Toruk, his eyes wide with amazement, stepped off the Riverbank and into Matla Valley, looking out at the westward expanse, immediately noticing small dancing bulbs of light hovering in the air. They were the fireflies, millions of them whom the Voice had awakened from their winter slumber once again and commanded them to glow now as they normally do in summer, to serve as a moving lamp for Toruk.
What are those things? he thought as he looked on. Fireflies? In winter? The sight mesmerized him, filled him with intrigue and wonder. The flies were not grouped in a swarm but dispersed throughout the entire Valley, suspended in the air like millions of dangling gold earrings. Small pools of frozen water like silver disks scattered throughout the Valley reflected the golden glow of the flies, adding to the glorious ambiance. They immediately obeyed the Voice and went to the young Lijian like a small army of light, fixating themselves just before him.
As the flies began to lead Toruk onward, he gasped at the beautiful white snow blanketing the Valley’s entirety, covering the frozen ground with nearly four inches of soft, powdery whiteness, clinging to the bare trees, enveloping the bushes and shrubs, filling in the natural ridges running through and around the Valley, piling up near the base of the Mountain, hiding the little pools and streams scattered throughout. The snow was like silver sparkles, dazzling, twinkling in the night, shining with a silver white brilliance Toruk had never seen before.
He did not know that the Voice Upon the Mountain had walked this Valley hundreds of thousands of years ago, marking it as the foundation in which Matla Mountain would sit. The Valley reflected his glory, his power, his love, for it contained hidden secrets of the Voice’s authority. He had long ago crafted it with his mighty hand and drew from his well of wisdom the rock upon which his Peak was mounted. Throughout time, many had visited the Valley, yet few understood the purity of its enchanted grounds, or the power of the trees spread throughout. The Voice loved the Valley, perhaps more than Satqin, for it had never disobeyed him, forever bowing to his authority and obeying his commands.
Like the Forest, the Voice had encoded rules within Matla Valley to set it apart from all other creation. It fed from the water of the Chena River which gave it untold powers, allowing it to move and speak in its own enchanted way. Unlike the seasons of Satqin, the Valley never died, for it continuously replenished itself with abundance from the River. And it possessed intelligence, enabling it to judge those who dared to step foot within, opining upon the intruder’s heart, soul, and mind, immediately blocking access to those unworthy of entrance while welcoming those who were. Many times, the Valley had chased away clever, nefarious souls through its fingers of nature, casting sticks and stones in the air, hurling it at the menace, closing its fragrant flowers, or drying out its pools and streams long enough for the unworthy soul to leave. Yet for the worthy one who journeyed through, the Valley opened its arms wide in welcome, greeting the worthy one with a kiss, dancing, showing off its innate purity and righteousness, filling such visitor with awe.
The snow covering Matla Valley was unlike any other, for it was living snow, shining with glory, with a white brilliance Toruk could barely comprehend. Plumes of its dust swirled in the periodic cool breezes that swept through. The more he walked, the more he realized that the snow was more than just beautiful, it was alive. Toruk sensed a strange power within its dust. He could feel its energy, its power, its pulse. Shivers ran up and down his spine as he gingerly trudged through the snow, making tracks that immediately filled in with snow the moment he lifted his foot.
Toruk felt energized with a new spring in his step. He resisted a sudden urge to run, to sprint ahead through the engaging Valley with a strange fantastic, child-like exuberance suddenly coursing through his spirit. I feel like I could climb a mountain, he thought, scanning the landscape, wondering if perhaps it was the power of the living snow that was strengthening him, enabling him to eventually climb to the Peak.
As he moved, he noticed that the snow was not merely resting on the ground like fallen snow should, but rather standing upon it, packed, poised, and alert, able to move and quickly fill in any empty spaces. He felt the snow was somehow watching him, for he noticed plumes of snow dust swirling only when he passed by. Toruk even heard faint whispers upon whispers deep within the blanket of snow as if little hidden fairies were murmuring amongst each other.
"Hello?" he said, his voice echoing.
Some of the snow greeted Toruk in reply, its dust swirling together then gliding towards him, stopping just short at where he was, miraculously defying gravity. Then it came closer to him, gracing his cheek with its cold touch before returning to its previous position, seemingly waiting for him to speak again.
"What are you?" he asked, reaching out to touch the little floating cloud of snow dust. Immediately, it dispersed, falling and settling back on the blanketed ground.
Onward he went, heading towards the Mountain base nestled in the middle of the Valley. Some of the snow flashed like twinkling stars when he passed by. Some continued to greet him as before, swirling around his body then gracing his cheek before disbursing. Some covering the trees trembled the limbs as Toruk neared, likewise greeting him with excitement. Some cheered as loudly as they could though Toruk did not understand Kontan, the language of the living snow.
"Yay!" the snow cheered amongst themselves. "Ojantipe yei Voice! (He has answered the Voice!) He has come for the Sacred Waterstone!"
The deeper Toruk walked into the Valley, passing the natural ridges, heading towards the base, the louder their whispers became. Toruk momentarily stopped to listen, closing his eyes, turning his ear to the sounds yet he could not decipher what he heard. He did not know that the blanket of white-silver sparkles had just broke out into song, extolling the Voice Upon the Mountain, filling the Valley with their usual words of praise. They were moved with emotion in the presence of a humble soul. Even some birds awoke from the slumber and joined in, chirping along, adding melody and tone.
"Lyeb swok Voice yej chejla. (Those who hear the Voice answer his call),” the snow began chanting in Kontan. "Those who love the Voice reach the Peak. Those who obey the Voice receive truth. They desire to fall into the hands of the Voice and not into the hands of men for equal to the Voice's power is the mercy that he shows!"
Though the winter night had grown colder, the Valley seemed somewhat warmer. Toruk felt no need to tighten his coat or blow into his hands to warm them. And when a momentary cool breeze flowed through the snowy Valley, he breathed deep the air, closing his eyes, enjoying the Valley’s delicious natural scent. It smelled like millions of roses in bloom, like the best of perfumeries filled with wonderfully concentrated distilled ingredients. The welcoming scent invigorated him all the more, prompting Toruk to feel especially happy, almost giddy.
"I could live here for the rest of my life," he remarked to himself as he inhaled the intoxicating air, listening to the faint melodious murmuring within the snow.
Toruk did not yet know that the air was just as alive as the snow. Once inside his nostrils and mouth, the fragrant air traveled throughout his body, healing it all the more, correcting wayward cells, fortifying his blood, relaxing his muscles, smoothing his skin and hair, mysteriously filling his stomach with much needed nutrition. It infiltrated his members and renewed his youth, leaving him feeling even stronger and limber.
The Valley’s air flowed from the Peak, thus possessing the power to heal, to set things aright and anew, to bind and restore. It was filled with purity, for only the pure of heart could ingest its beneficial effects while those who were unworthy choked, unable to withstand the air, finding the delicious scent disgusting, the freshness of the air stale and dead, the pervasiveness of it utterly overwhelming. Many hard-hearted visitors had ventured into the Valley over the years only to be swiftly driven out by sudden asthmatic convulsions.
The Voice Upon the Mountain was a being like no other, made not of sticks and stones or blood and flesh, but of absolute power. Within his lungs pumped the air of righteousness and truth, of what is and of what ought to be. Error had no home on the Peak. Mistakes were non-existent. And the Voice was incapable of spewing lies, for what he said came into existence; what he desired was good; what he intended was always out of love and justice. Such were the ingredients in the air, circulating within itself the Voice’s truths, repeatedly confirming that he was the standard of truth and wisdom, of healing, of love, of justice and of power, flowing from the Voice’s mouth and filling the Valley below.
Though much was done to Toruk when he was lying unconscious on the ice hours ago, much more was done now. His blood became enriched with the air, causing his hair to immediately shine with youthful vibrancy, his brown eyes to refocus into an even clearer 20/20, his mind to sharpen with wit and alertness, his gate to become easy and smooth as he plunged his feet in and out of the snowy landscape. In just minutes, Toruk's body reversed nearly seven years in age, returning him to the strong, youthful condition he was years ago.
Toruk certainly felt the change as he moved, walking with a freeness he had never known. The more Toruk breathed in and out the fantastic air, the stronger he became. I could climb to the Peak with no problem, he mused, sensing his muscles strengthening.
"How come I never came here before with father?" Toruk wondered aloud as he went deeper into the Valley, walking through an alley of wintered trees. We should’ve started searching for the Waterstone here instead of in Satqin, he thought.
It was the Voice’s wisdom within the air that was affecting him, triggering questions that would eventually lead him to needed epiphanies. Who wouldn't want to live around here? he thought. Feels so good here. I could run a marathon. And this snow? This air? I feel no fear.
Toruk was uncovering more truth, bit by bit, breath by breath, step by step. An acuity was developing within his mind, revealing not just his errors but his reasonings behind them. The Sacred Waterstone is here, at the Peak. I can feel it. Everything here feels right. I can see.
He was about a mile away from the Mountain base now, walking through the soft snow, his mind churning with thoughts as he looked up at the looming Mountain. Matla Mountain towered over the Valley, shooting straight up like ragged spikes, filled with clusters of black and gray mountain rock reaching a range of 50,000 to 60,000 feet in elevation with the Peak at 77,000 feet high. Lambs and goats lived among the crags. Owls nested within the branches growing out from the Mountainside. Toruk could not see the animals in the night, but he could hear some that lived and moved within the Valley, the pitter-patter of wild rabbits, the cautious steps of white-tailed deer, the melodious chant of snow owls.
Then, about half a mile away, he saw some peculiar vegetation. At first, it appeared to Toruk to be a bed of yellow and red tulips covering the entire grounds immediately around the Mountain base. Though their roots were covered in snow, the tulips stood straight and tall, their petals open in seemingly frozen bloom.
"Tulips?" said Toruk, shocked. "In winter?"
He simply could not contain his curiosity. He picked up his pace and ran ahead of the fireflies toward the unusual scene. Soon the golden flies began to dance with excitement as Toruk immersed himself among the flowers, walking gingerly through their bed, careful not to step on them. The flies flashed their little golden bodies and swarmed in celebratory fashion around him, for they knew their work was now complete. At the Voice’s secret command, they had dutifully led Toruk to the very area where the Voice had preordained him to stand, and on time.
“What’s going on?” said Toruk as he watched the fireflies suddenly amass into a swarm, flying through the air, circling around him, gliding over the flowers.
For several minutes, this beautiful dance continued. The fireflies twinkled and danced, creating a fantastic cloud of sparkling golden light buzzing before Toruk. Some flew around his body. Others graced his cheek as the snow had done. While others danced upon his head, his arms, his shoulders, his bag. Toruk could not help but to laugh, for the sight was a happy one. He could feel the joy of the fireflies though he did not know the reason for it. He threw his head back and laughed as the flies danced. He giggled when some tickled his face and neck. He even danced with them, twisting and turning his body. Toruk could not help it; his spirit was immersed in the joy of the Valley. It consumed him, particularly among the flowers which swayed in the joyful moment.
Eventually the moment passed, and at the Voice’s hidden command, the fireflies promptly dispersed from there, disappearing in the night, returning to their normal hidden places of winter slumber.
“Where are you guys going?” was Toruk’s question as he watched the millions of fireflies abruptly leave.
He thought to follow them, but decided against it, for he sensed that his place was here near the Mountain base among the flowers. As he approached the flowers, he quickly realized that they were not tulips at all but Tavatu, the rarest of all flowers.
Uncle Quinn had mentioned them. “There are flowers, my boy,” he had said to Toruk, “somewhere in the Valley. They’re enchanted.”
“What can they do?” Toruk had asked.
“Oh, my boy, there are many stories about those flowers, some true, some false.”
“Like what?”
“Well, I’ll tell you one that was told to me when I first immigrated to Ceto. I heard that the special flowers in Matla Valley had the powers to make things.”
“Make things?”
“Ah yes, significant things. They could make things out of thin air, just like that,” said Uncle Quinn, snapping his fingers for emphasis.
“What kind of things?” Toruk had asked.
“Well, I heard they could make animals.”
“Animals?”
“And buildings.”
“How is that possible, uncle?”
“I heard they can even make ships and trains.”
“Ships and trains?”
“And,” said Quinn, leaning closer to the young Lijian, “I heard they can even make people.”
“That’s impossible, uncle. Only people can make people.”
“Well, that’s what I heard. Some say those enchanted flowers bloom forever, never dying.”
“Has anyone brought one back?”
“Ah, my boy, no one has brought anything back from Matla Valley because no one has been able to survive there long enough. The enchanted Valley always kicks them out.”
“Maybe that’s why father never took me there. Maybe that’s why we only hiked in Satqin for the Waterstone.”
“Well, Toruk, my brother is gone now. It is you who must carry his torch. You have been found worthy. So follow that Voice. Go to the Peak.”
“Uncle, what were those flowers called?”
“Who knows, my boy? Who knows, eh? Someone may have told me, but I-.” Then Uncle Quinn suddenly thrust his index finger in the air. “Tavatu!” he had said, chuckling. “Ah yes, they’re called the Tavatu!”
The Tavatu were indeed rare, for they were created by the Voice Upon the Mountain, existing only at the Mountain’s base. Though natural, they were filled with the Voice’s deep wisdom and knowledge of material things, of mechanical creations, of equipment and engines and the like. They could call them forth and formulate machines out of thin air, for they stood at attention day and night in continual bloom, pushing through the frozen ground and living snow, lengthening their green stems, spreading their soft leaves then opening their silk petals wide to the heavens, waiting in obedience for the Voice’s commands.
Toruk bent down to touch the strange flowers. The Tavatu’s petals felt like silk to his bare fingers. Their bright green stems were covered in soft tiny hairs that moved on their own as if alive, swaying to their own little wind. The petals were of the brightest red and yellow Toruk had ever seen; a magnificent colorful sight juxtaposed against the bright white snow.
"So, now what?" Toruk said, straightening up, adjusting his bag slung across his body, scanning the Mountain base, looking up, straining to see the Peak in the black night. "How do I reach the Peak from here?"