Corat, two or three roles ago
I've been tossing this around in my brain a bit, made easier by my own temporary infirmities. Inspired in part by Diaz' death scene in The Grey and a couple other films like it, and Into Thin Air. I happen to have a friend named Nate who I pictured when I wrote this, although he lives in a comfortably warm climate and I sincerely hope he continues to do so for a very long time.
No one could remember the incident, unless Nate’s memories had somehow survived his death, and he’d somehow conveyed those memories to someone who could make the connection. Too many somehows. Corat himself had lost the memory many years later to the hand of a celestial surgeon-executioner who lacked Laurence’s merciful and technical precision…and since it had only been Nate and Corat, there was no one else to remember. But it happened all the same, and perhaps the wind knows…
It was early enough in the 20th century that men believed all things were possible and the Himalayas conspired to prove them wrong. It was also a time that complicated role building like never before. Corat’s superior (if you could call it that-hierarchies are very loose in Janus’ camp) went with the classics and inserted Corat’s role into the society of the sherpas. It was a natural fit to his personality and a chance to increase the talents that highlighted his could-be Word.
A group went up the mountain but got separated by the weather and Nate’s insistence on pushing through it. Corat-obviously not his name under the circumstances-loved the speed but advised more caution. The two of them got well ahead of the group which pleased his employer but it left them dangerously exposed with no established camp above them. He’d counseled Nate to go back to camp but by the time he listened it was too late. They had to shelter under an outcropping, eat what they’d packed and stay warm as best they could. If the storm passed quickly…it did not.
Corat talked with Nate about life and hubris, about what was important and what could be left behind, about how one day there’d be a camp not far from there and no one else would be stuck in this situation. Nate spoke of hope that the storm would die, that their snow half-cave would be enough shelter, that they would be found in time. He tried to light a fire from the tiny bit of brush they could find but the flame wouldn’t hold. When Nate finally realized the gravity of the situation he apologized for taking Corat away from his family with his own foolish pride. It is then that the conversation got honest.
“I’ll be going to see my family. In Heaven.” Nate wondered silently whether his Sherpa was a Christian, but didn’t say anything. Oxygen was precious now, and words had to be chosen carefully. Nate pulled his coat closer around him and noticed his fingers were not moving anymore. Corat noticed too. “I’m an angel.”
Nate laughed and thought it through. “You grow wings. You fly out. You fall like a stone. Air’s too thin.” Had he believed it was a simple rescue fantasy, or did he understand? “Truth?”
“Truth.”
“My wife told me not to come.” Nate was confessing.
“I’m not a priest.”
“I know.” Nate nodded, put a stiff hand up to tell him to stop. “Can you make it to camp?”
Corat shook his head sadly. “Cold, okay. Fatigue, okay. Air, not okay. ‘…the breath of the Almighty gives me life’.”
Nate understood. “Job 33.”
“Maybe, if I could see my feet.” He started to get up. Nate pulled at him.
“You can’t. Call God. Rise up.”
“I could. Just rise up, be gone. You can’t. I stay.” That his role was due to retire soon barely crossed his mind. He had to stay and offer comfort on Nate’s last journey.
They sat and talked awhile, carefully chosen words, until Nate passed into death-cold’s sleep. Corat listened even when Nate’s words stopped making sense. It was horrible that the storm was calming because it was too late for his pilgrim…his friend. He waited until he was certain Nate was gone and then got up, facing the winds and the mountain, climbing up.
He could have ascended, simply. It wasn’t just to protect the role, since neither body would be found for decades, if ever. He intended to understand death, to feel life slipping away and to know intimately the struggle of his late friend, and of all who go through it, to the very end. Trauma would take much of that memory, but it could not take the experience of it, the moments from now until then.
Corat walked until he no longer could, then lay down where he might enjoy the beauty of killing nature. It was not to be; the storm was not finished with the mountain yet. He felt the cold, the limbs dying, the mind losing its grip.
When he arrived in the Canopy there was not one word of derision, no scolding for dying alone on a mountain. They understood that something profound had taken place, even if no one would ever know the details.
(This scene)
No one could remember the incident, unless Nate’s memories had somehow survived his death, and he’d somehow conveyed those memories to someone who could make the connection. Too many somehows. Corat himself had lost the memory many years later to the hand of a celestial surgeon-executioner who lacked Laurence’s merciful and technical precision…and since it had only been Nate and Corat, there was no one else to remember. But it happened all the same, and perhaps the wind knows…
It was early enough in the 20th century that men believed all things were possible and the Himalayas conspired to prove them wrong. It was also a time that complicated role building like never before. Corat’s superior (if you could call it that-hierarchies are very loose in Janus’ camp) went with the classics and inserted Corat’s role into the society of the sherpas. It was a natural fit to his personality and a chance to increase the talents that highlighted his could-be Word.
A group went up the mountain but got separated by the weather and Nate’s insistence on pushing through it. Corat-obviously not his name under the circumstances-loved the speed but advised more caution. The two of them got well ahead of the group which pleased his employer but it left them dangerously exposed with no established camp above them. He’d counseled Nate to go back to camp but by the time he listened it was too late. They had to shelter under an outcropping, eat what they’d packed and stay warm as best they could. If the storm passed quickly…it did not.
Corat talked with Nate about life and hubris, about what was important and what could be left behind, about how one day there’d be a camp not far from there and no one else would be stuck in this situation. Nate spoke of hope that the storm would die, that their snow half-cave would be enough shelter, that they would be found in time. He tried to light a fire from the tiny bit of brush they could find but the flame wouldn’t hold. When Nate finally realized the gravity of the situation he apologized for taking Corat away from his family with his own foolish pride. It is then that the conversation got honest.
“I’ll be going to see my family. In Heaven.” Nate wondered silently whether his Sherpa was a Christian, but didn’t say anything. Oxygen was precious now, and words had to be chosen carefully. Nate pulled his coat closer around him and noticed his fingers were not moving anymore. Corat noticed too. “I’m an angel.”
Nate laughed and thought it through. “You grow wings. You fly out. You fall like a stone. Air’s too thin.” Had he believed it was a simple rescue fantasy, or did he understand? “Truth?”
“Truth.”
“My wife told me not to come.” Nate was confessing.
“I’m not a priest.”
“I know.” Nate nodded, put a stiff hand up to tell him to stop. “Can you make it to camp?”
Corat shook his head sadly. “Cold, okay. Fatigue, okay. Air, not okay. ‘…the breath of the Almighty gives me life’.”
Nate understood. “Job 33.”
“Maybe, if I could see my feet.” He started to get up. Nate pulled at him.
“You can’t. Call God. Rise up.”
“I could. Just rise up, be gone. You can’t. I stay.” That his role was due to retire soon barely crossed his mind. He had to stay and offer comfort on Nate’s last journey.
They sat and talked awhile, carefully chosen words, until Nate passed into death-cold’s sleep. Corat listened even when Nate’s words stopped making sense. It was horrible that the storm was calming because it was too late for his pilgrim…his friend. He waited until he was certain Nate was gone and then got up, facing the winds and the mountain, climbing up.
He could have ascended, simply. It wasn’t just to protect the role, since neither body would be found for decades, if ever. He intended to understand death, to feel life slipping away and to know intimately the struggle of his late friend, and of all who go through it, to the very end. Trauma would take much of that memory, but it could not take the experience of it, the moments from now until then.
Corat walked until he no longer could, then lay down where he might enjoy the beauty of killing nature. It was not to be; the storm was not finished with the mountain yet. He felt the cold, the limbs dying, the mind losing its grip.
When he arrived in the Canopy there was not one word of derision, no scolding for dying alone on a mountain. They understood that something profound had taken place, even if no one would ever know the details.
(This scene)
Click to view