Leap of Faith

The wind whipped through the gully almost knocking Peter off his feet and sending him cascading the hundreds of feet to the bottom of the gorge to his left. They had been walking for over two hours now and the weather was getting progressively worse the higher they climbed.

“Shouldn’t we be getting somewhere now?” remarked Jason, his face practically hidden behind the tight hood of his parka. His small body was cocooned by the coat; it was slightly too big and his hands barely made it out from the ends of the sleeves.

“I don’t know,” was all that he got in reply. Peter was concentrating on simply staying on his feet as the huge gusts of wind threatened to throw him to a premature death. Bent over low, he moved forward, slowly; anyone viewing them from the surrounding mountain passes would have been excused for assuming that he had a stomach pain, such was the way he bent double, his arms folded across his belly. Jason was performing a similar procedure, although he was protected by Peter’s larger frame.

“Do you think he’s dead?”
“What?” Peter said.
“Mr Jameson. Do you think he’s…?” There was a quivering to Jason’s voice, as if he were on the verge of tears. The rain that had scattered across the hills some hours back still clung to the contours of his face, so it was difficult to tell.

“I don’t want to talk about it, not right now. My primary concern is getting to base camp, crawling into a tent and having something hot to eat. Then, I want to sleep. After that we can talk about Mr Jameson.” Peter stalked off again, hoping that Jason was following in his footsteps.

They turned a sharp corner and were suddenly out of the wind and rain, sheltered by the immense rock faces that encircled them. Peter stopped to take a breather and Jason moved close to him, shivering in the cold and damp. Suddenly feeling paternal towards his younger friend, Peter put his arm around his shaking shoulders and hugged him closer.

“Look, Jason, things will be okay. I promise. I’m sure Mr Jameson is okay. If not, I guess that the fall might well have killed him, but we need to worry about us right now. Once we’re safe and can find help, we’ll raise the alarm. It can’t be far. Look, the path starts to drop now; we must surely be approaching the farm. Keep an eye out for lights.”

Jason said nothing. His whimpering kept Peter informed that he was alive, if not all that well. Seven hours they had been on the mountain now. If night fell – and that could only be an hour or two away – then they’d be stuffed. Then, they would become the next Mr Jameson: dead.

The sun began its descent and the air grew colder. Peter pushed on, not knowing for sure if they would get down from this mountain alive. If only he hadn’t been so stupid, they would never have found themselves in this predicament. It was all his fault; if Mr Jameson was alive, he would have to tell the authorities what had happened. Peter wasn’t sure what Jason had witnessed. Would he have to take decisive action? He decided that he had better cover his tracks. It would be for the best.

Picking up the pace, Peter hurried along the path. Jason looked up and could see the gap between them opening up. He called out, but Peter appeared not to have heard him. Suddenly, Peter disappeared into the mist.

Panic rose in Jason’s throat. He didn’t want to be alone. He hated being by himself, it always scared him. Swallowing hard, he moved forward to try and catch up with Peter, but when he made his way through the thickening mist, he was nowhere to be seen.

“Peter?” Jason tentatively called out to his friend. No answer came. “PETER!” he shouted, his voice breaking as the panic gripped him tight. Stumbling forward, he thought he saw a shape to his left. He could see little in any direction and could hear only the howling of the wind.

“Over here, Jason.” A voice called out from over to the left. Without thinking, Jason ran towards the source of the voice. He found himself tumbling down the side of the gorge, his feet no longer on firm ground.

“Help me, please. Someone! Anyone!
Help mmmmmmmmmmmmmmeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.”

Peter stepped out from behind a rock, his face twisted into a smile. He might be on his own now, but at least Jason wouldn’t be able to tell anyone about how Mr Jameson had come to fall. Only Peter would know.

It was funny, but Peter’s father had always said that ‘Jameson was a push over’. Well, Peter had proved his father right, had he not? One simple push. It had been even simpler to get rid of the whining Jason. How easy it was. Now, all he had to do was walk down this path, find the farm and raise the alarm. They would treat him like a hero; he would make the papers. Young boy finds his way off mountain after death of teacher. That would make a good headline. Peter hoped they would use the word perilous. He had always liked it.

The mist was getting thicker as the path twisted its way downward. It was hard going, but Peter kept his head and took it one step at a time. The sky had darkened now and stars were beginning to twinkle as the rain clouds cleared away. Soon, even these bright sparks of light were hard to distinguish through the soup of mist that enclosed him.

Suddenly, Peter stopped in his tracks. The mist swirled in every changing shapes, offering small glimpses of the mountainous environment.

“Who’s there? Hello? Is there anybody there?” Peter cocked his head to one side, wiping away the hair that had matted onto his forehead with one hand. There was nothing. It’s just a trick of the mist and fog, Peter thought, trying to convince himself he was alone and nothing or no one was following him.

As he was about to move off again, he heard a shout. Was it Jason? Perhaps the fall hadn’t been high enough and he was lying somewhere, his clothes sodden with rain and blood; perhaps he had broken his leg, or an arm. Peter couldn’t think straight. This hadn’t been in his plan.

Choosing to ignore the plight of his friend, whom he had surreptitiously led to his death, Peter strode on. He shivered, not from the cold but from a sense of foreboding. He was not usually one to be so apprehensive, but fear had somehow wriggled its way inside him and was eating at his conscience like cancer.

Blindly, Peter pressed on. It was getting more and more difficult to see where the path was leading him, but as it seemed to be dropping down Peter assumed that it was taking him away from trouble and towards the warmth of the farmhouse from which they’d set off on this ill-fated expedition.

Again, Peter stopped. He had definitely heard his name. He swung his head to one side, straining to hear through the wind. Turning his head back to the path, the mist cleared for a split second and there, stood in front of him, was Jason and Mr Jameson. They were waving. He stood, rooted to the spot. This could not be true. There was no way that either of them could have got in front of him, let alone survived the fall from such a great height.

Blinking, Peter looked again. They were gone. Without warning, Peter found himself lifted off his feet by a particularly strong gust and was deposited six feet away from where he had stood. Peter picked himself up from the floor, dusted off his hands and looked at his knees. A gash had opened up in his waterproof trousers and he could see his own blood flowing down his shin where the rough shale had cut his skin. He was limping now.

He heard his name being called again; he swore he could see the two figures of Jason and Mr Jameson ahead of him even though he knew it couldn’t really be true. He ran at them, but they always stayed the same distance away. Tears were running down his cheeks now, hot and salty.

“Please, please,” he begged, but they still summoned him towards them, mocking him with their eerie voices. Peter felt really cold all of a sudden. Rounding another corner, the ground dropped away sharply and Peter noticed a small opening in the rock face to his left. Crawling in, he pulled his hood up tight and placed his hands over his face. He was begging for forgiveness.

The first light of the day shone through the clouds and settled on the path, near to where Peter had crawled into the rocks. Voices were coming up the path, calling out. All that came back were echoes.

The first of the bodies had been found only a few hours before by the search and rescue team. Jason hadn’t survived the fall and his broken body, like a discarded marionette, lay at the base of the gorge. The dogs hadn’t taken long to discover him. The team had split up, taking different paths to the tor.

The radio crackled.

“We’ve got another one here. Looks like the leader of the group, a Mr Jameson. Had a nasty fall and he hasn’t made it. Anything with you, Jack? Over.”

“Nothing yet, we’re still searching,” Jack replied. Just then, one of his team shouted to get his attention. “Hang on Steve, I think we’ve found him.”

They had. Peter was curled into a ball, forced into the small aperture of the rock face. His face showed a look of terror. Jack ran over. It didn’t take a doctor to tell him that this little boy was going home in a box. There was note clasped tightly in the coiled fingers of the boy and Jack tore it from his deathly grasp.

“I killed them both. I pushed them. And then they wouldn’t leave me alone.”

Jack read the childish scrawl. He crumpled the note in his pocket before anyone else had noticed he had removed it. No one need know. Jack was sure that this poor child had written it in desperation. After all, he didn’t even have a pen. The note had been composed in blood.