Fancy Dress

Marching Orders

Lights wind up the pathway like a Christmas parade. It’s Summit Night and we’re all jittery and nervous. Bundled up against the cold – Anna in her down jacket and ski trouser, me in layer after layer of thermals and fleece – we’ve got our hydro-packs insulated against freezing, trekking poles in thickly gloved hands, and head-torches picking out the rocks and scree. There’s a taste of just-there fear in the air and the other hikers are chatting in low voices, their voices always slightly breathless at this altitude.
“We’re going on a bear hunt…” Someone starts up a chant, obviously waiting for everybody else to pick up the kids’ song. No-one does. We don’t have the energy to waste. I use the time to sip from my hydro-pack. Kunywa maji!* Drink water! As our guide keeps saying. I kunywa my maji and sneak a few early jellybeans.
Anna nudges me.
“All set?” She whispers. She holds out a hand, waiting for me to tip some jellybeans into it. They’re cold and hard, but the sugar gives me an instant boost. “We’ll be getting our marching orders soon.” She giggles and shovels the sweets into her mouth. “They make it sound like we’re in the army or sum’it. March-ching or-ders.” She puts on this silly drawling accent when she’s hyper – which is, like, always.
I nod; the ridiculous bobble on my hat bouncing up and down. Hey, don’t laugh! My Nan knitted that hat, and if I’m climbing some stupid mountain at daft o’clock at night, the hat comes with. As does Funky Monkey, my little good luck mascot Robbie gave before we left. Nan offered to make FM a hat too, but there’s such a thing as over the top.
Somebody at the front – one of the guides? one of the teachers? – blows a whistle and our group shuffle forward. The path’s only so wide at this point and we all have to walk single file. Plodding onwards and upwards. Following the – hundreds? – of people that have already started the hike. We’re walking all night, aiming to reach the summit at sunrise. And it’s the ones in front that look like a chain of fairy-lights; their bodies lost in the night and only their glaring head-torches beaming out.
My stomach flutters, we’ve had our marching orders; it’s time to go.


Prompt: Use the title 'Marching Orders'
Word Count: 389


*Swahili, pronounced coo-nee-wa mah-gee