tion to repay. He’d only packed clothes, his climbing
equipment, and a beaten paperback copy of The
Coming of Conan the Cimmerian. It had taken him
most of the flight just to read one story, “The Frost-Giant’s Daughter,” in which the barbarian hero Conan
chased a beautiful giant maid across the mountain
peaks of Nordheim.
“Troll women. Or maybe elf women is a better way
to say it. It’s what I call these girls with their gothedout hair. Some of the old stories use the word, saying
how men got lured up into the mountains by beautiful
and mysterious women. Of course, the men never
returned. I think we’ve got some stuff on them in one
of the brochures,” Magnus offered.
because it’s not like he’d have too many more opportunities. They talked a bit more, and eventually Magnus
convinced Reid to agree to go climbing with him, even
saying Reid could pay back the difference by working
at the hostel for a week or so. The tour was going to be
in four days, and Magnus recommended other touristy
things to occupy him until then.
Now he had arrived in the real land of giants—the
Jotunheimen Mountains. Named for the same Norse
giants that had inspired the Conan story, the peaks
were the highest in Northern Europe. Reid had
reserved a room in a hostel at the foot of the mountains, choosing one that catered to mountaineers. He
arrived early, and sat in the first-floor lobby waiting for
his room to be ready. Nearby, a couple of girls giggled.
He stared. Curvy, young, and fit, they possessed an
elfin beauty with rich tattoos and hair dyed in auroras
of green gossamer. They saw him, laughed, waved, and
he looked away, ashamed as much at being caught as
because he did not trust his eyes to speak honestly
through the tumor clotting his thoughts.
“That’s all right,” Reid said, trying to remember if
he’d read about this before or not.
Of course, Reid had no intention of going with
Magnus, so he woke early the next day, gathered his
climbing gear, and set out on his own to scale the
looming peaks.
“Great slopes on those girls, am I right?” said a
man stepping up to Reid, and he scarcely managed to
hide the relief at this man’s confirmation of his senses.
“I’m Magnus,” the man said, extending a hand.
Reid gave his own name, traded grips, and
exchanged pleasantries as Magnus sat beside him.
“Huldras like that, I tell you, they can make a man
lose his senses,” Magnus said.
Reid gave a noncommittal nod, but despite his
initial unease, found himself dragged into a conversation with Magnus, a cook and a guide at the hostel
who had a deep appreciation for women with artificial
hair coloring and an excess of tattoos—whom he kept
referring to “huldras” for some reason.
“What?” Reid finally asked, after Magnus used the
term for the half-dozenth time.
“First time in Norway?” Magnus asked.
“Yeah. I’ve always wanted to climb in the Jotunheimen, but—“
“Let me guess. You found love, right? Or knocked
someone up?”
“No. I got a job. Well, more like a life sentence,
really. The marriage came later, but no... No kids,”
Reid trailed off, and Magnus sensed some doom in his
somber tone.
“You have much experience climbing?” he asked
instead, changing the topic.
“Yeah, but it’s been some years. I’ve done the Alps,
the Alaska Range, the Rockies, a couple others. But
I’ve always wanted to climb in Norway, like I said.”
They talked climbing and technique and compared
differences in snow and rock faces for a bit, sharing
stories until Magnus finally asked about Reid’s climbing partner. When Reid said he didn’t have one,
Magnus informed him that anyone with half a brain
knew not to climb alone. Reid didn’t bother telling
him how much of an improvement half a brain
would’ve been.
They talked back and forth, and it came out that
Magnus led tours up the mountain every other week.
Magnus invited Reid to climb with him, but of course
Reid declined. Except then Magnus bought him a
drink, and even though it was early, he accepted,
The first few hundred meters’ climbing were
straightforward enough. It was basically just hiking
with solid rock underfoot that got harder as he left the
vegetation behind. The higher he climbed, the steeper
the slope became, shedding its coat of grass and then
donning a white cover of h oarfrost.
Ice slicked under his heavy boots and his lungs
wheezed, unused to the frigid air after years without
climbing, but one stride at a time, he ascended until he
stopped to rest on a magnificent ledge overlooking the
valley.
The view was as beautiful as he’d hoped after years
of staring at travel brochures, but still, there was a
sense of sorrow knowing this would be the last climb
of his life.
In the past, he’d always had a partner with him. He
used to climb with his friends Mike and Darrell, and
they’d talk and joke on the early parts of the climb and
help one another out as things got harder near the top.
But now Mike was gone—taken by cirrhosis after one
(or a thousand) Guinnesses too many—and Darrell
hadn’t returned his calls in years.
He’d climbed with Cassie too, backpacking every
other summer for their first ten years together. But his
job had ruined that for him, giving him that big
promotion which meant more responsibility, less