The Legend of the Flying Mountain

Not so long ago and not so far away, there was a village in the mountains.

The people of this village did what villagers do – they worked. Some were farmers, and some were fishermen. They were carpenters or shopkeepers, bakers or candy makers, factory workers or thieves, policemen or politicians, homemakers and hat makers.

Every evening they trudged home, down streets broad or narrow to their rented rooms or comfortable homes, to rest, to work another day. So it had always been – or had it?

Now, it happened that in this village there lived one Child who wondered. She wondered about everything. Her eyes were like birds that fluttered and soared, taking her mind places that other minds rarely went. She asked a lot of questions. Too many questions, said the villagers, who soon grew tired of answering. Who has time for a child's questions, when there is work to do?

One day the Child was out in the street. The mist and rain that had been falling all morning suddenly lifted. As the clouds bunched and drifted, her eyes were drawn to their billowed forms etched in dazzling white against the pale blue sky. And as the clouds rolled away, it seemed as if they had left one of their number behind to tower over the village in snowy splendour.

“What is that?” asked the Child, pointing upward with a curious forefinger.

An old man was passing by just then. He took time to break his stride, stroke his long white beard and answer, “Oh, that's just the Mountain.”

“The Mountain?” said the Child, “Where did it come from?”

“Why, it's been there forever,” answered the man, “Or at least since I was born, more than seventy five years ago. . .”

The Child had other questions to ask, but she couldn't bring herself to interrupt the old man, who walked off reminiscing to himself about his own childhood.

All that Winter, the Child looked for the Mountain, and whenever the sky cleared there it was in the same spot, high above the rooftops of the town. She found other grown-ups and asked other questions: “Why is it so white?” “Is it really made of stone?” “Has anyone ever gone up there?”

A watchmaker told the Child to go find out for herself if she was so curious, and now where was that mainspring he was looking for. . .

So the Child began to think about climbing the Mountain. Fortunately, a few more of her questions were asked and answered, so she did not start off through the snows of January.

“If you're going to climb the Mountain,” advised a woman who was shovelling her walk, “You had better wait until Summer. It will be much easier then.”

So the Child waited.

When Spring arrived, everything looked softer. The snow melted away and soon the Mountain stood bare, a brown almost treeless place, high up in the air. When warm winds swept a tide of wild flowers up its slopes, robing the peak in blue and yellow and white, she knew it was time to go.

A long climb, through air fragrant with flowers, brought the Child to the Mountain's very top. She climbed over a low stone parapet and stood looking out from the highest place she had ever been. Far below, like a collection of toys, she could see the village.

After a while, she began to look around, observing what was closer at hand. “This is a floor I am standing on,” she realized. “It's made of flagstones, all laid quite close together.” The stones were so well placed that only in a few places had they been lifted by the weather. The stone floor was circular, ringed by a low wall of even larger, flat stones. There were holes in this wall through which the rain could run. Moss grew in thin lines between the flagstones. The place felt very old.

“Someone must have made this,” said the Child, aloud. “But, who? And what for?” There was no one to answer that question.

All the way back to the village the Child's curiousity grew. But the people in the village knew nothing about the stone floor on the Mountain's top. Many of them refused to believe it even existed, while others were afraid to be made out fools if they believed her. She tried to find just one person who would climb the Mountain with her, but they were all too busy.

Weeks passed. Months passed. The Child's curiousity just grew. She climbed the Mountain many times. It was very peaceful up there. Many days, she would just lie in the sun, staring up at the sky, or sitting on the parapet, she would look out over the wide blue world and dream. She began to repair the stone floor, replacing flagstones which had been lifted by the frost.

The longest day of Summer found her sitting on the Mountain top. She had just finished sliding the last huge stone slab back into place. The sun was very hot as she lay back against the warm stone to rest, staring up into the cloudless sky.

“A long time ago, someone made this place, but who and why?” wondered the Child, speaking aloud.

“Men did,” said a soft voice very close to her ear. You would have jumped, but she only rolled over slowly to see what had spoken.

On the stone beside her stood a bird. It was large with a bright golden eye and it had gray feathers, with dark gray bands across its wings and tail.

“Did you speak?” asked the Child.

“Why, yes,” replied the bird in tones like water gurgling over small stones. “Such questions should not go unanswered.”

“Can you answer other questions?” said the Child, expectantly.

“Some, I am sure,” said the bird.

The Child learned that the stone floor had been built by the villagers many generations before.

“But nobody comes up here any more,” said the Child, sadly.

“I have noticed that,” said the bird, and his head drooped. “They used to have such festivities up here!”

“Such fes. . .what?” asked the Child.

“Music and dancing,” explained the bird. “This is a dance floor, you know. That is why it is round. People with fiddles and drums and flutes would stand in the centre and play while the villagers in their finery danced around and around.”

The Child's eyes lit up at the thought of the dancers and the music.

“The only music in your village now,” said the bird, “Is the creaking of a rusty gate, a cat's purr or the occasional lullaby that drifts at midnight. I do miss the music.”

“I remember people dancing,” said the Child, “But that was before the new highway was built. Now everyone is much too busy to dance or sing. Much too. . .but maybe, if they came up here and could see this place, they would remember what it's for. Yes, that's what I will do. I will bring them to the Mountain!”

With that she jumped up and started down the slope with determination.

“Good luck,” called the bird, “There's a saying about men and mountains. . .” but her voice was lost in the thin air.

No one in the village would come. “Go where?” they asked, “For what??”

“The poor thing,” one woman said, “Her wits must have melted in the hot sun. Take her inside; let her cool off. Hurry up now, we must get back to work. Time is money. Etc. Etc.

The Child persisted until people just laughed when she drew near.

“She will be all right,” they said, “When she stops dreaming and starts working, which will be soon. She's almost old enough to be apprenticed, and healthy enough, except for her head. . .”

Finally she despaired completely. One windy day when the first real cold was in the air and brown leaves scuttered across the ground, she climbed the Mountain for the last time. It was wild and bare up there and she felt the chilly bite in the air.

Sinking down on the cold stones she sighed, “Oh Bird, where are you? It is no good. Their heads are full of spindles and spools. Their noses are pointed at the ground. They will not come!”

“I know,” said the bird, “I tried to tell you. But still there is some hope. You have replaced the missing flagstones and you have kept me alive with your faith. There must be others in this world who remember the music, even if they don't live in that village any more. I will fly up high to see if anyone else is coming to the Mountain. That is our last chance.”

The bird sprang into the air and circled higher and higher until she rose so high she passed completely out of sight. The Child returned down the Mountain, dragging a bare brown branch behind her.

The higher the bird flew, the more she could see: rivers and valleys, mountains and plains, the long ocean inlets gleaming in the autumn sun. The higher flew the bird, the farther she gazed but nowhere did she see dancing and no sounds of music reached her ears. Only the rumble of machines, the whine of engines, blotting out the ancient melodies of wind and waves, rivers and trees.

Finally she was up so high she could hardly breathe. The sun burned her feathers white, and her head grew numb with cold. With one last swoop she turned, exhausted and tumbled downward, down, down, down. . . Her wings spread, breaking her fall until she landed, uninjured but barely breathing, on the Mountain's top. There she lay.

She did not hear someone climbing up the Mountain from the South. The man was traveller. He was dressed in green and on his back he carried a small bundle and a long box. He set these things down on the parapet and looked around.

His face was thin and well lined from weather and travel. He had come a very long way and had climbed the Mountain from the village. He gathered his cloak about him to keep out the chilly wind.

As he stood there, gazing outward, he hummed softly to himself. It was a very old song. He was thinking of places he had been and of friends, lost and gone. He was wondering where he should go now. He did not see the bird lying at the centre of the circle.

A clatter of small stones pulled his attention back to the Mountain. Another man was climbing up the slope from the East. The newcomer sighed as he reached the parapet, breathing hard.

“It sure is c-c-cold up here!” said the man, who was dressed in red silk. His long straight black hair was tied behind his head in a way that looked almost oriental. Once he had caught his breath, he regarded the man in green with some interest. “What are you doing up here?” he asked.

The man in green ran long thin fingers through his mop of curly hair and looked wistful. “Well,” he said, “I used to live on Spaghetti Island, until a good friend of mine died, and now I am off, looking for other people who like to play music.”

The man in red looked surprised. “What do you play?”

“I play fiddle,” replied the other man. “It's in the case over there. . .my name is Dan. Who are you and why are you here?”

“I am called Satoru, and I came this way to play some music for the people in that village over there.”

“Oh, don't even bother with them,” said Dan. “They are too busy to listen. I tried already and it was a waste of time. But you didn't need to climb up here to get to the village.”

“No,” admitted Satoru, “I saw a bird flying high in the sky above here, and then it came tumbling down. I came up to see if it was hurt.”

“A bird??” said Dan, turning and looking around. “Why, yes, there it is and it looks almost dead.”

They walked over to the barely breathing creature and knelt beside it.

“Maybe some water would revive it,” suggested Satoru.

Dan pulled out a flask and tried to drip some water into the white bird's beak, while Satoru held up its head.

“The heart is still beating,” said Satoru. The bird felt cold in his hands, but it soon began to move and its eyes opened. Then it rolled over and stood up.

They found some bread in the large pouch Satoru carried, and managed to feed it a few crumbs. But still the bird gazed down at the stone, wings drooping.

“What else can we do for it?” wondered Satoru aloud.

“Maybe some music would help it revive,” suggested Dan, and he went to get his fiddle. Satoru produced a rather odd looking round-backed guitar, and they tuned up.

They were half way through a lively dance tune when a head popped over the parapet at the Northern edge of the circle. This startled them so much they stopped playing. The head was friendly enough. It was followed by a body, dressed in white, as the stranger climbed over the rim to join them.

“Hi, I am Fergosaurus, the Neville,” he said. “I heard your music as I came up the Mountain. Sounded great. But hey, don't move an inch.” He pulled a large pad of paper out of a knapsack on his back and began to scribble on it furiously. Within a minute several sheets were entirely covered with pencil lines. The two musicians looked at each other with crinkled eyebrows. “What's with him?” they both seemed to be asking.

“Splendiferous!” exclaimed the Neville, who preferred to be called Ferg. “Now you're immortalized.”

“Well, I am sure glad it didn't take any longer than that,” said Satoru. “I was really beginning to feel stiff.”

“Reminds me of the time I played the beanstalk in Jack and the Beanstalk” added Dan, “But anyway, Ferg, what brings you to this Mountain top?”

“Came up here to draw, of course,” said Ferg, pulling spare pencils out of his mouth, “But what's with this bird?”

“She fell out of the sky,” explained Satoru, “And we've been trying to revive her with our music.”

“Well do you know a tune called June Apple?” asked Ferg, pulling a battered harmonica from his back pocket?

There they were, playing away on the Mountain top, music drifting out over the valleys, when a loud noise made them stop once more. They turned to the West to see a fourth person climbing up to join them. He was a short man in a heavy brown overcoat, who wore a weathered gray felt hat. His prominent mustache hung down on either side of his mouth and his eyes were twinkling.

The clatter had come from the objects he carried over his shoulder: suspended from an old broom handle by loops of thick wire was a small galvanized washtub. In it he carried his clothes and other possessions.

“Very handy. Sometimes I wash my clothes in it, and sometimes,” he explained as he set his things down, “I cook my dinner in it. But if you do that,” he added looking around at his new companions, “You really have to. . .wash out!”

He waited to see if the others appreciated his particular style of humour, but Fergi seemed to be cleaning wax out of both ears at the same time, while Dan and Satoru just groaned.

“Oh well,” sighed the fourth man, “Just another drop in the bucket.”

“Why did you come up here?” asked the other three in unison. But they were all smiling.

“Why, looking for mushrooms,” Rawn explained. “It's a small passion of mine. Looks like a good spot for the Lapista nuda, wouldn't you say?” He walked around the stone floor, inspecting the cracks between the rocks.

The others were talking.

“How long have you played that thing?” Fergi asked Dan, waving at his fiddle.

“Since I was a kid,” said Dan, “How about you Satoru?”

“Oh, I'm just a refugee from a rock 'n roll band,” said the man in red. “And you, Ferg?”

“Um me? I have done some marching with a trombone. . .and playin' it too, then an elf from Trail gave me this harmonica. Sure beats luggin' around a trombone case.”

“Well, you certainly have come from different corners of the earth,” observed the man with the hat. He had come up to them as they talked. “But it definitely works when you play together. Sounds like home cookin' to an old bluegrasser like me. But, you know, there is one thing you're missing, and I have it right here.”

“What's that?” asked the three.

“Just wait and you shall see,” he announced and began pulling objects out of his carrying tub. A large pile began to accumulate in front of them: pots and pans, long underwear, mushroom books, gloves, eyeglasses, a camera. . .Finally, after turning the washtub upside down and shaking out some loose change and family of fieldmice, he set the tub down, uncoiled the wire that held it to the broomstick, and – lo and behold it was – a washtub bass! “And that's what you were missing,” explained Rawn, “You need a bass line. My name is Rawn, with a W, now what was that tune you were playing?”

They played together, on and on, one old tune after another, Dan sawing away on the fiddle, Ferg filling in with the harmonica and Satoru providing a solid back beat, while Rawn thumped along on the gut-bucket bass.

And as they played a curious thing began to happen. It started to snow. Winter had arrived at last. The snow gathered in their hair and on their shoulders and it also covered the bird, joining her back into the Mountain from which she had come.

Did they notice the snow or the cold wind that rose, stronger and stronger in the cold air? No, they just played on, so caught up in the music that they didn't even stop when the Mountain began to shake and tremble, shifting on its stony base. They didn't notice that gigantic feathered wings had sprouted from the Mountain's sides to arch high overhead.

They just played on, more and more caught up in the music and as they played the Mountain rumbled and the huge wings began to move, up and down, at first slowly in time to the beat, then faster. Soon the Mountain lifted from its supporting bedrock and they were airborn. As they moved through the wintery sky, music drifted down to the village in the valley below.

The Child was just entering the village, walking along, dragging her branch behind her. Suddenly she stopped. What was that? That sound! Music!! It was coming from somewhere high above her and as she looked up she suddenly saw them through a rift in the clouds: the four musicians, tiny figures on top of the huge Mountain winging its way across the sky.

Dropping the branch, she ran down into the town, shouting “The Mountain! The Flying Mountain!!!”

© 2007, Daniel S. Rubin