The Lonely Skier

by Innes Hammond

'Do not be a fool, Blair,' he said as I climbed up on to the sill. 'He will see your tracks. It will do no good.'

But I ignored his advice. Anything was better than just waiting for the end. I stood up in the open window space and jumped. I landed quite softly. I was pitched forward on to my knees so that my face was buried in the snow. I raised my head and wiped the snow from my eyes. It was icy cold. I was facing straight down the sleigh track. I scrambled to my feet and plunged forward on to the track. The snow was thick for a bit and moved with me in a small avalanche, so that it was not unlike scree walking, which I had often done in the Lake District at home. But then I reached a patch where the snow had been blown clear of the track. My feet slipped from under me and I found myself sliding on my back. I must have fallen thirty feet or more before I fetched up in a bank of snow. I fought my way out of it and stood upright again.

There was a shout behind me. I glanced back and was surprised to see how near I still was to the hut. A ploughed-up track in the virgin snow showed the way I had come. A pistol shot cracked out and a bullet whipped into the snow just beside me. A voice called to me again. The words were lost in the roar of the wind through the trees. I turned and plunged on down the track.

No more bullets followed me. And, when next I looked back, the hut was no more than a vague, blurred shape. I began to feel excited. I was sheltered from the wind and, though I was already wet through, my exertions kept me warm.

I made steady progress now, sometimes wading through banks of deep snow, sometimes riding a moving sea of it, standing upright, and sometimes, in places where the track was clear, sliding down on my back.

I had just slid down one of these clear patches and nearly smothered myself in a deep drift, when I looked back. The hut had now completely disappeared from view, but coming out of the snow was the figure of a skier. He was taking the slope in quick zigzags. On the soft snow he did a jump turn and with his skis parallel to the slope, rode the snow as it spilled down as though he were surf-riding.

I dived for the shelter of the trees. The snow had drifted badly here. But wading and rolling, I made the side of the track, caught at a branch and pulled myself in amongst the trees.

I gave a quick glance back and was just in time to see Mayne do a perfect Christi against the deep snow through which I had struggled. He came up standing and facing me. Barely half-a-dozen yards separated us. I felt tears of anger smart in my eyes. My feet were bedded deep in snow and the branches of the trees were thick. Mayne slipped his hand inside his wind-breaker and brought out his gun. 'Do I shoot you now?' he said. 'Or do you want to come back and join your friends?'

His voice was quite callous. It was clear that he did not mind whether he shot me now or later. 'All right,' I said. 'I'll come back.' I had no choice. But it was with a bitter sense of failure that I began to trudge back up the track I had made coming down. Once a drift gave way under me and I fell. I did not want to get up. I had a feeling of utter disappointment. But he began hacking at my ribs with the points of his skis. After that he gave me his sticks. He followed a little behind, side-stepping up, the gun ready in his hand.

I was utterly exhausted by the time I reached the top. He directed me round to the side of the concrete housing. I guessed that Engles and Keramikos were locked inside, for the door was being battered from within. Outside lay a pile of tools; picks, shovels and a heavy long-handled hammer that quarry men call a biddle. He unlocked the door and, catching hold of me by the back of the neck, flung me inside. I tripped on the snow in the doorway and fell. Something hit my head and I passed out.