He took a rest at three in the afternoon, just as the sun began gracefully to dip over the city heights that he could just barely see from the ledge he sank down on, sighing with the relief of strained muscles sagging and an aching back pressed against the sheer rock.
If he looked down, he could see that he had already climbed far higher than he ever thought he could. If he’d been asked when he set out whether he would reach this height he would have said there was no chance. He was under no illusions about his thin limbs and creaking joints, or the lungs that were right now burning with the effort of trying to gulp in more air than they could accommodate.
But here he was. Below him - and not that he looked down much, because when he did the world swam and rolled and made him sick, but when he did sneak a glimpse - there were crags and cliffs and caves that he had passed, gasping and groaning. He had sheltered under one overhang when the clouds had burst early on. He had clung desperately, begging his strength not to leave him, to a bush growing out of a crack that he could still see between his feet. He had slipped and fell any number of times, but never terminally. Somehow, here he was.
Staring into the distance he saw birds hanging in the air, bobbing over nothingness. They did not, he thought, see him. They had better things to do with their time than indulge curiosity over what might be struggling up the mountain. He was clinging to the rock while they revelled in the boundlessness of the sky. One swooped down and swung up again, riding the wind. It descended on a smaller bird, trying to pluck it from mid-air. The latter ducked and arrowed downward. The bigger declined to chase. There would be more.
These birds were too small to hunt a man on the mountain, he knew. But if he died here…well, that was a different story. They would happily pick his bones clean. He saw himself, glistening white with a hollow-socketed grin, still on this ledge, years from now. A hardier adventurer might stumble on him and shake his head, wondering why such an inadequate person would attempt this climb.
Soon he would have to stand again, a thought he did not relish. His legs grumbled at him even as they rested, conveying the message that they didn’t relish it much either. He looked up.
There was, of course, no point looking up. It could only make the task harder. If seeing where he’d been made him ill, seeing where he was going terrified him. Or rather, not seeing where he was going.
Nobody had ever seen where he was going. For his whole life he had craned his neck to look at the white clouds blanketing the peak, and had asked what was within those clouds. For his whole life he had been told nobody knew, and nobody would ever know, and there was no good asking because it would just waste everyone’s time.
He had been wasting everyone’s time his whole life. Now, though, it was only his own time he was wasting. No one expected him to come back from this trip. No one expected him to reach the top either. Their expectations reflected his own, exactly.
There may not even be a top to reach. When - if - he pushed through into those clouds, he might find the peak. It could be right there. Or it could be another mountain’s height above. Or it could be…nowhere. It could be that this mountain went on forever and ever and ever, and he would keep climbing forever, till time stopped.
A bird swooped close to his head. He looked down at his feet and saw a startled furry creature dart into a crevice in the rock. Everything just trying to survive, while he deliberately fought against his own survival, by essaying the most pointless task he could think of. He thought about the people thousands of feet below, going about their lives, working and playing and raising families. He thought about himself, whose life had narrowed to sheer rock and screaming muscles and nothing else.
He heaved himself upright with a pained exhalation. He hefted his pack up onto his back.
He kept climbing.
The clouds closed around him.