The Mountain

The mountain has defeated us in myriad ways. Its peak rises sheer, knifelike, to the heavens, and no pass suitable for the elderly or the children has been found. While it is true that our enemies cannot attack us here, and the stream is cold and fresh, we stifle, and the tribe verges on heresy.

Corum prays before the stone altar through sleet and rain, believing that if his faith is pure, a vision will be granted that will lead us to freedom. He has not left the sacred place for a hundred days.

Melisan seeks omens in the sparse, stingy clouds that never reach the other side of the mountain. She combs through the frigid waters to sift through river stones, searching for a clue in their patterns. She sacrifices goats and reads the contents of their offal.

Myself, I conceive of the mountain as a maze, a puzzle. I believe this to be revelation, but perhaps I am merely insane. The tribe thinks me a fool, and they fold the branches of trees over to make shelters, gather dwindling deadwood for fires, and ration our food.

Leaning on my staff, I climb the trails, traverse the blind canyons, and ramble over boulders. Each trip, I record the route on the back of scrolls. After six hundred failures, I must admit of doubt. I stumble; I crawl.

Then: I feel warmth on my face and summon the tribe. The path out has been revealed to me. Once more around the mountain, and we shall be free.