The North Face of the Heart - Dolores Redondo Page 0,169

claiming her as its own.

Another thunderclap burst overhead, generating a shock wave and a rush of air.

She fought against the panic.

The Lady is coming, chanted the faceless chorus in her head.

They finally reached the bizarre building, which had obviously been uninhabited for years. It was an unusually elongated structure. The ground floor had been inundated. Residue left by the flood showed the waters had crested high on the windowless roof.

Thunder roared. Huge raindrops showered down from a sky that was misted and yet still as brilliant as before; the lukewarm water drenched them to the bone in less than thirty seconds.

She’s coming. She’s here.

61

FATALITY

Elizondo

Amaia Salazar was twelve years old when she went missing in the forest for sixteen hours. They found her in the early morning, eighteen miles north of the place she’d wandered off the path. When they questioned her, she insisted she remembered almost nothing of what she’d gone through. But even so, she could describe in detail all the emotions and sensations, all the feelings and fears that had assailed her as she traversed the forest: the initial panic when she realized that she couldn’t find the path, her reasoning that surely she’d be able to find it again, later, having to admit that she’d gotten as lost as one of the little girls in a menacing tale by the brothers Grimm. She clearly recalled the thunderclap that tore through the ether of a gray sky of whipped fog where there was no trace of dark. She remembered the tree, the storm, an eerie presence lurking out of sight, the house, and the man.

The cool late-winter morning could have been like that of any other day on the calendar—but it wasn’t. Dense mists spilled down the mountainsides like soapy water dumped from a bathtub. Hiking-club members parked their cars along the sides of the road near their meeting place. People greeted one another heartily as they arrived, as if much more time than just a week had passed since their last outing.

There was something sacred about hiking in the mountains. Those damp, cold days left glistening drops of moisture clinging to her wool clothing, festooning her like tiny jewels.

During the first hour of their march, the hikers spoke very little. They focused on establishing a rhythm and maintaining their pace. They inhaled the chilly Baztán air through their nostrils and exhaled visible clouds through scarf-covered mouths. Trudging forward mechanically meant she had no need to think. Sometimes she would forge ahead, hearing the steps of the group behind her; other times, she would lag and let the others get far enough ahead for her to enjoy the sensation of being alone. The excursions were always similar but never the same. She hadn’t known she would enjoy them so much. Nor had she known the day would ever come when she’d have to give them up forever. The forest lulled her, rocked her on its breast, and relieved her of any notion of fear, of shame, of the need for vigilance. More than anything, it banished the thoughts and anxieties boiling in her mind day and night that never allowed her to rest. Only out here did those fears retreat to the obscure realm from which they’d come, making her feel in charge at last.

It could have been a morning like any other, but she knew it wasn’t, because it was the last one. She was going away. After she left, she would miss only the forest and her dog, Ipar. Her aunt would visit, but it would be a very long time before Amaia came back to her forest. And there was no way to take Ipar with her. Her eyes filled with tears every time she thought of that. She paused and knelt to hug her dog, pressing her snub nose into the thick fur at his neck. And he huddled close and eagerly licked the tears from her cheeks, as if he had a premonition of the coming separation.

Amaia let the other hikers get ahead of them, so the trail would seem hers alone. She ambled forward and noticed a glint of white in the grass. A wild primrose, so pallid it seemed frozen stiff. Maybe it’s the first one of the season, she thought, feeling privileged, as if the forest were presenting her with something unique to mark her departure. Ipar, attracted by her curiosity, came up and cautiously sniffed the flower. That set her giggling until she saw he’d inadvertently broken the stem