Mountain Man
Mountain Man
In a crag on a mountain a former explorer nurses his wounds and counts his losses. He’s had every reason to give up, to sit in the cold and roundly assert he continues to suffer. He’s not comfortable here, but he doesn’t try to be—it’s easy to sit in the cold, and at some level, he thinks he deserves as much.
He could keep moving, but he doesn’t want to. To keep going? To turn back? To stay here? He wants none of it. He wants his arm back.
The cold death of frostbite bites into his bones, and he shivers, pulling ragged garments closer about him. In the darkness of his cave, he wonders why he left home in the first place. He fantasizes of the days before this cold. They were softer and gentler and warmer and… emptier.
Was that why he started this journey? Was that why he sacrificed everything to pursue it? His arm, his love, his friends, his career, his joy? Because someone had told him of a hope greater than he could imagine alone. He remembers now, in the cold and the snow, that at one point a guide had been leading him too, and he’d been part of the caravan climbing the mountain together. Just as others had followed him, he’d been following someone else, who’d been following someone else and so on and so forth—a mighty train of explorers all trailing their way around the mountain together. Each sought the footsteps of the person before them, and when one looked for them, they weren’t difficult to make out in the snow.
Yet even now, despite the ongoers who pass his cave, he feels alone. He’s sacrificed more. Yearned more. Loved more. Obeyed more. And for what? The ones who walk around and beside and behind him can’t know what it’s like to lose so much. To hurt and grieve this much. All they know is the ever-present trod onward up the mountain, following footsteps but never forging paths of their own.
Torn apart by his grief and utterly miserable, he flings himself back to the stone floor, closes his eyes, and attempts to shut out the pain.
“Still feeling sorry for yourself?” comes a voice from above, a hint of teasing tucked into it.
“If you knew what I’ve lost—”
“We’ve all lost.”
“Not like this.” He doesn’t budge or open his eyes, but he can hear the other sitting beside him, crossing his legs and rubbing his hands together. Part of him knows he should sit up, put the façade back on, smile until he can’t stand the pain of his eccedentesiasm a second longer.
They sit together until the stamping of feet outside his cave moves along and silence settles over the mountaintop.
“Shouldn’t you be going with them?” the former explorer asks.
He hears a slight chuckle and a momentary silence before, “No, they already know where they’re going. I’m here for you.”
Curious now, he rolls over and studies the man next to him. There’s a kind but determined set to his jaw, and his equipment seems weathered but whole.
He smiles knowingly before returning his gaze to the mouth of the cave. “I don’t blame you for giving up here. Men have lost their lives on the road ahead many times before.”
The wording stings the explorer’s pride. “It’s not that I don’t want to die.”
The man tips his head. “I know. But you don’t want to lose anything else. And somehow you believe that you won’t if you stay here.”
The two of them sit together in silence a minute before the explorer sits up, hacking and leaning against the wall. “I’ve lost everything.”
“Not yet.”
“Why should I lose more? What do I have to show for my losses? What worth is paradise when I have no arm to reach it with?
“Perhaps that’s something you have to find out.” A pause, then, “Will you walk with me aways?”
The explorer finds himself sliding back into the normal, and lifting a smile, he says. “I’m not sure I’m up to it right now, but I will be, and I’ll come follow you as soon as I’m rested.” He doesn’t speak of the drop, the downturn back.
“I’m not leaving without you,” the man says.
The explorer shakes his head. “It’s not worth waiting here for me.”
“Would I abandon someone I love? I’ve promised to never leave you. I will never forsake you.”
Bleary-eyed, the explorer closes his eyes and places his head in his hands. “You’re not really here. You’re a figment of my imagination. A delusion borne of pneumonia and hypothermia. The great pathfinders are far ahead on the path, not here.”
A hand on his shoulder—gentle, reassuring. “I’m here.” Another pause, then, “Will you walk with me?”
And how could he say no to that voice? Is this not the love for whom he gave up everything? Is this not the promise he suffered for so long to see fulfilled? Is this not the one who gave his very life that this path may be walked at all?
He knows, before he takes the man’s hand, that he won’t be coming back to this cave. He may take shelter in other caves along the way, slow down or trod a slower pace, but to walk hip in hip with he who is closer than a brother means walking forward. It means counting the struggles joy, as ludicrous as it seems. It means wailing laments from the mountaintops and listening to them echo across the valleys. It’s shouting and singing with a joy borne of something unreal, of a journey unlike any other.
“If you’re going to be a storyteller,” the man continues with a smile, “You might as well carry on. There’s a good many more stories to tell further up the mountain. What good is a disingenuine life in the Shire when the richness of life is still to be had?”
“Did you just make a Lord of the Rings reference?” the explorer asks.
“Tolkien was a good friend of mine,” the man returns.
The explorer can’t help himself and grins for a second before nodding his acquiescence. The man gives him a hand to help him up, and for a moment the rags he used to bandage it fall away, revealing the hole bored through it so long ago.
“Each of us will suffer for this path, but let us suffer with joy,” the man says, catching the explorer’s eye.
Pulling him to his feet, the man tucks his arm under and around the explorer, helping him find his feet and carrying him forward. Together, the two of them limp hip in hip a little further up the mountainside—he no longer alone, never alone.
He could keep moving, but he doesn’t want to. To keep going? To turn back? To stay here? He wants none of it. He wants his arm back.
The cold death of frostbite bites into his bones, and he shivers, pulling ragged garments closer about him. In the darkness of his cave, he wonders why he left home in the first place. He fantasizes of the days before this cold. They were softer and gentler and warmer and… emptier.
Was that why he started this journey? Was that why he sacrificed everything to pursue it? His arm, his love, his friends, his career, his joy? Because someone had told him of a hope greater than he could imagine alone. He remembers now, in the cold and the snow, that at one point a guide had been leading him too, and he’d been part of the caravan climbing the mountain together. Just as others had followed him, he’d been following someone else, who’d been following someone else and so on and so forth—a mighty train of explorers all trailing their way around the mountain together. Each sought the footsteps of the person before them, and when one looked for them, they weren’t difficult to make out in the snow.
Yet even now, despite the ongoers who pass his cave, he feels alone. He’s sacrificed more. Yearned more. Loved more. Obeyed more. And for what? The ones who walk around and beside and behind him can’t know what it’s like to lose so much. To hurt and grieve this much. All they know is the ever-present trod onward up the mountain, following footsteps but never forging paths of their own.
Torn apart by his grief and utterly miserable, he flings himself back to the stone floor, closes his eyes, and attempts to shut out the pain.
“Still feeling sorry for yourself?” comes a voice from above, a hint of teasing tucked into it.
“If you knew what I’ve lost—”
“We’ve all lost.”
“Not like this.” He doesn’t budge or open his eyes, but he can hear the other sitting beside him, crossing his legs and rubbing his hands together. Part of him knows he should sit up, put the façade back on, smile until he can’t stand the pain of his eccedentesiasm a second longer.
They sit together until the stamping of feet outside his cave moves along and silence settles over the mountaintop.
“Shouldn’t you be going with them?” the former explorer asks.
He hears a slight chuckle and a momentary silence before, “No, they already know where they’re going. I’m here for you.”
Curious now, he rolls over and studies the man next to him. There’s a kind but determined set to his jaw, and his equipment seems weathered but whole.
He smiles knowingly before returning his gaze to the mouth of the cave. “I don’t blame you for giving up here. Men have lost their lives on the road ahead many times before.”
The wording stings the explorer’s pride. “It’s not that I don’t want to die.”
The man tips his head. “I know. But you don’t want to lose anything else. And somehow you believe that you won’t if you stay here.”
The two of them sit together in silence a minute before the explorer sits up, hacking and leaning against the wall. “I’ve lost everything.”
“Not yet.”
“Why should I lose more? What do I have to show for my losses? What worth is paradise when I have no arm to reach it with?
“Perhaps that’s something you have to find out.” A pause, then, “Will you walk with me aways?”
The explorer finds himself sliding back into the normal, and lifting a smile, he says. “I’m not sure I’m up to it right now, but I will be, and I’ll come follow you as soon as I’m rested.” He doesn’t speak of the drop, the downturn back.
“I’m not leaving without you,” the man says.
The explorer shakes his head. “It’s not worth waiting here for me.”
“Would I abandon someone I love? I’ve promised to never leave you. I will never forsake you.”
Bleary-eyed, the explorer closes his eyes and places his head in his hands. “You’re not really here. You’re a figment of my imagination. A delusion borne of pneumonia and hypothermia. The great pathfinders are far ahead on the path, not here.”
A hand on his shoulder—gentle, reassuring. “I’m here.” Another pause, then, “Will you walk with me?”
And how could he say no to that voice? Is this not the love for whom he gave up everything? Is this not the promise he suffered for so long to see fulfilled? Is this not the one who gave his very life that this path may be walked at all?
He knows, before he takes the man’s hand, that he won’t be coming back to this cave. He may take shelter in other caves along the way, slow down or trod a slower pace, but to walk hip in hip with he who is closer than a brother means walking forward. It means counting the struggles joy, as ludicrous as it seems. It means wailing laments from the mountaintops and listening to them echo across the valleys. It’s shouting and singing with a joy borne of something unreal, of a journey unlike any other.
“If you’re going to be a storyteller,” the man continues with a smile, “You might as well carry on. There’s a good many more stories to tell further up the mountain. What good is a disingenuine life in the Shire when the richness of life is still to be had?”
“Did you just make a Lord of the Rings reference?” the explorer asks.
“Tolkien was a good friend of mine,” the man returns.
The explorer can’t help himself and grins for a second before nodding his acquiescence. The man gives him a hand to help him up, and for a moment the rags he used to bandage it fall away, revealing the hole bored through it so long ago.
“Each of us will suffer for this path, but let us suffer with joy,” the man says, catching the explorer’s eye.
Pulling him to his feet, the man tucks his arm under and around the explorer, helping him find his feet and carrying him forward. Together, the two of them limp hip in hip a little further up the mountainside—he no longer alone, never alone.
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