Local God

By James Targett

I studied the stream of raindrops as they sluiced down the back of Spyder's orange and black rucksack. My feet squelched as I trudged up through the red mud of the path. An immense feeling of anger and regret flowed through me.

We'd barely begun. Spyder had just led a route up the slab on the right hand side of the quarry: carefully placing pieces of kit - intricate cams known as Technical Friends, and wonderfully shaped metal rocknuts. He had attached a carabiner to each piece of kit and then clipped in the rope that he dragged up behind him. Moving onward and upward in hard fought steps, leading the climb, until he had reached the top.

He had set up a belay point, and then Diane and I had both bounced up the route, tied in to the top-rope that Spyder had dragged up behind him. We'd been plotting our next conquest, scanning through the pages of the guidebook when we had heard the first roll of thunder, approaching from the west. A fat drop of clear liquid had splatted neatly onto the black and white sketch of the crag, blurring the overlaid red route markings.

That was it. Game over.

Hurriedly we'd packed ropes into bag, thrust tangles of rocknuts and cams into our rucksacks. Spent frantic minutes chasing up rock boots, nut-keys, slings, tugging on fleeces and anoraks, pulling off climbing harnesses and stuffing them into bags.

Shit. If the storm hadn't rolled in, we could have had another five or six hours of climbing ahead of us. It was only one in the bloody afternoon. Black clouds filled the sky. Heavy rain smashed down and poured off the rock into the stagnant green pool on the left-hand side of the quarry.

"Fuck you!" I screamed at the clouds. I shoved my middle finger into the face of the sky. For an instant, it made me feel better.

"Don't." said Diane, behind me. "You'll only offend the spirits."

Diane: the new girlfriend of my climbing partner, Spyder. They'd only been going out six weeks and this was the second time she had come out climbing with us. I didn't like her. She was a flake: a hippy chick who believed in incense and tarot cards and yoga and spiritual cleansing. Like Phoebe from Friends, but with the humour replaced with patronising superiority. The same kind of thing you got with some Christians. They think they are so much better because they Believe. No moral doubts to undermine their self-confidence. They can just get on with being smug.

"What fucking spirits?" I said, casting the retort back over my shoulder.

"The spirits of this place. They look after the crag. Keep it safe for everyone."

"Bullshite. That's a load of bullshite. They are no faeries protecting the crag. It's a pile of neolithic rock. Limestone shaped by the action of wind and water. You're full of shit."

"Lay off it Duncan," said Spyder. He had stopped and turned around to face me. Big and solid. Water dripped from the rim of his blue hood. His mouth was set in a grim, humourless line. There's no fucking with Spyder. He doesn't take shit from anyone. It makes for a good mate but it also means that you don't want to cross him.

"For fuck's sake-" I brushed past him, drops of water spun into mist where our shoulders connected.

The ride back in Spyder's beat-up Vauxhall Astra was long and silent. I sat with my knees around ears, stuffed onto the backseat. I leant against the window, giving more room for the wet rucksack that had been thrown on the seat next to me. Spyder drove, eyes focused on the road beyond the wipers. Diane babbled something about the summer solstice. I tuned out and watched the raindrops slide down the window of the car door.

Some months later and it was late September. Spyder had split up with Diane a month or so ago: relationship differences or something. He wouldn't talk about it. I've tried to get him to open up about it over a few beers but he wouldn't have any of it. I couldn't say that I was upset that they were no longer an item.

We'd not been climbing at the quarry since we had been rained off by the storm. The day was bright and sunny, not too hot, but fine enough that we could climb in T-shirts and sit around in fleeces. Good weather for the time of year.

We left the car in the gravel car park at the top of the valley, crossed the busy main road and then followed the footpath across a yellow field of straggly sheep pasture. The path curved and then cut steeply downwards. It bottomed out and then ran through a small copse of birch wood to the base of the crag.

On the right hand side was long slab, about twenty metres high, with a few shrubs and small trees at the top. To the left, where the crag had been quarried, there was a standing pool of water of unknown depth. Nearest to us was "the beach"; around the other three sides of the pool were steep walls of gritstone. A few of the climbs could be started directly from the bottom, but at least half the others required a traverse along the rim of the pool, or an abseil in from above.

Spyder and I spent the next few hours playing on the slab. Spyder led a couple of climbs, I seconded them; following him up on a top-rope and removing the gear he had placed, leaving the rock unmarked by sign of our passage. We moved our line across so that we could top rope a few of the other routes.

Eventually we stopped for a cup of tea and a sarnie. While we ate and drank, we contemplated a thin lightning-bolt shaped crack that ran from the pool to the top of the crack. The start was reached by a short traverse, no more than three metres. An easy bouldering problem with only a quick dunking if you slipped. Spyder flicked through the climbing guide and read the description of the route while he munched on a ham sandwich.

"I reckon that we can do that." He shoved the book under my nose, chalky finger pointing at the relevant paragraph. I scanned it.

"Looks tricky to me."

"Who wants to live forever, eh?"

I read the description again. It was at the top end of the grade that I was climbing at. It'd be a good trophy if I pulled it off. I'd been climbing well and the weather was good. I was feeling optimistic.

"Sure. Let's do it. You want to lead?"

"Your turn. My arms are still a bit pumped from that last one."

"Okay." I smiled and felt the faint tingle at the thought of climbing a new route: that nervousness that never quite goes away. Would that route beat me or would I beat it? Would my muscles strain and fill with lactic acid, become pumped, before I could finish the chain of desperate moves. Was there some move that I wouldn't be able to make because I wasn't strong enough in my fingers? Or because I wasn't strong enough in my mind? Would I make it to the top or would I chicken out because there wasn't enough places to put protection in?

I tried to stop dwelling on it before I gave before the first move. I tightened the waist of my harness and began clipping on my rack, loading carabiners, extenders, cams and a selection of nuts. I ummed and ahhed over the hexes, took a couple of the medium sized ones and left the rest. I unzipped my fleece and took it off, slipped a couple of slings over my head, checked that I had some spare screwgate carabiners and then I was ready.

With rock boots on, I reached behind me and into my chalk-bag. Fingers white with chalk to prevent sweating; I stepped out side ways, crabbing my way across to the small ledge that was the start point. Spyder followed, bringing the rope with him.

Spyder sorted the rope while I studied the first moves. Once he was ready, I tied on.

"Ready?"

"Check."

"Off you go then."

I reached up for a small finger hold while I slipped my right foot into the bottom of the crack. I tugged and pushed respectively, reaching for the next hold. I felt the trepidation in my gut again. Was I going to make a tit of myself? Fall before I had even got started? If I stepped back off too hard it could end up with both me and Spyder in the pool.

I moved jerkily, small smear with my left foot, another handhold. Foot higher in the crack where it got gently wider. My left hand was good. I reached for a cam, pulled back on the lever and slipped it into the crack. I gave it a tug and it held. As I clipped the rope into the carabiner I heard a distant rumble of thunder.

"You hear that?"

"You in?"

"Yeah."

"Hear what?"

"Thunder."

"Nah, you must be imagining it."

I looked up at the sky. It was till fresh and blue. The only clouds were few, high and white and wispy.

Mentally I shrugged and turned my attention towards the next few moves. I tried to move delicately, finding footholds first, then moving my hands, keeping good style. The rock felt slick under my hands, I didn't think that I was sweating that much but my palms and fingers felt damp. I placed another cam and clipped in.

I shook out my hands and for a moment thought I saw what I thought was a bead of sweat, flick off a fingertip. I chalked up again, looked at the next moves. Weirdly I thought that the rock was damp, as if it had only just rained.

This was new type of Fear that I was catching. The rock was fine. It was sunny today and had been dry all week. No showers, no nothing. I didn't have time for this shit, I could do better than this. I was not going to curse and swear my way up this: I was going to do it in style. I couldn't be bothered with stupid mind games. I took a deep breath, reached out and touched the dry rock.

The crack began to thin out and I found myself desperately looking for holds out on both sides of the slab. I found an edge for a foot as thin as a coin's and a small hole for a couple of fingers on my right hand. Hurriedly I reached for the carabiner that held my rack of rocknuts. I unclipped the carabiner from my harness, transferred it to my mouth, then juggled through the wires with their shaped metal pieces looking for the right size.

I found a size three. Held the wire rigid. Took the 'biner from my mouth and tried to slot the wire into the crack. Shit! Just too big. I shuffled with my fingers, looking for the size two.

I felt as though the fingers in my right hand where about to pop. My hand ached.

Got it and -

"Shit!"

- the wire slipped through my damp fingers. I lost my grip on the carabiner of wires and my smallest set of nuts, the one-to-fives, spun out my hand. It bounced on the rock below me.

"Fuckin' hell!" shouted Spyder, as he ducked his head. The wires smashed into the ledge three inches from where his head had been and then ricocheted into the pool with a dank splash.

"You alright?" asked Spyder.

I didn't answer I was transfixed by the pool. It had held my gaze after I had tracked the fall of my wires. The water no longer reflected the bright light of a sunny sky. Instead it had grown black and cloudy. Faint circles rippled across the surface but as if I was lying underneath the water, watching rain falling from above through a layer of glass.

"I said, you alright!"

"uh!, yeah!"

I pulled my mind back to the climb. I need to move or clip in. My fingers wouldn't hold much longer. I'd lost my small wires. Hexes wouldn't fit. I'd used my smallest cam earlier. Split-second decision, When you are climbing and you hang around too long thinking, it can be the difference between success and failure.

I moved again. Hurried, fearful movements. Fingers slotted into the crack, drawing blood across the knuckles. A hasty smear with a foot. Full awareness of the rope trailed out behind me, of the height I'd gained above the last piece of gear that I'd placed.

I got to a small chockstone wedged into the crack. Breathing heavily, I placed a sling around it. Attached a screwgate and pulled. The sling held. I pulled up the rope. There was the most reassuring sound in the world of the carabiner snapping shut around the rope.

My hands were soaked with sweat, or maybe invisible rain. I leant back on the rope, letting Spyder take in the slack below.

"Sweet Jesus."

And again I heard what sounded like thunder.

"Did you hear that?"

"No! - you alright?"

"Been better."

I twisted my head, looking down, over a shoulder. The pool still looked dark, full of ripples.

"You seen the pool?"

"What about it?"

"Take a look."

From above I watched Spyder turn.

"Holy fuck! What is that?"

"You see it too?"

"Yeah."

There was a pause. Spyder crouched, keeping the rope tight.

"What do you thing it is?"

"Dunno. Maybe we pissed someone off?"

There was another long pause. We were both remembering the last time that we were here. Diane's comments about the spirits.

"You want to come down?"

"You think I should say sorry?"

I reached out for the rock. The surface was slick, as if rain was hammering down on it, drenching the stone. I slipped my fingers into the crack and then pulled them out, Water sprayed itself in an arc, disappearing as it merged with the air.

The sky above was still blue with high wispy clouds.

"uh-" I began.

Thunder echoed around the silver birch copse and the three sides of the quarry. I felt the sun on my face as the chockstone in front of me exploded, hit by a thunderbolt from above. Spiritual lightning. I closed my eyes as splinters of rock flew towards my face and hands.

My sling fell in on itself and so did the rope, The tension and potential energy transferred into a sudden release of kinetic energy. I took the instant before my feet slipped away, to kick off the crag. I didn't want to hit Spyder or the wall on the way down.

Then I was falling. There was a short jerk as my second cam bit on the rope. And then it spun out of the crag.

I screamed all the way down.

"Fuck!" was what I think I said.

I plunged past Spyder and into the dark waters of the pool. The water felt hard as it smashed against my ribs. Then I was in green darkness, rope and slings tangling around my arms and legs. I touched the bottom, feeling weed, rock and slimy mud. Rope curled around my face, separated from my throat by a hand trapped between nylon and flesh.

Water flooded into my lungs. I never knew that water could burn. I panicked at that point. I started thrashing and screaming, eyes wide open. I was trying to get out of the rope, to swim upwards.

Face it. I was drowning.

Spyder in The Rose and Crown. Three pint glasses with tidemarks around the rim. Another pint full of bitter in front of him. The same in front of me. I lean forward to hear him tell a joke.

"What's the difference between a climber and a golfer?"

"I dunno".

"A golfer takes his shot."

Spyder mimes a golfer's swing.

"Bang."

He shadows his eyes with the blade of his right palm and then fakes a look of disappointment as the invisible golf ball misses its hole.

"Fuck"'

He pauses.

"A climber goes 'Fuck.'"

Spyder mimes looking up at an invisible rope above his head. A look of shock and despair flashes across face. Then he slams his hand down on the table. Beer splashes out of his pint and I jump backwards, rocking in my chair.

"Bang."

We all laugh.

Spyder, big and solid, dragged my out. I tried to swim upwards towards the surface, but he was the one who did all the real work. I didn't even pull myself out. He reached down, grabbed my collar and hauled me onto the ledge. Claimed he nearly slipped a disc doing it.

We didn't tell anyone about the surface of the pool, what we saw and thought we heard. Spyder refused to talk about it and I wasn't going to admit that Diane was as clued up as she thought she was. I still don't believe in fairies.

A&E treated the cuts to my face, kept me in over night for observation, but by that point I'd already puked up most of the quarry water.

Experts said that the chockstone must have been flawed. That my weight it made it shatter. It would have shattered at some point. It was just a matter of timing and bad luck. The route got re-graded. The missing chockstone made it slightly harder.

Sometimes we all need to be reminded to be humble.