Time moves forward, but not always smoothly; sometimes, time jumps.
It jumps this afternoon as I stand beside the man, the two of us on the ridge summit, gazing up at the large wooden cross emplaced there. The cross overlooks green valleys hemmed in by the snow-streaked crags of the Alps. The white sheathed spike of the Eiger towers above us, wondering why we’re here.
***
I’d first spotted the man five hours earlier, on the train from Engelberg to Grindelwald. His head, crowned by wavy brown hair, towered over those standing at the end of a crowded second-class car. Someone bumped him with a backpack and apologized in German; he responded in kind, but sounded American. The train arrived on schedule, as Swiss trains do. The French and Italians could learn from the Swiss.
On my next train, I found myself standing beside him. I wore a Hard Rock Cafe Madrid tee, shorts, and hiking boots, and had my small roller bag in tow. He wore khakis and a navy polo shirt; a worn leather tote hung from his shoulder. I looked up into his face, my pale blue eyes met his dark blues, and asked, “How tall are you?” my voice slight amongst the chatter and clatter of the train car.
“Tall enough to be your father,” he said. The easy familiarity, humor and truth of his reply surprised me; a warm flush washed my face.
When the train reached its destination, I stowed my bag in my hotel room, grabbed my daypack, and rode the gondola to its station on the mountain face. The man was there also, now wearing hiking shorts and boots, studying a map. His sun-darkened, muscled legs, a white scar slashing diagonally across his left calf, contrasted with my lightly tanned limbs. I wore a baseball cap against the sharp sun; he stood bareheaded.
He glanced up. “And how tall are you?” faint amusement in the question.
“Five foot one.”
He nodded. “I’m heading to that peak.” He gestured to a high point on the mountain ridge, a cross faintly visible on its summit.
“Me too.”
He nodded again, accepting my lie.
We hiked for two hours, climbed three-quarters of a mile into the sky, to reach that cross. He hiked with a firm, sure tread, each of his strides almost two of mine. I capered beside him and matched his pace. Occasionally, I fell behind to collect a bright blossom from the cascades of wild flowers covering the slopes, then trotted to catch up.
The sun played hide-and-seek with the clouds, turning the surrounding valleys into a patchwork of luminous textures. The grassy slopes were home to small clusters of dairy cows. The constant chaotic melodies of their cowbells filled the silence one expected in the mountains. Once, to my surprise, their erratic rhythm momentarily coalesced into a recognizable Latin beat.
We talked little, each seemingly satisfied with the presence of the other and the world around us. Once, he asked where I was staying and nodded when I answered. I thought about the possible alignments of our sweaty bodies in bed.
I asked why he’d chosen this hike.
“I promised a friend I’d leave something for him at the summit.”
As we approached the summit, the sun faded as gray clouds assembled, driven by stiffening winds.
***
“I wonder who built this cross,” I say when we reach the peak.
He tells me the history of these crosses, mounted on isolated knolls throughout the Alps, signs of the farmers’ faith in God and their hope that He’ll bless the lands each cross overlooks. The man is finishing his explanation, his rich voice embroidering his knowledge into my mind, when time jumps, and he stops living.
I know the arrow’s passage through the man’s chest was not instantaneous, could not have been silent. And yet, witnessing that moment, I can testify there was simply before and after. There was no during.
The man’s expression does not change instantly. I watch its lively intelligence fade to surprised death over several seconds, before his legs give way and he settles to the ground, as if tired, needing sleep.
I stare down at the man lying at the base of the cross, seemingly smaller than he’d been moments before. The arrow protrudes from the left side of his chest. A rivulet of blood winds its way along the shaft, forming ruby droplets at the metal tip formed by three sharp intersecting blades.
I turn. Two hundred feet away, a stout man stands, garbed in camouflage, a powerful bow in his hand, an arrow notched and aimed towards me.
I stand facing him, conscious that my Hard Rock shirt places a yellow bullseye in the center of my chest, until he finally relaxes his pull on the bow string. He nods to me, then turns away and strides along the ridge, disappearing around a craggy edge.
I kneel beside the man and feel the large vein in his neck. I place the flowers I’d collected beside him and unzip his pack. I withdraw the small metal box I’d come for and place it in my pack.
I close his eyes. He appears asleep and I reach out and trace his upper lip with my finger, my blue enameled nail contrasting with his pink, warm, still soft lips. The loudness of my sigh surprises me.
I select a small, brilliant, bluish-purple blossom from the bouquet lying beside him and slide it over my right ear, then head back down the slope, returning the way we had come, accompanied only by cowbell melodies.
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