The Wind’s Corridor

SKREEEEEEE. The hemp rope frays, strand by agonizing strand, against the jagged granite lip. «...Dammit, not now...» Jacob clings to the ledge. Every muscle in his forearm screams. His fingernails bleed into the silt and grit, painting dark crimson streaks against the cold stone. TCHHH-TCHHH. The line shudders. Thirty feet below, the abyss opens its grey, hollow throat. Mist crawls up from the floor like a starving viper sensing heat. «...The next breath might be the last...» THWACK! A loose boulder shears off from above. It hammers into Jacob’s left shoulder with the force of a falling anvil. CRACK. A muffled cry is instantly devoured by the howling gale. His left shoulder goes dead. Numb. A useless weight hanging from his torso. — Hold on, Jacob! Don’t look back! No matter what! Beatrice’s voice drifts down, thin and raspy, from the narrow cleft above. She can’t see him. She only hears the wet, rhythmic struggle of his lungs fighting the altitude. Jacob tilts his head with agonizing slowness. Sweat stings his eyes like acid. The leather satchel is strapped tight across his chest, crushing his ribs. A strange, localized heat radiates from it, searing his skin…