In the valley of S— a young boy, ordinary in most ways, solemnly announced at the breakfast table that he would be climbing the High Mountain alone that day. His extended family had all gathered, as was their Sunday custom, and so the announcement did not reach anyone’s ears above the customary din. While the uncle seated nearest to him, a mercenary by trade who prided himself on his pragmatism, might have told him not to be overhasty, that he must plan and above all be realistic; while his mother might have gently reminded him of five o’clock matins; and while his grandfather may have given him a care-worn proverb about the best being the enemy of the good — instead he received perfunctory affirmation of his goals, and was sent on his was with the encouragement that the world was his cockle.
Setting out before the sun reached its zenith, he could not clearly see the High Mountain but only its shadow. The road leading up the mountain became narrower, and the houses became far less frequent as the asphalt turned to gravel. Eventually the trees became so thick he could not see the diminishing town below. He passed the last house, which had a single light on in the attic. There were no obstacles and it was evident by the trampled moss and scattered leaves that others had been this way before. So he continued on the steepening ascent and soon lost the footpath. No matter; the trees were so dispersed a footpath was not needed.
Though the sun had crested its peak, the air was no warmer than in the shadows of the valley, and the birds watched from the trees in silence. He continued climbing, and thought of nothing but perhaps reaching the top of the mountain and sometimes had the shadow of a doubt that he should have brought a companion with him, a dog perhaps, and secretly wished he would see someone but that they would pass by each other without a sound. When the jagged summit came into view, however, more concrete thoughts formed in his mind. He thought on how scarce a few ascended to this point — though he had seen an abandoned rope and alpenstock down the way — and how scarcer few scaled the final face of the cliff. He thought how the town below would look like an elaborate encampment, houses and people huddled together against the cold expanse of the sky, and how he might see other towns he had never been to. At night the valley of S— and the sky would look like they were competing in brilliance, and new constellations would come about….
The young boy looked down from the edge of the summit. Such an infinity of crowding trees and heaping, crashing, leaping masses of rock; such a whirl and welter of winds and thin clouds melding in thousands of broken details; such an agglomeration of brawling chaos and he only had two blinking eyes with which to store it. And then from below he heard voices ringing with malicious joy. They did not conceal it; they chuckled gleefully and shouted, “He’ll fall in a minute! Serve him right, the lunatic!” Others tried to conceal their malicious glee (perhaps one was his uncle), moaning and raising their eyes to heaven in sorrow, as if to say: “It grieves us sorely to see our fears justified! But did not we, who have spent so much of our long and durable lives working out a judicious plan for scaling this mountain, warn that the ascent must be postponed until our plan was complete? And if we so vehemently protested taking this path….in order to prevent this great project from being generally discredited….” Filled with nausea and feeling he was about to fall, he took a step back. He put his hands to his face, touching the wetness on his cheeks and under his eyes—whether it was tears or sweat he did not know—and turned away from the cliff, clumsy and anxious and silent.
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