High Bones

by Hugh Todd

“This is how we lay them out,” she said.

I peered at the bones lying on the scrabbly turf. Clean and white like that high air.

“You let the flesh rot off?” I said, thinking of the smell and the flies and the leer of the skull as skin parted and dissolved. Maybe vultures.

“Oh, no,” she said. “We clean them up first. Those big vats over there. It’s quicker. Not to mention the hygiene angle.” She was brisk, young, but had the grace to touch my arm briefly.

I looked again at the placement of the bones. Vertebrae jumbled together to form the torso. Ribs arranged as rudimentary hands. The legs stretching on forever.

“Each one is individual,” she said. “We try to represent their essence.”

It was Bob all right. No brains, striding out, embracing everything.

“We feel a skeleton on its own is—well, it has rather lost its personality. We like to think we can restore a likeness by rearranging things a bit.” She led me over the brow of the hill, and gestured with a wide sweep. Bones were arranged over the slope in endless permutations. At her prompting, I stepped tentatively among them, examining each collection. I found myself smiling at some, frowning at others. Came close to uttering a greeting.

She approached and pointed to the nearest set of bones.

“Hans Besser,” I said, before she could speak. “And this one’s Charles Bienfait. And here...” My eyes prickled with tears.

“She said you had been close.”

I bent down to touch the bones. “You've done a good job,” I said. “A good job.”

“Come and see me when you’ve finished,” said my guide, and left me. I stood there for a long time, among those departed friends. And, it must be said, rivals and even enemies. So many. So many years.

“Goodbye,” I said at length. High above the prayer flags, the plume of ice still curled from the mountain in its arc of iridescent white. I looked again at the field of climbers and murmured, “Or is it hello?”

My guide was waiting for me at the hut.

“I’m ready,” I said.

And we set off.