Impressions

The top of Macchu Picchu Mountain is obscured by mist. When the boy looks up on the ascent, he cannot imagine how they will see two feet in front of themselves, when they reach the summit, when they finally arrive at their destination, a hut erected among ancient stone monoliths, she is ready to fall over, and sick of the heady scent of rainforest blossoms.

The boy and his instructor reach the top and pause so the boy can catch his breath. His instructor speaks a string of foreign words to their guide and they set off, leaving their guide behind.

The boy’s instructor pauses by the door and knocks on the one of the huts support posts. He does not wait for an answer before pushing past the woven grass door.

Inside it is warm and dark, with pinpricks of light shining through the post beamed walls. A man in a vest stands on the opposite side, brushing off his coat. He looks up as they enter.

“Brilliant. I just got in. Wasn’t sure if I’d missed you.” He does not so much as glance at the boy, but addresses the boy’s instructor only.

“Welcome _____,” the vested man says as he shrugs off his coat and reaches for a glass on the side table and a decanter of brandy. “Are you enjoying the mountain air?” he asks.

“Is this part or your regime?” the gentleman asks, as the boy shuffles awkwardly by his side.

The boy looks as out of place as he feels. His hair has been cut, but it still falls in front of his eyes when he tilts his head. His suit is dark and clean, but his shoes and the hem of his pants have streaks of drying mud from the trek up the mountain. He keeps his chin down, but looks up and around the hut with curious green (?) eyes.

“Regime,” the vested man repeats. “You make it sound so strict. But it is part of training. I’m sorry you ad to trudge all the way up here. It wasn’t too hard, was it?”

The boy’s instructor ignores him. “I assume you invited me here because you have a student of your own?”

“She’ll be back in a minute. Can I offer you a drink?” The gentleman by the door shakes his head and moves further into the room. The boy trails hesitantly behind him.

“Please, have a seat,” the vested gentleman gestures to the woven stools against the wall. “Not as comfortable as the chairs in the city, I’m afraid, but I am just happy to have something as civilized as tea here.”

The vested gentleman’s colleague brushes off a chair before sitting on its edge. The boy climbs onto a stool that is slightly taller, though in it he is still shorter than either man. He swings his feet back and forth, gazing silently at his boots, watching the gentlemen’s exchange from the corner of his eye.

“It take it that this is him,” the vested gentleman says, nodding toward the boy.

“Yes, it is,” the boy’s instructor says.

“Wherever did you pick him up?” the vested man asks, as he lifts a birdcage off a seat, the bird inside stirs at the movement.

“His mother died, suddenly, in an accident. I too him in before he was delivered to the orphanage. He is young enough.”

The vested man tutts as he prepares the tea. “Well, I can hardly judge. I picked this one practically out of the gutter. She ahs endurance, and cunning. I hope you can tolerate losing.”

“Nothing is set in stone,” his associate says. “Your player’s victory is not guaranteed.”

“We’ll see. We’ve barely begun, after all,” the vested gentleman grins. He hands his associate a cup of steaming tea, then returns to the opposite side of the hut. The vested man pauses, and halts by the door. “Ah, here she is.”

The grass curtain at the door parts with a sound like rushing water, and the girl’s entrance is accompanied by a cloud of the heady perfume of tropical flowers. The girl takes a few steps before realizing she and her instructor are not alone. She freezes between them, looking for the boy to his instructor and back. The boy’s eyes widen. The girl looks at him curiously, but comes no closer.

“Dear,” says the vested gentleman, “This is an associate of mine. I would like you to meet his student.” He waves at the boy and in the same moment, the boy’s instructor gestures for him to get up.

Neither child moves until they are beckoned forward, and they stop several paces away. The boy looks back at his instructor once, for guidance, but his instructor only nods.

The boy turns back to the girl and nods. As he does, she sweeps a low curtsey that has the hem of her white gown brushing the hard packed earth floor.

“Pleased to meet you,” the boy says, quietly.

“Very much so,” the girl replies.

They say nothing else, but stand and regard each other with wary but questioning stares. The boy is struck by the contrast between her pale skin and her dark hair and eyes.

“Well,” says the vested gentleman. “We have some things to discuss. Children, go speak over there,” he waves a hand absently toward the back of the hut.

The children hesitantly walk away, being careful not to bump into each other.

The vested gentleman picks up his glass of brandy and refills it before coming to sit next to his associate.

“What do you think? Not terrible for a first time.”

The gentleman nods and glances once at the children, then returns his attention to the vested gentleman.

“What about venue?” the gentleman asks.

The vested gentleman pats the pockets of his vest. “I had it here a minute ago… damn. Must have left it somewhere in that mess,” he gestures to a disheveled pile of travel papers in the corner. “I’ve come up with something marvelous, or rather, someone else will. He just needs a push in the right direction. Would you like to do the honours?”

The gentleman shakes his head. “Go ahead.”

“When he does, I’ll contact you immediately.”

The gentleman nods, and glances at the children. The vested gentleman follows his gaze.

“They go quiet well together,” the vested man remarks. “When- if you lose the game, you can go into the business of matchmaking,” he says with a laugh.

The gentleman across from him does not rise to the bait. “Perhaps they are too well matched,” he says. “it may be more beneficial for them both if we each found another player.”

“Nonsense,” the vested gentleman exclaims. “My player is perfect. I would wager no one else. Are you so willing to part with your own?”

The gentleman considers, then shakes his head.

The vested gentleman makes a small, pleased noise and drains his glass. The men stare at the children silently for a moment before the vested man rises. Both children turn to him.

“Time to go,” he says. “Quick visit. Nothing else. Don’t fret, you’ll see each other soon enough.”

The children stare at him, then turn to each other. They whisper something quietly before standing. The boy brushes off his knees and the girl shakes out her skirt before they return to their respective instructors.

“I’ll see you again soon,” the vested gentleman says to his associate. The boy’s instructor nods. The vested gentleman grins and turns to the boy. “You too.”

The boy nods politely and follows his instructor from the hut, glancing back to the girl once, but she is speaking quietly with the vested man.

As soon as they are out of the hut, something suddenly shifts. The two students stumble, simultaneously. The earth tilts and the heaving ground sends them lurching and grabbing for something to hold onto. They assume it is vertigo, and refer to it as such after the fact. When the feeling stops, they feel disoriented and their memories take on a muddled quality. They cannot recall specific words, nor faces, though there is the impression that someone apart from their instructor was present.

“What happened?” the girl asks her instructor.

“Nothing you need to worry about,” her instructor says. The hut is too dark to properly discern his expression.

The girl narrows her eyes, but she expects, correctly, that he will give her no straight answer, so she does not think about it and the memory slips from her as easily as water through her fingers.

The boy is silent for a few moments as they return to the landmark where they parted from their mountain guide.

“Who else was there?” the boy asks.

“No one else,” his instructor replies.

The boy frowns. “You’re lying.”

The boy’s instructor pauses and turns to the boy, who stops short to avoid colliding with him. The boy meets his instructor’s gaze levelly.

“How do you know that?” His instructor asks.

“Because it’s true.” The boy says, without hesitation.

Something flickers across his instructor’s face, but it is gone a second later. He regards his student silently for some time before turning and continuing down the path. The boy must jog to catch up.

“I know it was real,” the boy says.

“Knowing something is real is different than having conviction. It is a fact.” His instructor pauses. “That is something to remember.”

The boy ponders the words, but he gives up trying to decipher it. They continue to their landmark in silence, occasionally losing sight of it in the mist.

Text by Lucie MacAulay