Mountain’s Life

Written by: Leia Rondeau

Brief Summary: A women lives by herself up on a mountain.  She isn't lost, but she finally finds what was missing in her life.

Word Count: 1066 (rought 2 pages)

            Living here, up in the mountains, you don’t see many people.  To me, though, it’s home.  Every morning I can walk out and breathe in the fresh air.  It carries the smell of grass and spring water, making my heart beat faster.  I step out and let the sounds of nature take me, filling me with their music.  The cricket’s chirp is the drumbeat, the bird’s melody the chorus, and the wind rustling the foliage the orchestra. 

            I step out of the small, wooden cabin, already dancing along.  As I twirl, my simple cotton dress begins to float upon the currents of the wind.  My long brown braid wraps itself around me, dancing to its own tune.  I run to the spring, splashing my way across to the other bank.  The water seems soft, parting its way for me.  Yet it chills my feet, giving them the sense of living.  Laughing, I throw my self down, hugging the water, letting it splash over me.  I swim to the bank, my dress now clinging to my body.  With a happy sigh, I lay down on the grass, basking in the sun.  I close my eyes, letting the warmth from the sun dry my clothes.  After time passes, I finally open my eyes, and seeing the sun farther up than before, I stand up and continue my journey.

Soon I come to a dirt road, a strange thing of humanity in this wilderness.  It comes from the village at the foothills of the mountain, and leads higher up in the mountain to a cemetery.  The road is old and unkempt, now rarely used.  I keep away from it, staying on the grass and shrubs to the side of the path.  That part of my life was left behind a long time ago, choosing exile over civilization.  As I go higher up, the mountain gets steeper.  Sharp rocks appear on the ground, cutting my feet, yet I stay off the road.  I reach my destination, the graveyard, hidden in one of the many valleys high up on the mountain. 

            I wait at the gate, now rusting and falling apart.  From deep in my pocket, I pull out an old wedding ring, still bright and gleaming.  Walking up to a small grave, tears begin to form in my eyes.  It is overgrown with weeds, and the stone is starting to crack and fall apart, even though this is the newest grave here.  Ripping a little patch of weeds from the base of the grave, I place the ring in the clearing.  With my hands together, and with the strength that the mountain gives to me, I pray to whatever God is listening to me to watch over your soul.  The wind picks up, bending the long tall grass.  Tears falling down my face, I pick up the ring, kiss it gently, and put it back in the pocket as I stand to leave.  As I wipe tears from my face, I hear a small sob coming from behind me.  Turning around, I see a young girl, cuddled up in a ball, weeping.  Her black hair is in tangles, hanging down in front of her face.  In her small hands she clutches a dead flower.  It is old, the color faded and gone, pieces falling away as I watch.  It stands out against the girl’s Easter dress, once white, but now dirty and stained.  Her eyes are red from crying, and she looks half-starved.  I rush over, wrapping my arms around her.  She tries to break free, but I clutch harder.

            “My dear, why do you cry?”  I ask gently.  She sniffles, now accepting my affection.

            “I am all alone,” she whispers, trying to hold back tears.

            “Why are you here, in this graveyard?”  I stroke her head, trying to get her to calm down.

            “I came here to die,” she says more quietly, barely even forming words.

            “I won’t let you.”  With this, I take her up in my arms, and carrying the child, I leave the graveyard.  Soon we are at my cabin, the songs of nature already calling to me.  I gently place the girl in the shade of an apple tree, and I begin to dance, swaying back and forth.  She sits, watching me, still clutching her flower close to her chest.

            “Why do you live here, all by yourself?” She questions me, her small voice barely hearable.

            “I’m not all by myself,” I answer her, still dancing, “you see, I live here with my husband.”

            “Why do you dance?” I stop, surprised by her question.  I think it over, before I answer.

            “My husband dances with me; his spirit flows through me on the wind.”  I pause, “I also dance because the mountain sings to me.”  I walk over to her.  Her eyes meet mine, reflecting a dark sadness.  “Dance with me.”  I stretch my hand out, offering it to her.  She looks at it, and then slowly puts her small hand into mine.  It’s soft and cold.  I close my hand around it, and pull her up to her feet.  Her other hand lets go of her flower, and it drifts down to the ground where it breaks in half.  Slowly, we begin to spin, holding onto each other’s hands.  We move faster, and soon the world is a blur to us.  I smile, and then laugh, for I feel more alive than before.  I look at the child, and she meets my eyes.  No longer are they filled with death’s gaze, but shine with the brightness of the sun.  As we begin to slow down, I hear a new instrument added to the music of life.  A small voice, heavenly, soars among the air, leaving the birds’ songs in shame.  I lift my own, and our two voices combine to create a duet of mystical sounds.  As our song ends, the girl looks into my eyes once again.  Suddenly they fill with water, tears spilling out.  She falls into my arms, weeping.

            “My dear, why do you cry?” I ask, concerned, gently wiping the tears from her face.

            “Because, the mountain sings with me too,” she whispers back.  I hold her closer, a secret smile on my face.

            “Thank you,” I whisper to the wind, as I embrace my newfound daughter, for I was no longer alone on this mountain.