and left. In the distance to his left, beyond where the wall made a sudden broad turn, was a darker patch of evening shadow. Art guessed this was an indenture in the rock, perhaps a cave. If he could edge there along the ledge it would give him some protection from the wind, but the path to the dark spot was narrow, and he didn’t know how thick the rock was. If it were too thin to support his weight it would collapse and drop him into the chasm. He decided it would be wiser to remain where he was and not take any chances.

He took a deep breath and pressed his back against the cool rock. From where he stood, he could see a line of trees running above the ridge of the wall across the canyon. That cliff was not as high as the one behind him. It would be possible for a man to stand where he stood and lasso one of the trees and swing across to the other side, provided the man had enough room to swing the rope and enough strength to throw it that far. Art had neither. Besides he didn’t have any rope either. He imagined what would happen if he had the rope and the room and managed to lasso a branch of one of the distant trees. He would swing across the canyon, but on the other side only slam into the face of the cliff. Such a force could easily knock him right into the depth.

He took another deep breath and waited; putting all wild dreams of escape from his mind, knowing his best hope was rescue. The difficulty would be to not think about it.

The moon was climbing in the navy-blue sky. It was a big round moon, jagged and yellow. Art looked at it and watched it rise, studying the face that had been pointed out to him when he was a very small boy by his mother.

“Look, Arthur, do you see the face? That’s the Man-in-the-Moon who watches over sleeping children during the night.”

He squinted at the bright circle. It had dark spots, mountains on the moon. If they were looked at that way there was no face to be seen. The image was all in the mind. But the light of the moon was real and it fell into the open gorge onto the rocks jutting from the cliff sides. The pale light twisted the rock into shapes and it was very beautiful inside the canyon.

Art sighed. His right leg pained. He shifted weight to the other leg, which eased the hurt. In a short time his left leg began to pain more than he could bear. He inched down, pressing against the wall, and got to a seated position with his feet dangling over the edge. He swung his feet back and touched the hard wall beneath him. He could tell from this touch that it was very solid and he smiled briefly. This meant there was less danger of another cave-in.

He shut his eyes. The noisy scene crashed back in his mind; the sudden cracking, the tumbling rock bouncing against the peaked boulders below and the tearing of the path from the wall, chunk by chunk, coming in his direction, stopping just short of where he stood wide-eyed. Inches, a few last inches between his life and his death. He had watched it go, broken stones and pieces of gravel, falling into the crevice. Rocks flying into the river, forming rings and subtle splashes that were quickly washed smooth. Another few inches and it would have carried him with it. The thought was cold and he shivered.

The aches in his legs abated as he sat. For a while his legs were numb. After time passed they regained feeling and it felt strange having them dangle in space. Art squirmed harder against the wall. Having nothing to set his feet upon made him uncomfortable. How would he get back up without falling? The longer he pondered this, the more he had to get back on his feet to prove he still could. But the fear to try grew. He was gnawed by indecision. He placed his palms on the path along side his body. Perspiring, he straightened his arms and pressed down with his hands and pulled one leg up, placing the foot on the side of the ledge. He tried to push upward. Some of the gravel moved and a piece of the ridge broke beneath his heel. His foot slid off and he fell the two inches back onto the ledge.

"God, my God my God, I can’t get up.”

Sweat ran into his eyes, but he wouldn’t raise a hand to wipe it out. He blinked, which only made the salt go under the lids and sting. He sat still, shutting his eyes tightly. He blinked again. The stinging was bad. He pressed his eyes shut, blinked again and then his eyes were all right, although he saw red spots now.

With a deep breath he tried rising again. He lifted his body with his hands and raised his foot. His teeth nibbling at his lower lip, he inched up the wall until he was standing. He shut his eyes and a heavy breath hissed from his mouth. Holding the wall with the palm of a hand, he raised the other and wiped around his eyes with his sleeve.

The moon was high. There were many stars above, but none to the south. He could see haze out in that direction. He watched the haze for a long time. It was moving his way. He could see the sky disappear into it. He got tired of it and stopped watching.

He turned his head a little further and saw that the moonlight lit the nest. It was a large nest built in some brush that grew out of a crevice. Deep in the center were two large eggs. There was no sign of the bird that had laid them.

Art had seen the eggs earlier when he walked along the top of the cliff. Camp had been completely set up and the duties decided upon. They split the meals between them. Chuck had breakfasts, Art had lunches and Dobson had suppers to prepare. It was late in the day and they were through clearing the area and pegging up the tent and getting their air mattresses blown up and the beds ready. They had gathered a large supply of firewood and dug a drainage ditch around the tent and a latrine off in a distant clump of trees. Dobson opened the supply kit and started the fire while Chuck and Art finished stringing the mosquito netting and hanging the food and water on the side of a tree.

They ate their first meal. The three of them were hungry and Dobson was forced to prepare a second helping. After the meal Dobson gathered the plates and pans and went down to a stream to wash them. Chuck began to putter about with his camera and Art went for a walk and bit of sightseeing while it was still daylight. He left sight of the camp and went through the woods. When he came to the canyon, not uncommon around this part of the country, he followed it until he saw the nest and the eggs.

They were going to be his trophies. There were notches that ran down from the top of the cliff almost like a stairway to a ledge that led right to the nest. It was not a difficult climb down. He never considered any danger. He was going to take one egg home and find out what kind of bird had laid it. It must be a very large bird, perhaps some kind of eagle. He laughed as he began his climb down to the ledge. He would take it home to his mother and say, “Mom, look at the eggs these southwestern chickens lay.” She would laugh at that, she had been complaining lately about the small eggs found in the local stores.

Thinking of his mother made him frown. He had promised his folks to be extra careful if they allowed him to go on this trek. They were reluctant to let him. They feared he would drown in some strange river or get sick in the high country and not be able to get to a doctor. They gave in when he promised to be extra careful and reminded them that Dobson was an expert camper.

Dobson was his high school biology teacher and had promised to take his two best pupils that term on a camping trip out west, if their parents approved. Each student was to bring a paper signed by his parents giving permission. Art had no trouble getting his parents to sign originally because they didn’t believe he would win, but when he did, they were worried and reluctant. In the end, though, they let him go.

His eyes felt wet and he didn’t want to cry. It took an effort to stop the tears. He bit his lip until it hurt enough to take his mind from the tears. I’ll be okay, he though, nothing will happen. I’ll be missed and Dobson’ll find me. He’s an expert about these kinds of problems. I’ll bet he can track like an Indian. He’ll find me with no trouble at all. Why should I cry? Nothing to be afraid of.

After midnight, the haze from the south moved nearer. It was touching the edge of the moon. Art watched it swallowing the moon. A burst of bright streaks broke from the haze followed by a gigantic handclap. Art jumped and began shaking. He could hear a far-off whisking meaning it was raining in the haze. The rain was coming to him.

Art leaned his head back so he could look straight up at the top of the cliff. It wasn’t far away. Perhaps twenty feet, but it was smooth rock, no chance of climbing it. While looking up, he saw a shadow move near the edge of rock against the dark sky.

“Hey, Mister Dobson. Is that you, Mister Dobson?”

He waited, but there wasn’t any answer. The shadow moved the other way and he saw it was a bush growing near the edge blowing in the stiff wind howling around him. Even though he knew it was only a bush, he still held onto his hopes it was a rescue effort.

“Chuck. Is that you up there? Hey, Chuck Calvert?”

He waited, but no one answered.

The staring straight up made him dizzy and he could not take it any longer. He looked forward. He coughed. Nausea overtook him. He wavered forward, caught himself, fell back against the rock. He rested and breathed deeply. The sick-stomach left him.

His right leg was hurting again. He tried rubbing it, but this did not ease the pain. Finally he raised the foot off the rock and balanced on one leg, his arms spread out and tight against the wall for extra support. This stopped the pain.

An hour later the rain caught him. It fell heavily, the wind blowing it in sweeps against the cliff. The rain got down the neck of his shirt, running in streams down the hollow of his back. His face was sore from the violence of drops blown against it. His clothes became water soaked. He felt weak and heavy.

He closed his eyes, turned his head to the side and burrowed his chin into his shoulder. There was a clash of thunder overhead. Art snapped around. The canyon fired with light. His eyes widened and the sight paralyzed him. One of the tall trees on the other side had been struck by lightning and was falling over.

It seemed to fall in slow motion, tumbling straight down toward the canyon. It fell for a long time. He was certain it was going to fall across the chasm and strike him. It had bark splitting from it; branches broke and flew off in several directions and the tree itself bounced against the cliff wall several yards from Art then toppled down into the dark. He heard it slam against the rocks, breaking up. He heard pieces falling into the river. He wanted to scream when he thought it was going to hit him and couldn’t. Now his voice worked again.

“Mary, help me, help me pray. Mary, help me, help me pray, help me in all care and sorrow, Mary, help me, help me pray, Mary, help me, help me pray, Mary...”

He breathed deeply and closed his eyes.

“Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee; blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for we sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Amen.”

He stopped praying. It would be better if he turned around and put his face toward the protective wall of the cliff. He could stand the slashing rain against his back, but it was too much to bear striking his face.

He turned his feet, slowly moving his body against the wall away from the edge. He was almost around when his foot slipped on a wet spot and he fell to one knee. His kneecap landed with the entire weight of this body atop it. Pain shot up his body. It was the worse he had known. The tears he had tried to keep in would no longer hold. He lost his will over them and they came down his cheeks, warm, unlike the raindrops.

He gripped the cliff wall, kneeling on one leg, too much pained to move.

He pulled himself up, slamming against the wall, striking his forehead on a small sharp rock and cutting the skin. He continued to cry, his body out of his control. He turned his head and threw up. The rain quickly washed it away. The pain in his knee was like the stabbing of a blade.

Art got control of his crying. He leaned into the rock and prayed over and over. The rain rolled off him; his shirt and pants were slick against him and would hold no more water.

The downpour did not last long. It was blown from the area by the wind. But the wind did not stop blowing and it was very cold on his wet clothing. Art shook.

He looked up at the clearing sky, wondering when Dobson was coming to rescue him. He wondered what time it was. It was sometime in the early morning. He had been here the entire night. Why hadn’t they come for him?

The rain had been heavy and he knew it would be dangerous walking around in a strange area at night. Dobson and Chuck probably stayed in the tent to wait it out. He wondered if Dobson would be able to track him since the storm. He feared all traces would be washed away.

It was so cold. He pictured warm objects, but imaging his blankets or hot coffee or the campfire made him feel alone and did not ease the cold. He had never felt this lonely in his life. He looked at the still hazy sky. There was nothing around alive except him. Even the bird that had laid the eggs had not returned.

Art wondered about the bird. The eggs were so unprotected in the nest, yet had survived the storm intact. It might be the bird had been killed, shot by hunters. Hawk and eagle were some of the prey they had planned to find. He had looked forward to it. He had never before thought about their nest or if they had any eggs.

He saw a star, a faraway star in the black sky. The storm was leaving. He could hear thunder, but it was soft and eerie. The rain was gone. The wind was even beginning to die. He felt forsaken.

“Mister Dobson,” he shouted at the star, like a wish. “Mister Dobson, are you out there? Do you hear me? Mister Dobson. Chuck?”

The night remained silent, except for a lingering breeze, which had found some dead leaves on the ground above the cliff and was twirling them with its fingers.

Art lowered his head and sighed. Gee, what a story I’ll have to tell back at school. The guys will be jealous when I say, ‘Hey, you know what happened to me? I was trapped on a cliff overnight, down on a ledge of rock. Naw, I wasn’t scared. I knew Mister Dobson would get me off of it.’"

He shifted his weight and yelled with the pain from his kneecap. Tears welled, but he fought them back.

“I’m not gonna die,” he shouted to the star. Then he bowed his head and mumbled, “I’m not gonna die.”

He heard a twig snap above. He listened for another sound, but there was none. Then there came a shout, not words, just a shout.

“Mister Dobson,” he screamed, “Mister Dobson, Mister Dobson.”

He heard, “Chuck, over here.”

Art sighed and looked up at the eyes looking down the cliff side at him. A flashlight beam lit his face. “You all right, Art?” Mister Dobson asked.

“Yes, yes, I’m okay.”

“Is that blood on your forehead?”

“I cut myself on some rock...and I think my kneecap is shattered or something. I fell on it and its paining something fierce.”

“Can you hold on awhile longer? I sent Chuck back to camp for some rope.”

“Yeah, I’m fine now.”

“Boy, I guess your parents will be ready to skin me alive when I get you home.”

Chuck was a long time coming. At last he came with some new rope, very strong. Mister Dobson tied it to a tree trunk and lowered it over the cliff until it was extended in front of Art. Art reached out with his hand and grabbed it. He pulled it close and took it with both hands.

Mister Dobson and Chuck Calvert took hold of the rope prepared to pull him up. “You got it, Art.”

“I got it.”

“I want you to tie it around your chest, under the arms.”

“That’s okay. I can hold on. Just get me up.”

“Tie it around yourself first.”

“Okay.”

Art wrapped the rope around his waist once, made a tie and pulled it tight. It cut into him and pinched. He undid the loop.

“”You got it tied yet?” yelled Mister Dobson.

"Just a second,” he said.

He tied a small loop at the end of the rope and slipped it over the toe of his uninjured leg. Then he grasped the length above his head with both hands. “I’m ready,” he called.

Mister Dobson and Chuck began to pull. Art’s feet lifted from the ledge and he began to be drawn up the face of the cliff. His foot slipped from the loop. Sweat popped out of the skin on his forehead. His hands were moist. His left hand slipped an inch and hit his right hand.

Mister Dobson rolled the tent and tied it to the top of the pack. Chuck silently took care of the fire. Mister Dodson wiped his forehead and picked up a thin book. There was an illustration on the cover and the title “Knots and How to tie them”. He dropped the book in Art’s pack.

The fire was out. Chuck swung his pack onto his back. He picked up the coiled rope and looped it around his shoulder. Mister Dobson hefted his own pack over one shoulder and Art’s over the other. Walking single file, they climbed a hill through the woods with their heads bowed watching the path. They had nothing much to say to each other.

___________________________________________________________________________

I wrote this for Mrs. Ruth Pennypacker, my tenth grade English teacher at NORCO High. It was fall of 1956. I was 15 years old. My favorite authors at that time were Robert Lewis Stevenson, Edgar Allen Poe and Jack London. Perhaps London inspired me to write some "adventure" tales. More likely it came from other interests, such as hiking and camping. I was always walking up into the woods with my friend, Ronald Tipton, exploring. I had been in the Boy Scouts and did a lot of hiking and camping with the troop, but we moved from Downingtown that summer and I had to quit Scouts. I never found myself trapped on a cliff ledge; in fact, I was afraid of heights. Maybe this fear helped me write this tale, like a nightmare I might have. I included this story in my second collection of short stories, Acts of the Fathers.