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image he had
of this place. Using them, she studied the mountains around her and identified
one of them from the Halloweens of his past. In this man’s mind, in the black
of some remembered night, there was an opening in the cliff-side, midway
between the peak and the lake. She looked now and saw nothing, not even a
shadow in the place he believed he had seen some tunnel’s vast mouth open and
throbbing with torchlight. She headed over anyway. People could lie and eyes
could be deceived, but thoughts were impossible to fake.
    She was standing
at the bottom, where the lake met the mountain, looking up at a sheer face of
rock when he saw her. He was neither surprised nor pleased to find company, but
in those first moments, believing he had caught her unawares, he contemplated,
in foreign words but explicit imagery, how best to sneak up and kill her.
    Mara looked at
him.
    He stared back
at her, savoring his red thoughts, and began to make up his camp.
    Before dark,
they were joined by another man, one whose mind spoke some sort of French far
too rapidly for Mara’s halfhearted high school studies to follow. Nevertheless,
the word Scholomance was clear, and so was his intention. He was out of shape,
out of breath, and badly startled by the presence of strangers here before him,
yet seeing their tents, set up his own and waited.
    All through the
night, people closed in on them, some staggering through the dark in vague
search patterns, others coming in bullet-straight lines towards this most
particular peak. Mara watched them from the Panic Room, resting her body while
keeping the more sinister of her two companions under close mental observation.
Twice, he got up with murder in mind; twice she woke and put a hand on her
knife, letting him see her see him. Although he had many opportunities, he
never went after the French guy. He apparently saw Mara as his only real
competition. She couldn’t help but feel a little flattered.
    It rained the
next day, all day. The wind blew fantastically cold. In the Panic Room, none of
this had any effect that she could feel, so she stayed there, monitoring her
body’s condition without any of its discomforts and making sure it was kept fit
in case Mr. Murder made a run on her. Four more people trickled in at four
separate hours. Three were American, and one of these, the only other girl Mara
saw or even sensed out there. They immediately grouped up, united by a common
language. Mara pretended not to understand them when they hailed her, but she
watched them make their communal camp. They had a bottle to pass, and later,
little dried mushrooms and some good, pungent reefer. They talked about the
Devil in adoring tones, about deathrock and shoegazing, about nihilism and
Baudelaire, but after dark, the talk died. They emptied the bottle and then
just looked at each other. The fat man who spoke French tried to go over and
sit with them, but they turned him out with jeering laughter, and he went into
his tent and did not come out again.
    Midnight. Someone’s
watch beeped. The Americans looked up at the mountain. They talked a little
more, smoked another two joints between them, and went to their separate tents.
So did Mara. So, eventually, did Mr. Murder, but his thoughts stayed with her
and stayed dark.
    There were
wolves in the mountains somewhere. They howled to each other, the sound
deceptively close as it bounced and rolled over rock, and the wind howled back,
shaking the tents. The lake slapped at the stony shore. No one slept but Mara.
    The fat
French-speaker stayed shivering in his sleeping bag and cried a little, off and
on. The other guy poured some pills into his shaking hand and washed them down
with a fifth of vodka. Eventually, one of the Americans slipped out of his tent
and across camp. The girl didn’t mind waking up for him. They had loveless,
frightened sex, and he returned to his own tent. The other American went next,
to the same welcome, the same silent return. Mr. Murder