Matla Mountain was made of the hardest of all rock, for hundreds of thousands of years ago, the Voice Upon the Mountain had not forged it from metamorphic or sedimentary rock like all the other mountains throughout the lands. Instead, he forged it from the heavenly bodies in the galaxies, gathering stars, planets, gases and other matter and combining them into an earthen material strong enough to never move from its base. The Mountain’s power was in its strength, in its ability to stand stiff and strong throughout the ages, never shifting with the tectonic plates of earth, never eroding with rain or wind, its foundation never moving even an inch.
Toruk walked towards one section of the Mountain base and dusted off some snow powder, revealing the dark hard rock beneath. He ran his hands over the rock, feeling its roughness, its cold to the touch. Guess I'm supposed to climb this, he thought, straining to see the rock in the dark night.
He began to dust off more snow powder, feeling around for more rock, searching for a rugged spot, a jagged edge he could use to propel himself up, choosing to first attempt a manual climb before employing Uncle Quinn’s tools.
Toruk was focused now; his mind concentrating on the task at hand. He eventually felt a jagged break in the rock, a little cleft wide and deep enough for his hand to fit within. He put his right hand in the cleft, then felt the rock face to his left, searching for a similar cleft to grip. To Toruk’s surprise, he found one and immediately jutted his hand inside. Then gingerly he pulled his body up from the snowy ground. Hanging on the side of the rock, Toruk lifted his right leg to where his right hand was embedded within the cleft. In a split second, he removed his right hand from the cleft and inserted his right foot, pushing it into the cleft as far as the ball of the foot.
“Right foot,” Toruk mumbled as he worked.
With his right hand free, Toruk felt the rock face again, searching for another similar cleft. He did not find one but instead found a rugged knob of rock slightly jutting out from the mountain face. Toruk wrapped his right hand around it in a tight grip. Then, quickly, he removed his left hand from the cleft and inserted his left foot, pushing it into the cleft as far as the ball of the foot.
"Left foot," he whispered to himself.
With his left hand free, Toruk felt the rock face for a break and found another cleft, a small one. He inserted his left hand in it, but it only went as far as the knuckles. Yet, he gripped it as best he could and lifted his body up. Toruk was nearly ten feet off the ground now. He did not look down but kept a stiff chin. His eyes were stern and focused, constantly looking around the Mountainside, searching for a break in the rock.
His present situation reminded him of an event in the past, though Toruk was perplexed as to why he was recalling it now in this very moment, hanging off the side of Matla Mountain. It was at a time in his youth when his mother was alive, long before she contracted the Shadow’s poison. Young Toruk had sprained his ankle and was limping around until his mother announced she would ring the doctor to inspect Toruk’s ankle that afternoon.
“Here’s money to get some ice cream afterward,” his father had said, smiling, handing Matyp some currency.
“Oh, it was just a mild sprain. He’ll be fine,” his mother had replied, kissing Tofer on the cheek. “But thank you, my darling.”
Toruk had never suffered a serious injury up to that point in his life. The ankle sprain had hampered his playtime and filled him with a sense of childish irrational dread that he would never walk normally again. With exaggerated emphasis, he had limped to his mother and father who were standing in the hallway, talking.
“Mother,” young Toruk had said, “but I can barely walk. How could I ever walk into a doctor’s office? And I’m much too big for you to carry me.”
“Oh, child” Matyp responded, caressing his face lovingly, “don’t worry. All will be alright.”
Then she eventually turned to some busyness, cooking the Tal dinner meal, assisting her husband with sweeping and mopping the floor, checking on little Tame, for he was just a babe in his bassinet. Meanwhile, Toruk had grown more anxious, returning to his room and plopping on the bed to ruminate, growing ridiculously fearful by the minute, his young mind churning with scenarios where he would have to crawl into the doctor’s office, or hopelessly break his ankle if he attempted to walk, soliciting great pain and anguish, or that his mother would attempt to carry him but would accidentally drop him, causing him to sustain even greater wounds than he already had.
Tofer briefly came into Toruk’s room and ordered him to clean it.
“But jijpi (father), I’m hurt,” was Toruk’s reply as his father talked.
“Find a way, ij felij (my boy),” his father had retorted, “because no sijn (son) of mine will ever keep a room as messy as this one.”
So with some mild pain, discomfort and childish exaggeration, Toruk limped along his room as he tidied it, using furniture as make-shift crutches, leaning on his bedpost before bending down to pick up his pajamas and some dirty socks, using the wall for balance as he straightened up his shoes in the closet, finding and setting each matching shoe together, even sitting on a chair as he sloppily straightened his bedspread as best he could. And when he was done, he bent down, rubbing his sore ankle, childishly angered that his father had insisted he clean his room despite his pain.
Toruk had remained in his room for some time, listening to little Tame’s snores as he slept in the next room, then played with a rock he had found on his way from school one day, throwing it up in the air, examining its glinting black substance, bouncing it against the wall as if it were a ball.
“Toruk!” his father had angrily called from somewhere in the house, implying that the young Lijian’s noisy play with the rock was too much for the elder to bear.
“Sorry, father,” Toruk had mumbled, clasping the rock in his hands.
He was both bored and afraid, still wondering about his ankle. If somehow, he truly broke it on the way into the doctor’s office, little Toruk believed he would never recover. He fantasized that he would be forever maimed, perhaps switching out his broken foot for a fake one, forever walking with an awkward hopping gate, becoming the butt of jokes, ostracized by his Cetan friends.
He believed his mother was making a mistake by forcing him to walk into a doctor’s office, a mistake she would never recover from and forever regret, for by her unwitting actions, her first-born son would suffer untold pain and horrors for the rest of his life, living without a foot, perhaps rolling in a rolling chair along the Cetan streets, unable to work, to provide shelter or food for himself, perhaps living on the street like a-
“Toruk, darling!” called Matyp, effectively shaking young Toruk from his rambling thoughts. “Where are you?”
He looked at his closed bedroom door. “I’m in my room, mother!” he called back, curious as to what she wanted.
Then he heard footsteps in the hallway approaching his door. He could decipher his mother’s delicate steps, for she walked with a daintily toe-heel gait as if she were a dandelion gently tossing around in a breeze. But the other footsteps Toruk did not know. They were not of his father’s, for Tofer’s steps were always sure and striking, thumping down the hallway like a king off to battle.
Then someone knocked.
“Toruk, darling,” said his mother, “I’m coming in. Is that alright?”
“Sure, mother,” was Toruk’s reply.
And when she opened the bedroom door, there standing next to her was the local Cetan podiatrist holding a large briefcase, looking kindly at young Toruk through his round, wire-rimmed glasses.
“This is Dr. Lec,” his mother had said, gesturing for the doctor to follow her inside her son’s bedroom. “He’s going to take a look at your ankle, son.”
Toruk smiled bright, apparently relieved that none of his previous childish ruminations would come true.
“Mother,” he said, “I thought you were taking me to the doctor.”
Matyp took young Toruk’s face in her hands. “Oh, son,” she said, her brown eyes looking at him knowingly, twinkling with a joyful, motherly love, “I wouldn’t let you endure more pain than you’ve already suffered.”
“I’m so glad I don’t have to walk there, mother,” said Toruk, watching the doctor set his briefcase down and open it, searching for his supplies.
“Oh Toruk,” his mother said, looking into his eyes, her voice dripping with wisdom, “you don’t have to climb every mountain. Sometimes, especially when you are unable, the mountain will just have to come to you. See, since it was too difficult for you to walk, I brought the doctor to you.”
It was the Voice Upon the Mountain who had sent the vivid memory to Toruk as a clever form of present communication, hoping to inspire him not to climb Matla Mountain but to instead return to the ground and wait for the Voice’s power to come to him.
But Toruk did not understand. So the Voice sent a benevolent animal to again discourage Toruk from climbing. Thus, as the young Lijian continued to climb, he suddenly heard hooves above him, to his right.
Clinging to the side of the rock, he froze when he saw a doe, astounded by its majesty and its ability to balance itself on a slight cliff. Its body shone with brilliance, its fur a radiant brown, its breast and tail a bright white, brighter than the silver-white snow, its delicate bodice a picture of poised perfection, its exquisite eyes deep and knowing.
At the Voice Upon the Mountain’s hidden command, the doe first looked at Toruk, sufficiently capturing his attention. Then it turned its head downward at the Mountain base, gazing at the snowy ground covered with Tavatu. It maintained its position, waiting for Toruk to follow suit, to understand its implication, that Toruk must return to the ground.
Instead, Toruk, with his right hand, reached for the edge of the cliff the doe was standing on, thinking he too could climb atop it. When he wrapped his right hand around a jagged edge of rock, the Voice ordered the doe to stomp its hooves near his hand to force him to let go. The doe readily obliged, stomping its hooves near Toruk’s hand, but the young Lijian did not let go. Instead, he strengthened his grip while enduring the doe's manufactured fit. It stomped its hooves again. It shook its head wildly. It screamed loudly, its shrill voice echoing across the Valley.
Still Toruk held on, attempting to propel himself up and over the little cliff. He brought his left hand to the cliff while putting his left and right foot into the clefts his hands were previously in. He tried several times to pull himself up, but the doe intensified its behavior, stomping and wailing at Toruk to no avail.
“You know, my boy, even Matla Mountain is enchanted,” Uncle Quinn had said as he poured hot tea into a dirty cup. “Significantly enchanted.”
“How?” Toruk had asked.
“Well, I remember when I first came here to Ceto. It was before I met my Keli. I was told that the Mountain could move.”
“Move?”
“Ah yes, Toruk, move on its own.”
“You mean, physically move?”
“In a way.”
“Well, don’t all mountains move?”
“Oh, not like Matla. The base doesn’t move. But I heard the rocks move; the ones covering the Mountainside.”
“Matla Mountain?”
“Yes. And when the Mountain rocks move, it does it on its own.”
“Uncle, I just can’t believe that. It doesn’t sound right.”
“My boy, what about anything sounds right, eh? Here we are in the midst of a strange emergency with half the town blind or dying from an unknown disease. You yourself can’t see, and I’m sure I’m probably next. And all of Ceto is divided now, Cetans against Lijians, Lijians against Ulans. None of this makes sense, Toruk. None of it!”
“Uncle Quinn?” asked Toruk, though unseeing, positioning his curious face right before his uncle.
“Yes,” Uncle Quinn had responded after slurping some of his hot tea.
“You’ve been to Matla Mountain, haven’t you?”
Toruk heard the slurping stop.
“Of course not, Toruk,” said Uncle Quinn unconvincingly.
“You must have, uncle. You know so much. And there’s no one here in Ceto who knows more about Matla than you.”
Uncle Quinn sighed, setting his cup down on a nearby table. “Yes, yes, my boy,” he said in a low tone. “I tried to climb it.”
“You did?”
“I was young. I had just come from Liji to Ceto, searching for work. And I met some people in the city square offering me money to climb Matla Mountain. I just needed the money. It was a significant amount.”
“So you’ve been to the Valley? How far up the Mountain did you get?”
“Not far. I went to the Valley in spring. Yes, that’s right, it was in spring. Everything was wet and new and green. Oh, my boy, I saw things I had never seen before, blazing golden fireflies, humongous butterflies, raindrops that seemed to dance before my very eyes, wild animals that looked at me with knowing eyes, as if they could see straight into my soul!”
“Then what happened?”
“Well, I got as far as the Tavatu. I remember that because that was the only thing those people told me about the Valley. They told me to beware of the Tavatu at the base of the Mountain. They said the flowers were poisonous.”
“Were they?”
“Well, when I got there, I saw a bed of thousands upon thousands of flowers standing up straight and tall in perfect bloom. Oh, Toruk, it was a sight to see! They didn’t look poisonous at all.”
“So how come you couldn’t climb the Mountain?”
“Every time I set my foot on a Mountain crag, it miraculously became smooth, and I slid down. Every time! I would put my hands on the Mountain, and I could feel the jagged rock. I could feel some places for me to climb. I could even see it. But as soon as I set my foot to it, the Mountain rocks moved, my boy! The rocks on the side of the Mountain suddenly moved like they were forming a smooth shield. I couldn’t get a grip. I just couldn’t climb it.”
“How long were you there?”
“Oh, about half a day. I tried and tried, but nothing worked. I walked around the Mountain base, looking for a place to climb but the rock did the same thing to me. And when I was walking around-” Uncle Quinn stopped to wipe away a stray tear.
“Uncle?” asked Toruk, unable to see him crying.
“Sorry, my boy, sometimes my emotions get the best of me.”
“What happened, uncle? What happened in Matla?”
“Ah, it was the Tavatu. They-they kicked me right out of the Valley, like I was just a piece of trash! I was heartbroken, not that I was rejected but that I didn’t make the money I needed.”
“How did flowers kick you out?”
“They-they just did, my boy. Those flowers showed me that I wasn’t worthy to be in the Valley and I certainly wasn’t worthy enough to climb Matla.”
“I’m sorry, uncle.”
“Oh, no need for that now. That was many, many years ago. I’m an old man now filled with memories, but not you, Toruk. You have a chance to do what I couldn’t do and what your father didn’t even know to do, eh? You’re the answer to the legend. That’s why the Voice called you.”
“I hope I survive the Valley.”
“You will.”
“How do you know?”
“Because unlike me, you’re not doing this for money.”
“Uncle, when you climbed the Mountain, what did you use?”
“Well, mostly I used my bare hands, my boy,” he said, standing up and walking toward a slim closet nestled in the corner of the living room. “But,” continued Uncle Quinn, opening the closet door, “I had this with me.”
“What is it?” asked Toruk, unable to see.
“Here,” said Uncle Quinn, pressing the tools in the young man’s hands. “It’s a rope, a stake, and a harness. What you do is first position this stake right above you as far as you can reach. You use it like an anchor. Then you pull the rope through the stake, and through your harness. And you just pull and pull until you move up.”
“So these didn’t work when you tried to climb?” asked Toruk, feeling them in his hands.
Uncle Quinn shook his head. “No, I tried many times. I attached and re-attached the harness. I adjusted the rope. I adjusted the stake. I made new anchors. Nothing. The rocks just laid down like a flat surface. The rocks were so smooth it felt like silk when I tried to climb it!”
“Wow.”
“Maybe it’ll work for you, my boy. Maybe you’ll have better use of those tools than I did.”
“But how can I climb a Mountain I can’t see?” asked Toruk, placing the tools in his bag.
Uncle Quinn put his hand on the young man’s shoulder. “Anything is possible, Toruk,” he said. “Especially in that Valley. Anything is possible, anything.”
Finally, Toruk managed to pull himself up over the cliff and scramble to his feet. To his surprise, the mysterious doe had disappeared, for the Voice had secretly called it back.
“Alright, at least I’m on the Mountain somewhere,” Toruk mumbled to himself, looking up and around, searching for another opportunity to climb.
Then he pulled the bag from around his back and set it down on the little precipice he was standing upon. He opened it and pulled out Uncle Quinn’s tools, seeing them for the first time, a worn gray rope, a sharp iron stake and a black harness frayed at the seams. Quickly Toruk got to work, attempting to set up the tools in the way his uncle had told him.