Ascension - Softcover

Binge, Nicholas

Softcover

ISBN 10: 0593539591 ISBN 13: 9780593539590

Verlag: Riverhead Books, 2024

Inhaltsangabe

NAMED A BEST BOOK OF THE YEAR BY VULTURE!

"You've gotta read Ascension by Nicholas Binge. Old-school creepy. . .five-star horror."—Stephen King

"Smartly paced, deploying twists and turns strategically to keep the reader moving. . . The ideas are big and the journey is a whole lot of fun." —The New York Times

"[An] excellent page-turner. . . a macabre, escapist pleasure for the thoughtful set.”—The Wall Street Journal

A mind-bending speculative thriller in which the sudden appearance of a mountain in the middle of the Pacific Ocean leads a group of scientists to a series of revelations that challenge the notion of what it means to be human


The only way out is up. . .

An enormous snow-covered mountain has appeared in the Pacific Ocean. No one knows when exactly it showed up, precisely how big it might be, or how to explain its existence. When Harold Tunmore is contacted by a shadowy organization to help investigate, he has no idea what he is getting into as he and his team set out for the mountain.

The higher Harold’s team ascends, the less things make sense. Time moves differently, turning minutes into hours, and hours into days. Amid the whipping cold of higher elevation, the climbers’ limbs numb and memories of their lives before the mountain begin to fade. Paranoia quickly turns to violence among the crew, and slithering, ancient creatures pursue them in the snow. Still, as the dangers increase, the mystery of the mountain compels them to its peak, where they are certain they will find their answers. Have they stumbled upon the greatest scientific discovery known to man or the seeds of their own demise?

Framed by the discovery of Harold Tunmore’s unsent letters to his family and the chilling and provocative story they tell, Ascension considers the limitations of science and faith and examines both the beautiful and the unsettling sides of human nature.

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Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Nicholas Binge lives and teaches in Edinburgh. This is his first book in the U.S. 

Auszug. © Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

Tuesday, 22nd January 1991

Evening

[---]

My dearest Harriet,

Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.

Do you remember those words, Hattie? I don't believe Ben would have exposed you to them. He never did take to faith. But when Grandpa used to take us to church when we were kids, every Sunday he'd point out the little box in the corner. "That's where you go to confess," he said. "That's where you find salvation."

Talking to the priest was never easy. Salvation is not an easy thing for children to understand. I don't believe that we're born sinners, any of us. We've yet to discover what "sin" really is. I remember sitting in the dark of that little room, searching my heart for some kind of transgression.

"I was mean to my sister at school," I would say. "I stole some money from my mum's purse."

None of this ever happened, of course—I never really strayed far from the rules—but I knew enough to know my lines. And though I couldn't see his face to check if I was doing it right, he'd give me my Our Fathers and my Hail Marys and send me on my way. And Dad would smile. I think, perhaps, that was all I was really after. That little approving smile that would appear on his face.

As we grew older, it got more difficult. Puberty made me awkward, self-reflective to the point of nausea. The little white lies didn't come as easily anymore. Real sins bubbled somewhere underneath the surface, nebulous and incomprehensible, and I didn't quite know what to do with them.

Ben stopped going, but I never did.

One day I sat in that cubicle and said nothing. My place in the world had started to weigh on me and I didn't know how to hold it. I had no words to break the holy silence of that little room, until Father Michaels—did you ever meet him, with the red hair?—he said to me,

"You know, son, I can't make you speak. You've come here every week since you were a boy and I don't think I've ever heard you say a single thing that's true."

"I . . ." My mind blanked. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry. Everyone has their own relationship with God. The confessional is here to help you, as am I, but I'm just a translator."

"A translator for God?"

He chuckled. "No, my dear boy. None of us are capable of that. A translator for you. Sometimes a man needs help giving his thoughts life, giving his words meaning, so that he can confide that meaning with God. I think, perhaps, your problem is the opposite."

I shifted uncomfortably in my seat.

"If you'll let me give a little advice, I recommend you keep a journal," he said. "Set down your thoughts. Not to me. Not to anyone else but yourself. Just the simple events of your day, in plain form."

"Why?"

"Sometimes what the soul needs isn't to give meaning to hollow words: prayers and confessions that you do not really believe. Instead, we need to let it give words to the unspoken meanings inside of us. To do that, you have to give it a voice. It's not an easy thing, son. Not at first. It's not an obvious task, but . . . write everything down. Don't cross anything out. Don't lie or explain or prevaricate. You have no one to hide anything from but yourself."

I did as I was instructed. I don't think I've ever told you this. It's never seemed appropriate—for all our trips together, my faith has always been a very personal thing, just as your father's pragmatic atheism has always been for him. My journal, for many years, became a form of communication—of speaking to an other. It was Father Michaels who taught me this need not be done on my knees, or in a church.

Pages upon pages of ink spilled out of me then like blood from a thousand cuts. The need to confess has never left me: the curative, cathartic power that comes from sharing oneself with the world and with others. I obsessed over it. But the truth is that in time, it became too much. When everything happened with Santi, and the hospital, I had to step away, wean myself off it, rehabilitate. To look too closely would have driven me mad.

And yet, for the first time in a very long time, events are happening that I do not understand. I feel that I must communicate them with someone, if only to make sense of them myself. That is, after all, my stated purpose, isn't it, Hattie? Making sense of things.

But I find I cannot return to my journal now, not in the way I once did. The words are false. They ring with a cold emptiness.

I write this letter in the hope that you might be my translator, of a sort. I'm sorry to place this burden on you, but you're the only one I have left. You must be what-fourteen now? It was your fourteenth birthday when I took you to paddleboarding, wasn't it? You're old enough, then, perhaps, that you understand what it means to confess. Though in truth, part of me hopes that Ben will hide this away, or burn it. In fact, I expect that it will probably be burned. But there is no one else that I can think of, no one else that I haven't already pushed away.

I no longer believe God is listening.

I watched an old friend die today. I wanted to get that out of the way early, so it didn't come as a shock. I have no wish to scare you, but I am sitting here, staring at camera feeds and desperately clawing at an explanation. I'm not sure I'm allowed to write this; I have no idea how I'll even get it to you. I just needed to share with somebody, with anybody.


* * *

Yesterday, I arrived in New Mexico for work. My own work—not a commission but rather a personal investigation, spurred on by bizarre and contradictory reports of bird migrations coming out of the region. It was as though, all of a sudden, all the swallows that would normally have migrated south for winter were coming back early.

Like they were running from something.

It might seem a strange lead to chase, but you know I like to travel. Living alone in my dusty London flat becomes tiresome and exhausting, as though I can feel my very brain atrophying. And I'd made enough from the Hubble launch in Florida last year-that space telescope I told you about—that I could afford to follow my own interests for a while.

I checked into the Historic Taos Inn, a quaint location set across several adobe houses, thankful that I was here in January. I'd been to New Mexico once before in the summer—you remember that awful physics conference?—and I was sweating the moment I stepped off the plane. Winter is appreciably cooler, and for all the desolate and desert landscape, the cold winds remind me a little of London.

As I was led up to my room, I was smiling at the pride the proprietors took in their inn's history. Old pictures and placards littered the walls, consistent blaring reminders that this place was over a hundred years old.

"This main building dates back to the 1800s," the porter told me, chest out. "There's a lot of history here."

He left me just outside my room, key in hand and heavy luggage at the door, and bade me good evening. I stood, still smiling at him, and he at me, for some time. What a fool I must have looked, beaming at him. It took me a good ten seconds to remember that I was supposed to tip in this country. I fumbled in my pockets haphazardly, muttering a poor mixture of apology and an excuse about different cultures. I managed to pull out a crisp ten-dollar note and he disappeared promptly and efficiently.

Sighing, for I was finally to be offered some solitude, I turned the key to my room.

It was not empty.

Two men waited for me. The first was right in front of me: an imposing, straight-backed man with military bearing, tall and wide, his shoulders barely squeezed into the fabric of his suit jacket. He stood, towering over...

Details zur Ausgabe

• Verlag: Riverhead Books
• Erscheinungsdatum: 2024
• Sprache: Englisch
• ISBN 10: 0593539591
• ISBN 13: 9780593539590
• Einband: Taschenbuch
• Anzahl der Seiten: 344
• Kontakt zum Hersteller: RIVERHEAD; https://www.penguin.com/riverhead-overview/; ; Attn: Andrea T Sheridan 1745 BROADWAY, 14-1; NEW YORK; NY; 10019; USA
• Verantwortliche Person: Nicht verfügbar