*This is a short story I jotted down after having a dream about this mountain. The ideas aren’t fully formed, just as no story is fully told. Those of you who are writers will see things in this that others won’t. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it. -KSK
The Place
I KNOW before I open my eyes that I am not alone.
I bolt upright, shoving the thick covers aside, and find myself face to face with an obsidian silhouette. Motionless, it stands among the darkness at the foot of my bed.
It must be a dream, I think. Fear cinches my throat, though I know it would hardly matter even if I could scream. Here on the village fringe, sounds fade among the canyons. It is the very reason why, long ago, the elders relegated the artisans and musicians here. Best not to distract the moneychangers and merchants with story spinsters and clowns, they would say. Out of sight, out of mind.
And, now, far from help’s reach.
I sit, unmoving.
“Do not be afraid,” the intruder says. “If I meant to harm you I could have done so already.”
I expect the ragged voice of a maniac or a wayward man bent on unspeakable violence. Instead, the words come softly, hardly above a whisper.
“You—you’re just a child?” I say.
The boy laughs softly. “No one is just anything,” he says.
I swing my feet to the cold floor and stand. The boy does not move. From where I stand I see that I’m at least two head taller than he.
“I could’ve killed you, you know, coming into my house as you did,” I say. “And I would have had innocent blood on my hands. Then what would I have done?”
“I suppose you would have washed them.”
“Wha—“
“Your hands. I suppose you would have washed them. Besides, you are a scribe and not a man of the steel. Quill and ink suits you more than the sword, yes?”
“Still, I could have killed you.”
“Perhaps. Perhaps not.”
How long he stood in my room before I woke, I do not know, or how he could have entered without my knowing. On a still night I can hear a mouse miss a breath in my cottage. Yet, here he is, this boy who has found a way in as if he is a specter.
Slowly, the smudges of shadow sharpen and I see him. He is slight and grips one of the two bedposts with thin fingers. A round face topped with unruly hair stares back. I can see him in the pale moonlight that spills into the room. He is perhaps ten or twelve, and most certainly not a ghost.
“What do you want?” I ask.
He takes a step to the bed’s far corner.
“To help you fly.”
“No man can fly.”
“Is that so?” he says and then leans back and swings on the bedpost. He carves a short arc then lets go and steps toward the window. He spins to face me. “Tell me, do you want to live?” he asks.
“I’m already alive.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes, it is. More than most men.”
“Yes, I believe you. More than most,” the child says after a pause. “Would you like to do something extraordinary?”
“Extraordinary?”
“Yes,” he says. “Something beautiful. I can show you how. Would you like that?”
“What does a child of your age know of beauty?”
The boy steps toward the doorway. “Come and I will show you. That is, unless you are afraid.”
“Of a child?”
“I didn’t say that. But you are afraid. I was, too. I will wait at the edge of the wood on the far side of the lake. Hurry, I can not tarry long.”
With that he slips through the doorway. I hear his feet pad quickly down my short hallway. As he closes the door I hear his words, “Come, follow me. There is nothing here for you anymore.”
Of that he is right.
###
I’m walking to my death.
I’m as sure of it as I am my own name. Still, I don’t turn back. Can’t turn back.
There is nothing more for you here.
The boy is right. The desert holds only one thing for me: emptiness.
I keep walking, following the boy who leans into the mountain several paces ahead of me. Threads of clouds spin above us, around us. We have climbed to the sky. My feet ache for relief, but we have stopped not once in hours.
The boy’s threadbare clothes flutter in the breeze as he moves up the stony trail with bare feet. He is confident, as if he’s marked the way himself, which may be the truth.
We’ve come far since leaving the village in the middle of the night. We passed through the great dunes, using the course of the swollen stream that coil between them as our guide. It flows always on our left.
We spoke not a word along the way, even as we left the flatlands for thinner air. As we climbed, the tumbling of water down the mountain was our only companion.
We broke through tree line as the sun met the world for another day. How long ago I do not know. But I have never seen such color, as if the heavens were dipped in swirling ink. Now it hangs directly overhead behind a skim of clouds and the water flows beside us, though much smaller than at the bottom. It is now nearly a trickle, surely a sign that we are nearing its origin.
I cinch my cloak tightly around my neck, but here where the trees surrender to the sky and the wind bares its teeth, there is no refuge. Even in the brightness of day the wind gnaws at my bones.
I glimpse the world we left behind just over my shoulder. A desolate blanket stretches to the curve of the earth. Far below, a narrow lake fed by the mountain marks the edge of my village. Somewhere among the homes that, from here, look like drizzles of ink on a page hides my cottage. The world below seems strangely distant, foreign.
“This is madness,” I say out loud, but the boy does not acknowledge me. Perhaps he cannot hear my complaint over the wind.
Higher and higher he climbs then disappears behind an outcropping of rocks.
“Boy?” I yell. No response.
I scramble to catch up, but I am not as sure footed as the child and stumble several times, marking the way for the next unfortunate traveler with scraps of my own flesh.
Perhaps the child does not intend to kill me. But there are worse things than death. I’ve heard such stories since the days of my youth, of men straying into the Highlands never to return.
But I had to come, this I know. There was something about the boy.
I finally pull myself to the top, which seems to be little more than a bald shelf of flat rock upon approach. As I crest the edge I learn how terribly wrong I am.
###
“Come,” the boy says, “we are nearly there.”
I step toward the boy then follow his gaze to our destination, which now lies below us.
“What is this place?” I ask.
“Home,” he says with a smile.
I stare, but can scarcely believe what I see, for the mountain does not climb more, but falls away at our feet to a deep basin. And, at the bottom, lies a lake. For a long moment its beauty is all I see. Sweet Maker, how could I have lived so long and not seen this beauty or even known of its existence? It is entirely plain yet otherworldly in its beauty. It is clear and the sun glances off its crystalline surface with the brilliance of diamond dust. Beneath its soft ripples, though not far beneath, I can see grey slate. And, in the middle of the lake, rises a red stone pillar as tall as ten grown men.
“Come,” the boy says.
Speechless, I follow.
Cautiously, we descend the slope toward the lake, which is perhaps ten minute’s walk. The mountain looks as though a divine hand scooped out the top, creating a small bowl in which to gather the rain. God’s chalice, I think to myself. A saw-toothed ridge of speckled rock circles the crater around and above us, biting at the sky. Deep shadows fill the high couloirs on the far side, still untouched by the sun.
“This place has no name. It is better that way.” He turns to me, smiles. “Do you like it?”
“It’s beautiful.”
“Good. Follow me.”
We walk for another minute before I notice what has been in plain sight—other people emerging from large gaps in the rocks. There are dozens of others, mostly children of the boy’s age. Then I realize that the rocks themselves are stacked into purposeful piles to form crude shelters. I didn’t see them before for they are fashioned of stone and blend perfectly with the mountain. A hundred or more dot the water’s edge, spaced evenly all around. Tendrils of thin smoke rise from some, but most appear barren, abandoned.
“I’ve never tried counting them all,” the boy says, “though they are many. The dwellings cover the entire rim. See.” He draws a circle around the crater with his finger. “Even here. Look around you.”
I turn and see the rocks, now no longer simple piles of boulders, but thoughtfully built homes the size of large tents, perhaps big enough for two people. I reach out and touch one; the rough stone cool to the touch.
“We always seem to have just the right number. Never too many or too few.”
“We?” I ask. “Who are they?”
The boy settles onto a large, flat rock and motions for me. I sit by him. He looks more alive than any person I’ve ever seen, yet frail at the same time. He looks toward the lake.
Slowly, more people emerge from the rock huts below and walk toward the water’s edge, cradling wooden bowls in their hands. They move gracefully, almost floating over the stones that litter the basin. Slowly, they each approach the shore then kneel beside it and tilt their bowls, emptying the contents into the lake. Then, one by one, they stand and gaze over the lake for a long moment as if seeing off a loved one whom will never return. Then they turn and, with haste, retreat to the stone dwellings.
The boy cups his hands and looks at me.
“Since the beginning, the people in the desert below have relied on the lake for life. Its waters flow through a channel that begins in the middle of the lake and carves a path through, then out of, the mountain. The water finds its way to the valley in the east—your home—where it feeds the crops of men, refreshes their bodies, strengthens their hearts. It is an oasis of life for every soul. Isn’t this so?”
“Yes.”
“And yet it hasn’t rained in twelve generations, never more than a drizzle.” The boy turns toward me. “Have you ever pondered this?”
“Yes, but if it doesn’t come from the sky then from where?”
“Them,” he says and nods toward the lake. “And, soon, you.”
“I don’t understand.”
“These are the artisans, mostly minstrals and scribes who have been chosen to live in this barren place.”
“Chosen by whom?”
“The Giver.”
“Why here?”
“Because it is inhospitable, lonely, a place where even angels dare not trod. It is the thin space between heaven, hell, and earth. This is where we explore the heights and discover love, beauty, hatred, all of the things that move men. With time and through grueling effort we wring life from our own souls and fill these bowls with tears. Day after day, month after month, year after year we do this. When the bowl can hold no more we bring them to the lake and empty them. Then we return again to our work. It is the tears of artists that nourish the souls in the desert below.”
“Then why isn’t the water below salty? I’ve tasted of the lake my whole life. Never has it tasted like tears.”
“No one can know how the Giver works, only that he does. It is a mystery unsearchable. How does the wind move? We can only know that it does. That is enough.”
“How long have you been here?”
“The years of my sojourn are sixty-three.”
“How can that be? You are just a boy.”
“We are all growing young here, not old. It is a mystery of this place. The years flow from our pens and, with each stroke, we become more alive, not less. Somehow, our bodies reflect our inner state. Still, no one can cheat death. Not a one. That is why you are here. Soon I will pour my last bowl of tears and pass it to the next artisan who will take my place. That person is you.”
The boy stands from the rock and stretches out his hand. In that moment I see the age in his deep brown eyes, which hold wisdom and experience. I know it is all true. It has to be.
“There is nothing left for you down there,” the boy says. “You can return, if you wish. The choice is yours. Grow young or grow old.”
I push to my feet and look the boy in the eye. Surely this is a dream, isn’t it?
###
“And now you know my story,” I say, staring at the dark form that sits unbelieving a few feet away as I did so many years ago.
“But, how can that be? What you are saying cannot be, can it? You are just a child,” the man asks.
I chuckle. “No one is just anything. Tell me, young man, would you like to do something extraordinary? I will show you how to make something beautiful. Would you like that?”
He hesitates a moment. “Yes. More than anything. If what you say is true, I want to see.”
“Then meet me at the village edge on the far side of the lake. I have something to show you that will change everything.”
I turn and step through the door. As I do, I look back. “And bring a coat,” I say. “You will need it where we are going.”
The End.
