They say the ladder festival started off as a singing contest back in the days of empires.
Once a year, in a certain meadow at around midnight, the villages would gather. Each village would send out a team of three young men carrying a ladder to represent them. Two men would hold the ladder upright and the third would climb to the top of it and sing the songs of his people.
If the singer couldn’t balance on top of the ladder, they would receive a disqualification along with whatever injuries the fall would cause. Those that had decent balance would be judged on their singing talent by the crowds. The best singer would bring glory to their village and would be honored by all until the next ladder festival.
Or at least that’s what folks say. I’m sure a historian could paint you a better picture than me. I’m only familiar with the modern version of the ladder festival — The Ladder Game.
The game is played a couple times a year. There’s not much rhyme or reason to the timing, but a shared ‘Ladder Game’ WhatsApp group always gives ample warning and taunts those who refuse to join. The players don’t meet in a meadow. They meet at one of the dead stretches of road between the villages.
Three guys, a ladder, and a truck.
Two guys still hold the ladder and one still climbs, but that’s where the resemblance to the ladder festival ends. There’s no singing involved in the ladder game. Folks just jump into the back of the truck, hold on for their lives and ride.
As you might have guessed, the police are no fans of the Ladder Game. A bunch of folks died in the 90s and very specific laws were put on the books to dissuade future generations from playing the game. The moral panic has faded over the past twenty years and all players were able to avoid death or injuries obvious enough to arouse suspicion, but aside from the players no spectators are allowed to attend the Ladder Game.
That is, unless you’re me.
My pops is an electrical engineer and my ma works in a cheese factory, but I am related to village nobility. My cousin is known as the reigning champion of the ladder game. His Christian name is Jan, but he’s been baptized in the water of legends as Žaba — The frog.
Most say the nickname was born on his first ride, some suggest it was his second or third. Either way, near the start of his Ladder Game career, my cousin’s foot slipped during the ascent to the top rung of the ladder. Instead of crashing down to the ground Jan managed to make a landing on one of the nearby trees. Against the advice of everyone present, Jan jumped back onto the ladder and insisted the game continue.
Many claim he was drunk. A few will say he was blindfolded. All will agree that he leaped like a frog. Regardless of the details, from that night onwards my cousin was solely known as Žaba.
The Ladder Game was a strictly secret affair. Every extra soul could mean the cops showing up and ruining the festivities. Regular spectators were forbidden from attending The Ladder game. Any kin of Žaba’s, however, was welcome to watch.
So, I did.
Žaba was just a couple years older than me but I never met him in school. My cousin dropped out the moment it became a legal possibility and took a job hauling at the factory. Occasionally my mother would mention my cousin as a sort of parable about why I should study harder, yet those were the sort of stories that get nodded off and forgotten. Until I worked a summer at the cheese factory, I had no idea I even had a cousin.
He was tall and lean and perpetually unkempt. No one at the factory paid any attention to him and he didn’t stand out. My cousin would just haul, smoke outside and haul some more. I scarcely paid attention to him. He was just another working adult to me.
Then, one day, coming out of the factory — he approached me. My cousin had left work at noon that day and the stench coming off of him left no illusions about how he spent his free time. Reeking like a distillery with a hand-rolled cigarette in his mouth he asked me if I knew about the Ladder Game.
I told him I didn’t.
He said he would show me.
I know getting into cars with drunk drivers is a terrible idea, but the road to the Ladder Game is always paved with poor judgment. Jan picked me up from my house well after midnight and seemed no more sober than he did in the evening. As he drove my cousin did his best to explain the Ladder Game but no words, drunken or sober, could do justice to the real thing.
Every time that I have witnessed the Ladder Game four villages were represented: The Poles, from across the border, The Deadenders, from the village where the road finished, The Parrots, from the fake village where everyone pretended to be city folk, and us; The Cheesemen.
The gathering looked like a drunken search party for a dead kid. The night was black and the only thing that cut through it were the headlights of the gathered cars and the wild stars above. Off in the darkness dirty reflectors gave vague suggestions of the road where the game would be taking place.
There definitely was a cheery mood among the contestants and drivers when we arrived, but the moment my cousin stepped into the light the excitement of the gathering reached a fevered pitch. The crowd celebrated the arrival of their hero and, when my cousin introduced me as his kin, they celebrated me as well.
When I asked why everyone was calling my cousin “the frog” I was treated to a dramatic rendition of the legend by one of The Parrots. I would come to hear that story at every Ladder Game. It would never be the same. It would always differ in the details but my cousin would always nod along.
The details didn’t matter. What mattered was the myth of Žaba.
The first contestants of The Ladder Game that night were The Parrots. The city boy visiting for the summer managed to climb up easily enough, but when he reached the upper rungs of the moving ladder his grip slipped. Luckily, the city boy landed in the nearby grass instead of the rough asphalt of the road. He didn’t die, his injuries weren’t too obvious and he could still walk albeit with a limp. The Parrots did retreat back to their village after the fall, but they did so in reasonably good cheer. No lasting damage had been done.
Everyone seemed to be in good spirits, but my cousin took great offense to the fall. Žaba insisted that his team be the next to compete. No one gathered resisted. Soon enough my cousin and the two sons of the village butcher jumped into the back of their truck and proceeded to illustrate the proper way to play The Ladder Game.
The Parrot’s ascent was impressive in its own right, but Žaba blew the city kid’s acrobatics out of the water. My cousin climbed to the top of the ladder with lightning speed and, when there was no space left to climb, he planted his feet on the top rung and extended his arms to his sides like the big man from the church. Where Jesus was a suffering martyr, however, Žaba was a wild manifestation of adrenaline-fueled joy. He stood atop the ladder with his arms outstretched, howling to the sky like a wolf who had just found plump prey.
I watched this display of ecstasy sitting on the hood of the Polish truck. I didn’t understand my drinking companion but the slivovitz helped bridge the divide. As my cousin screamed through the star-filled sky I asked The Pole the question that had been on my mind all night.
“How does one win The Ladder Game?”
The Pole took a swig of the bottle and pointed at my cousin.
The slivovitz dulled most of my memory that night, but what I recall with burning intensity is my cousin’s descent from the ladder. He came down wild-eyed and sweaty and with a burning hand-rolled cigarette in his mouth. He raved, to all present, about the beauty of the night air, about the intoxicating nature of standing on the edge. The Žaba preached the gospel of The Ladder Game to a ravenous crowd of followers.
I soon found myself a convert.
It was surreal seeing Žaba at work Monday morning. He descended from the realm of a living God to that of mere mortals. What was even more disturbing is he didn’t seem to care at all. When the other workers pushed him around and chastised him for being too slow he simply shrugged and moved on. He knew he was something more beyond the confines of the cheese factory.
So did I.
It wasn’t until I had visited a couple ladder games that my cousin entertained the idea. My voice had turned deep and hair was starting to spring up above my lip, I was grown enough to start thinking about becoming a man. To my cousin, and all his friends, there was only one way to end a childhood.
So I trained. I climbed the ladder near the old barn with zealous discipline and I stayed sober during every ladder game I visited just so all the mistakes and techniques would stay cemented in my mind. I watched a lot of accidents, but the thought of backing away from the game never even crossed my mind. For each broken bone I witnessed, I witnessed plenty of soft falls that avoided the powerlines. The memories of all accidents were washed away by Žaba’s ladder-side sermons.
I watched and I climbed and I prepared for the day that I would feel the night flow through my hair. I thought that by imitating my cousin I would get to taste the joy that flowed through his blood whenever he stepped off the ladder. When the moment to climb the ladder finally arrived last night, I got what I was promised.
Last night I tasted the forbidden fruit that my cousin would get so intoxicated of. Had that been the only thing that happened I would look back at last night with joy.
Yet, last night, I witnessed much more than just the rush of The Ladder Game.
It’s been a strange week. My induction into The Ladder Game was meant to take place this summer, but since one of the butcher’s boys got arrested on Monday my initiation was expedited. I was to become the second ladder holder for the Cheesemen but no one was allowed to hold the ladder if they didn’t climb it.
I didn’t feel ready, but Žaba said I was. I didn’t question his expertise.
In the days leading up to the Ladder Game there were rumors of The Parrots hearing strange noises in the night and The Deadenders spoke of snakes falling from the sky in their village. The rumors didn’t help my nerves, but strange tales are pretty standard in the countryside. The night before The Ladder Game I woke up to the sounds of unearthly thunder but I was far too sleepy to make sense of it. It wasn’t until the morning that the terror had reached me.
A storm swept through the hills. A storm filled with fist sized hail and chilling gusts and enough rain to turn all the fields into mud. The storm dragged on into the afternoon and didn’t die off until sundown. I was still scared of the wind or hail making a return while I was suspended in the air, but it wasn’t until the contestants converged that true fear struck me.
Only one of the Deadenders showed. The first had stayed at home in shock. The other had slipped from a ladder while checking the Deadend church for stork nests.
He was dead, impaled on the metal fence of the church.
The Parrots didn’t show at all, presumably because of the storm, but their absence meant nothing to me. The dead Deadender was enough of an omen already. The one farmhand that showed suggested that the game be postponed to another date and I was more than partial to the idea.
Žaba, however, refused outright. The Ladder Game had never been postponed before and it would not be postponed tonight. Additionally, the one Deadender was not allowed to leave. He would help hold the ladder with one of the Poles as Žaba drove. I was to become a man before sunrise.
It was terrifying to disagree with Žaba — terrifying enough that I eventually relented. In my protest, however, The Poles suggested they go first and give me some time to gather my thoughts. Žaba, eventually, agreed.
Aside from one particular wobble that put the ladder rider on a near-imminent collision course with a powerline, The Poles performed adequately. I was scarcely able to watch though. All I could pay attention to was how sweaty my palms were getting. I was not ready to climb the ladder, but I knew I couldn’t turn back.
Once I knew I would one day climb the ladder I stayed sober at all the games. I knew all my brainpower to observe. That fateful night, however, it only took one look at the Deadender who would be holding my ladder to make me reach for the slivovitz bottle. The guy’s friend was dead and he was clearly shaken by the tragedy. I didn’t trust him to keep me in the air. The Pole in charge of the other side of the ladder seemed stable enough and the shot of slivovitz helped loosen me up, but my hands shook as I placed them on the ladder.
The moment had come. Žaba was behind the wheel and the engine of the truck was coughing awake. My body refused to move, but with a couple of sharp words of encouragement from my cousin I found my feet standing on wood.
The first couple of steps passed by in an instant. It wasn’t until I was high enough to crack my skull that my knees started to shake. The road beneath us was slick with rain and even though I couldn’t see the Deadender’s face, his mere presence made me nervous. My hands wrapped around the ladder in an iron grip and refused to move any further.
I was sure the only way my body could climb would be down, but Žaba pressing down on the gas pedal spurred me into an ascent. The faster the truck was moving the more dangerous the Ladder Game would become.
Žaba wouldn’t let the game finish halfway through.
I gathered all the courage I had and continued to climb. I kept my eyes locked on the rungs of the ladder and simmered down all my thoughts into mechanical commands. I was going to get to the top of the ladder as quickly as possible just so that I get my feet back on the ground. The adrenalin kept me quick all the way to the top. I was a creature with a singular purpose. But then, my hands slowed.
That elusive thing that Žaba rambled about over liquor and cigarettes. That frigid night wind, the wild stars above, that thin line between life and death — the purpose of The Ladder Game.
It all hit me like a brick, but I kept my balance. I kept my balance and I gripped the wood and howled like a mad wolf. Down below, the horn of the truck harmonized with me. For a fleeting moment I felt utter rapture.
Then my body jerked to the right.
It was a slight movement, barely noticeable, but when you’re balancing near power lines you tend to be hyper aware. I looked down. My hyper-vigilance proved to be well founded. Down below, for a mere moment, I saw the Deadender let go of the ladder. Only the Pole remained to keep me stable.
He did a poor job.
It all happened in an instant. One moment I was slightly off balance and the next I was flying through the air. Before the terror of landing on the asphalt hit me, something else did — a branch.
One moment I was clutching to the ladder and the next I was clutching the limb of an old beech tree. The wood had knocked the wind out of me, and my face was bleeding from getting acquainted with smaller branches — but I was alive.
Žaba drove the truck back around and kept on insisting that I jump back on the ladder as he once did. I never talked back to my cousin but I had no interest in leaping through the night. All I wanted to do was get my feet back on solid ground. Against my cousin’s wishes, the Pole jumped off the truck and provided a ladder for my descent.
Žaba was furious that I did not follow in his footsteps. I feared that my cousin would swing at me, but his rage was mainly directed at the Deadender who dropped me. Immediately, Žaba punched the farmhand square in the nose. The Deadender tried explaining that he had heard something from beyond the hills that terrified him, but Žaba was deaf to his explanation. He simply kept throwing punches until the Deadender ran off into the night.
The Pole that had held the other side of the ladder insisted that The Ladder Game be brought to a close. As did his two compatriots. As did I. Had our pleas been heard the night would have ended much differently. Žaba, however, refused to bring the game to a close.
He wanted to show us how the real ladder game is to be played.
I felt like I had been run over by a car but I was not allowed to leave or even sit down. Žaba wanted me to hold the ladder with the other Cheeseman and one of the Poles would drive. No one wanted to take part in the last ride, especially not me — yet no resistance was put up.
Out on those dark roads, The Žaba’s word would always be law.
I had never held the ladder before, but my mind was far too disturbed by my fall to feel nervous. I just clutched the wood as hard as I could and focused on keeping completely still. I did not watch my cousin climb, but within seconds his voice was distant enough to suggest he reached the top of the ladder. He was ordering the Pole to drive faster. He was ordering us to look up and witness him.
That’s when the rumble in the distance started.
The sound was familiar. It was the exact strange thunder I had heard the night before the storm, but it was louder. Both me and the other ladder holder shouted at my cousin to come back down.
In response, all the Žaba did was laugh. He wasn’t going to let a little bit of rain end his fun. Only idiots were scared of thunder, he yelled. Žaba thought he was defying the weather, but it quickly became clear that it was not ordinary thunder that we were hearing.
The roar rolled through the hills until it became deafening enough to overpower my cousin’s howls. It was not thunder. I had spent my whole life in the village and encountered all sorts of bad weather but I never heard anything like it. There was an unnatural metallic tinge to it, it sounded less like a thunderclap and more like the roar of some massive engine. I wanted to look up at the source of the sound but my eyes wouldn’t let me.
All I saw was a flash of two blood red lights and the silhouette of something huge. A terrible pain shot through my eyes to the back of my skull. The butcher’s boy was just as panicked as I was, the Pole even stopped the truck — but Žaba did not come down.
The noise became unbearable. It’s mere presence was so loud that I felt like I was going deaf. Something was moving right above us but my body refused to witness it. All I could do was stare at my feet and grip the ladder with every bit of concentration I had.
The light of the moon became obscured and my feet were planted into complete darkness. Something above me moved. Something above me moved but my neck refused to look up. All I could do was stare at my feet and pray for the terror to come to an end.
The roar from the sky never fully disappeared but once it had faded enough to allow the rest of the world to exist, I was spurred back into reality. I heard the crackling of flames above me. I looked up, expecting to see my cousin standing atop the ladder but I did not see him.
The top of the ladder was snapped away and what was left of it was burning. Bits of flaming wood hissed in the wet grass nearby and, about a dozen meters away from the car, sat another pile of flames.
By the time the paramedics arrived the body was unidentifiable, but they took our word for it. My cousin had died the same way he had lived — atop a ladder. The mechanics of his death, however, were a complete mystery.
The authorities had decided that he fell into the power-lines.
I insisted that he did not.
My cousin was nowhere near the power-lines and he wouldn’t fall from the ladder. He was Žaba. What killed him wasn’t a misstep. What killed him did not come from this world. Something had hit him up there. Something big and loud and hot enough to set his body on fire.
In response, the cops threatened me with a breathalyzer. Their power-line explanation made no sense, but they insisted upon it. No negotiation was permitted.
I was the last one to accept that version of events. I put up resistance to the official story all the way until the police drove me home. It wasn’t until my father, drowsy with sleep, sat down with me that I relented.
He said nothing good comes from the Ladder Game. He also reminded me of the multitude of laws that existed to prevent the youth from engaging in the forbidden sport. I was lucky I didn’t get arrested. Whatever had happened, he said, was better left unexplored.
I wager he is right.
I wager he is right, but the questions keep eating away at me. They keep eating away at me and I reckon they always will. That terrible engine sound is still scratching through my ears and I can still feel the wood of the ladder against my palms. I just hope that with time the memory will pass.
I also hope that whatever my cousin met up there, whatever terrible machine flew through the sky and ended his life — I hope it never comes back.