From the hawk’s eye, the mountain is an arrow, pointed at the people who live in its shadow. From the cat’s eye, the mountain boasts sheer, unscalable cliffs above the sloping outcrops that form its base. It’s zenith is entirely flat and covered in the lush rainforest that once occupied the valley but are now banished to the outskirts of the city. Waterfalls intermittently break up the hard angles of the mountain top from where they flow, falling from such heights that their waters scatter to mist and rainbows before they reach the pools and streams far below.
The upper echelons of the city, the quarters that belong to the artisans and merchants as well as the central fortress that guards them, occupies an opposing and much smaller hill. Sitting snug between them, the farmlands of the valley snake between the mountain and the city with its patchwork of golden paddies, following a turquoise river at its centre.
From the stone, ocre walls of the fortress, a boy looks up in wonder at the mountain. It is tradition, not law, that all boys born in the city make pilgrimage up to the flat top of the mountain to witness what grows there. From what is described to him in stories, this could be anything from trees that bear fruit that give good dreams to a pool that turns dull metals to gold when dipped within its crystal waters.
The father finds his son on the walls and places a hand on his shoulder. So soon? They grow fast. He smiles down at the boy, but when his head turns back to the mountain, the father’s expression grows concerned. Soon he’ll make the journey up and see what all men see; the truth of things. What grows in that forest in the clouds. What flows into the water that they drink. What we are all made of, and what makes us.
Paddy Dobson
2nd July 2021