Toruk could see. The deep blue night, the frosty icy River, the witching trees of Satqin, the shadow of the looming Matla Mountain in the distance; he could see it all.
“Wow,” he gasped as he slowly stood up.
It took little time for his mind to register the colors, the shades, the tones of his immediate surroundings, for he had remembered all of it. Toruk turned around as he looked, stunned, shocked, grateful yet concerned all the same.
“What’s happening?” he whispered, rubbing his eyes, thinking perhaps he was dreaming, but his body told him otherwise.
The biting wind seemed icier now that he could see the glittering white snow and frost piled atop the Chena River. He tugged on his collar, wrapped his coat around him tighter, noticing for the first time the coat’s deep blue stitching and silver buttons. Then he blew into his hands to warm them. The sight of his ungloved hands startled Toruk as he stared at the hue of his natural color covering his knuckles, the natural lines in his palms, the white of his fingertips. He slowly closed and opened his hands as if he had never seen them before.
The living snow had restored Toruk’s vision to 20/20, for he was able to see as through clear glass, crisper than he had ever remembered. When he turned to his right, he saw Satqin’s trees lining east of the Riverbank, clusters of hundreds of thin gray trees stretched tall like giant shadows in the night. He saw the silver glow of the moon flickering through the trees as the clouds moved. He saw the dark green underbrush along the Forest floor. He saw the scurrying of small things moving, a bird hopping from one branch to the next, a small animal dashing along the ground, a dead brown leaf fluttering in the air.
Several tears of joy slid down Toruk’s face as he looked around. When he wiped his tears, he noticed the wound on his cheek was completed restored, smooth to the touch. He was stunned speechless at the significant change to his entire physical body, especially his sight, for just moments ago, he was trapped in a fog of darkness after the hawks dropped something on him.
He remembered the thump of a little bottle bouncing against his head before his resulting slump to the ice. And he recalled the terrifying darkness that had immediately come over him, darker than his previous blindness, darker than the darkest of all nights. In fact, the darkness of his coma had felt to Toruk like a black shadow possessing nothing but engulfing all colors, all tones, every streak of light, consuming them then snuffing out their attributes and their joyful gleams until there was nothing remaining, nothing left of what was or what could be, yet retaining all the attributes of itself, the dark mark that it was, imprinting its signature without hesitation but with boldness upon his mind, attempting to convince him that the blackness was indispensable for him to live though it promised nothing, that it would entangle itself with all his speech though it spoke nothing, that it would underscore his moods, his emotions, the fabric of his clothes though it did not live and could not cry, that it would forevermore dot his natural landscape with its blunt black tones though it could not feel the wind; and its treachery temporarily worked, all of it, for while Toruk lay unconscious, he seemed convinced that should he wake, he would not be able to live without the coma’s darkness, its impenetrable blackness, its dispassionate touch threatening to wrap him in its nothingness as if it was the source of his very breath.
But after Toruk awoke, everything changed. He suddenly began thinking of his future, wondering if there was indeed a life for him, employment, a career, a job that he could commit to. He had always loved the outdoors and thought perhaps, after he retrieved the Sacred Waterstone from the Voice Upon the Mountain, he could come back and serve as a tour guide of sorts, teaching visitors how to climb Matla Mountain to reach its Peak.
“Rona,” Toruk whispered as his mind turned to her, the childhood friend whom he had secretly loved since the first grade. He imagined her at his side as his bride, living in his father’s house with him and Tame, laughing and enjoying all that life had to offer. Rona had never cared that Toruk was a Lijian and had treated him with great respect and heartfelt friendship.
“I’ll marry her,” Toruk found himself mumbling as he marveled at the curious invigorating energy coursing through his veins.
He felt he could run a marathon, scale a wall, run back through Satqin even and defeat the Shadow again. He sensed his muscles were taught and stronger than they had ever been. Toruk noticed his stomach no longer grumbled, for he felt satiated as if he had just eaten the best of meals. The soreness in his limbs had disappeared. His legs no longer felt stiff with cold. His mind was as clear as a bell as he surveyed his surroundings. To his left, he saw the magnificent expanse of Matla Valley just three miles away to the west, dazzling with sparkling bleach-white snow on the ground, dappled upon the treetops, and nestled in the crevices of Matla Mountain.
“Wow,” Toruk mumbled as he beheld it, as if he had never seen the Valley from a distance before.
It shone with a brilliance his eyes could not tear away from, that is until his eyes rested on the western face of Matla Mountain. The rock appeared nearly black in the deep night, periodically glinting beneath the moving moon light. He had not remembered it to be this imposing, this strong and powerful, like a giant fist in the middle of the Valley. Toruk felt a sudden strong urge to go to it, to flee to the Mountain and scale it until he reached its Peak.
And when he saw the Peak, craning his neck as he looked up and up, squinting through the dark night, following the shadowed outline of the rugged Mountain with his eyes, he gasped. Atop the Peak, he saw a flicker of vertical light like a slim door alit from within. In that moment, Toruk knew that was the Voice Upon the Mountain or perhaps the image of himself the Voice wanted Toruk to see.
“Toruk,” called the Voice, his booming words gliding upon a sliver of the Yuli Wind, “I love you.”
“What are you?” Toruk asked as he watched the light pulse when the Voice spoke.
“I am the Voice Upon the Mountain.”
“Are you a man?”
“Continue to the Peak, Toruk. I have the Sacred Waterstone.”
“Are you a spirit?”
The Voice did not respond nor the light dance.
“Are you a spirit?” Toruk repeated.
“I am.…Mystery,” said the Voice.
“Mystery?”
“I am the open and closed door.”
“What does that mean?”
“I am the beginning and end of your time.”
“My time? You mean, my life?”
“The time of the age of man.”
“But what about your life? Who made you?”
“I was not made, Toruk.”
“Where did you come from?”
“I am the Voice Upon the Mountain.”
“So you’re from the Mountain? You’re a part of the Mountain?”
“No, the Mountain is a part of me.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Look at the heavens, Toruk. What do you see?”
Toruk looked up. The deep purple-black hues of the sky were filled with stars, moving snow clouds and a powdery moon.
“I see the stars,” said Toruk, “the moon, the clouds.”
“What do you see beyond that?” asked the Voice.
“I can’t see beyond that.”
“Beyond your heavens is my eternal throne, existing outside of space and time. Upon your temporal Mountain, my feet rest. Yet upon my eternal throne, I am seated. Your temporal life, your temporal world, your temporal things are reflections of my eternal power. All are my creations.”
“Yours?”
“Ta (Yes).”
“I am yours?”
“If you want to be.”
“But you just said-”
“Toruk, all are my creations but not all are mine. Some follow the Shadow.”
“You’re eternal?”
“Yes.”
“So you can never die?”
“No.”
“Were you born?”
“No.”
“Do you eat food?”
“I am filled.”
“With what?”
“What do you see dancing upon the Peak, Toruk?”
“Light.”
“Such is my food.”
“What do you do?”
“Work.”
“Work?”
“The Shadow is at work, so I am at work.”
“You hated the Shadow?”
“I created the being within the Shadow. The Shadow created himself.”
“Being? The Shadow was a man?”
“Toruk, continue to the Peak. Now that you can see, fight back. I will fight with you.”
“Fight back? But I already killed the Shadow.”
“Cioijnij t ij Peak. (Continue to my Peak.)”
“But who must I fight back?”
The Voice did not respond nor the light dance.
“I love you, Toruk,” was the Voice’s reply after some time.
“How? How do you love me?” asked Toruk.
“As a mother nurses her young and a father guides his brood, so do I love you.”
“Why did you let them die?”
The Voice did not respond nor the light dance.
“Why?!” Toruk repeated.
“My plans are too sublime for you, Toruk,” responded the Voice. “Come to the Peak.”
“I miss them.”
“Depend upon me now.”
“You’ll help me with everything?”
“Yes.”
“And Tame, too?”
“Yes.”
“Will the Waterstone really work?”
“Yes.”
“What if someone tries to take it from me?”
“I will strengthen you.”
“With what?”
“With the breastplate of faith and the sword of love.”
“Faith…love?”
“Such are the weapons a worthy soul needs to defeat the Shadow.”
“But I killed him, didn’t I?”
“He lives, Toruk.”
“But how?”
“You defeated him with a burgeoning spark of faith, but that is not enough to kill him.”
“Faith?”
“Yes, Toruk, faith…in me.”
“Well, I kind of believed you when you called me. Honestly, I had no choice. I have to do this for my father, for my brother, for Ceto.”
“Come to the Peak.”
“My house is falling apart.”
“You can see now. You will work.”
“You’ll help me get a job?”
“You will work for me.”
“And give us food and money?”
“You can depend upon me.”
“I-I want to have a family one day.”
“In me, you will bear much fruit.”
“With Rona?”
“With me in your midst.”
“So how do I climb the Mountain when I get there?”
The Voice did not respond nor the light dance.
“But how do I climb the Mountain?!” repeated Toruk.
Silence.
“Voice!” called Toruk. “Voice! How do I climb the Mountain to reach the Peak?!”
Silence.
Then the vertical sliver of light that was upon the Peak briefly flickered before disappearing. The young Lijian stood there for several minutes in awe, contemplating the sight, the Voice’s words. His mind was churning, busily processing all that had happened this night. The hawks, Toruk realized. He saved me from the hawks. He did that. The People’s Pond. The Meadow. He must have some power over the Wind. It was all him. He saved me. And he opened my eyes.
Toruk marveled at the Peak, wondering what his family and friends would think if they could see him now, strong, energized, healed. He vowed he would tell everyone he knew about the Voice Upon the Mountain, that he was real and indeed resided upon Matla Mountain Peak. He would show everyone in Ceto his eyes, remarking that though he had been blinded by the Shadow’s poison, he could now see.
Toruk smiled softly at the thought. “Tame,” he whispered, “and Rona and Quinn and the mayor and everybody. I’ll tell them all. After I get the Waterstone, I’ll them all about him.”
There was no more time to waste. Any doubt Toruk had felt was completely washed away, leaving a clean slate steeped in determination and will. Though he had received no answer as to how he would scale the Mountain, I have to get to the Peak was Toruk’s single concluding thought.
So the young Lijian continued moving west, his energy renewed, his mind settled on the mission. When he looked down at his feet shuffling across the frozen River, he was again shocked, for the ice Uncle Quinn spoke of was astonishingly whisper thin. In his previous blindness, Toruk had expected the ice to be much thicker than it now appeared. But he could see, even in the late winter night, that the Chena River was barely frozen. He should have fallen through. The ice should have cracked beneath his boots. The weight of his body should have given way and plunged him into the frigid deep. But instead, the thin sheet of ice held with nary a crack as he walked upon it. He must have power over the River, too, thought Toruk.
“The Chena River is the reason why Ceto exists,” Uncle Quinn had said. “I bet the Sacred Waterstone came from it.”
“I don’t know,” Toruk had replied. “Jijpi (Mother) and I had looked up and down the Riverbank and found nothing out of the ordinary.”
“Well, the Waterstone will have something to do with that River. It’s magical, boy. The River’s magic is what enchants Matla Valley.”
“Magic?”
“Toruk, my boy, the Chena River is as ancient as life itself. It’s filled with power. Didn’t Tofer tell you this?”
“No,” Toruk had said, shaking his head. “We searched its banks. We even swam in it. But we could never cross it. Father thought it was too dangerous. We only saw the Valley from a distance, from Satqin.”
“Well, when you get out there,” Uncle Quinn replied, leaning forward to poke Toruk in the shoulder, “don’t go messing around, eh? Respect the River and it’ll respect you.”
As Toruk stood upon the frozen River, he slowly began to realize that all were working together, the Yuli Wind, the Chena River, the Voice Upon the Mountain. Somehow, they had been working in hidden concert throughout his journey, making what should have been impossible possible. A flood of gratitude suddenly enveloped his heart, filling him with an overwhelming sense of responsibility. Maybe Quinn was right, Toruk thought. Maybe the Voice is right. Maybe I am the worthy one.
For another mile, Toruk slid across the magical Chena River as if on rusty skates with soft punches of the Yuli Wind behind him, periodically pushing him forward. A short snow clipper passed through as Toruk moved, quickly piling snow along the River, creating small icy mounds that crunched beneath his feet. The white dust illuminated the dark skies as in a fairy tale, swirling in the regular wind, covering everything with yet another blanket of silvery white sparkles.