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Written by
Cassie J
- Brampton Library Writing Contest
His numb fingers clutched the rock as if, by sheer force, it would thaw his frozen skin. The snow bit through his boots and chilled his chaffing feet. Every so often, he shivered like the trees miles below him to ward the cold away. Gusts of sugary north wind dusted his designer sunglasses and obscured his failing sight. Squinting, he pocketed the accessory.
His gear weighed him down, stirring a premature ache in his aging bones. How weak the human body was; how ill equipped to live in such a harsh, barren world. He shrugged, dislodging the pack and placing it on the ground.
The sun studied him with frosted golden rays as he stood overlooking the landscape from the peak of the mountain. It had taken him seven hours to hike this far, and it would be dark before he reached the base again - if he reached the base again.
Below him, pinched here and there in velvety darkness, lay the valley. Rivers and lakes cut through the green flourish like veins and disappeared into the light many miles away, where the cities of the world breathed. All around, virgin peaks lured him to their rocky cliffs with cookie and cream smiles.
He lifted his arms high, the fingers of his free hand reaching, and swore he could have touched the clouds if there had been any on that wondrous day. Snow slipped underfoot as he stepped closer to the ledge and peered over.
He gasped and steadied his grip on the rock in his hand. Oh, the sight. Two hawks circled over the forest where the mountain bowed to meet the ground, its courtly garments of snow and trees seamlessly meeting beneath him. Streams of liquid sunlight ran down the slopes and pooled at the bottom.
Where he had begun his journey at the mountain's rim, a tiny path meandered through a primeval maze of pine and stone. Such a beautiful maze; part of such a beautiful world. It did not suffer. It did not die. And if it did, it was supposed to. And no matter what, it continued being .
A hawk's piercing cry scattered echoes through the air; echoes that bounced to his wool-covered ears. He stretched his occupied hand over open air, relaxed his fingers and let the rock drop into eternity. It would become part of the world again. It always did. Like him, if he chose to do so, the mountain promised.
This world, this magical realm, was separate from his life; separate from everything he had ever known. Many people wanted it. They wanted it for money, for destruction. For everything it could never be.
He wanted to be like those hawks. He wanted to be a part of the mountain. He wanted to be a brushstroke in the earth's painting, not a smudge like the rest of his kind.
Back home, his family was resting after another week of mindless toil in a competitive, corrupted, hateful nation completely unlike this place. This place was still pure. This place was still innocent. Only he seemed to understand what it truly meant to live outside the darkness, if only one allowed himself to step into the light.
He spread his arms wide and pointed his toes in his hiking boots. The wind braced his back and encouraged him another step forward. The sun beat through his closed eyes and coated his thoughts in radiant light.
Yes. This was what he wanted. This was everything he needed. This was his life's purpose. All he had to do was lean forward and let his body bring him down. He would land in the river, or on the rocks perhaps, and no one would ever find him. No one would care enough to search the many days it would take. Not even his family.
He balanced precariously on the cliff, his right foot half over the edge. Clumps of dirt dislodged beneath his toes. He stumbled. The foot shot back. His eyes snapped open and imagined the endless drop.
Where had the rock gone? Was it broken into a million tiny splinters or still whole? He could not see it. He had no reassurance it was born again into the sunlight. The mountain's promise was tainted with uncertainty.
His children would miss him if he left. If he died. They would wail themselves to sickness. Eventually, their lives would carry on - but they would remember him. Would the mountain remember? The trees? His confused mind did not believe they ever would.
However strongly the valley called, he could not - he would not - answer it. Not yet. He had a life. He had a family. He had . everything, despite the horrors that existed. Perhaps one day he would be ready to leave all that, but that day was many, many years away.
With a relieved smile and a farewell nod, he drifted away from the edge, lifted the pack onto his back, and prepared to return to his own world. It was not perfect like this one. It might be ripped in places, smudged in many more, and dull of colour - but it was his. And he was not ready to leave quite yet.
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