Spirit Climb

by Russell Pike

If he turned back now, the truth atop the mountain would be lost to him forever. That he could not accept. He would turn back no more. Tonight, the boy would climb.

Photograph by Eberhard Grossgasteiger

He had come once again, and he knew not why. The boy clutched his arms around himself, trying to ward off the nighttime chill. His bare feet scraped against the stony ground as he paced forward. His body glowed with youthful vigor, but his hands were soft and unproven.  Uncertainty roiled within him as he considered the task ahead.

          The lonely peak stretched up like a giant’s finger pointing towards a sky painted with a swath of impossibly bright stars. On the highest point he could see a shadow, though whether it was tree, stone, or man, he could not tell. All the same, he could not turn away. The mountain pulled at his heart with a soft, but urgent tug while the wind whistling about its peak whispered at him to climb.

          A part of him yearned to answer the call, but a sense of foreboding gripped his heart like an icy hand. The silhouetted trees, and starry sky all cried the same warning. Atop the mountain was a truth, bright and sharp as a naked blade. Once he’d learned it, his life would change forever.

          Why would he want that? The boy’s village was safe, and his life there was familiar and warm. His will faltered, and he turned to leave just as he had the last night, and the night before that. This time he stopped, ordering his feet to stand their ground. Thrice the mountain had called him here, and if he retreated now, thrice he would have denied the call.

          In the stories, a sacred gift was never offered a fourth time. If he turned back now, the truth atop the mountain would be lost to him forever. That he could not accept.  He would turn back no more. Tonight, the boy would climb.

          He scrabbled over piles of shale until he could lay his hand on the mountain’s rough face. The rocks were cool, but dry and he quickly found purchase. He pulled himself up, groped about in the darkness for another handhold, and pulled again. Small stones skittered away as he climbed, ringing dully on the ground below as he rose. Soon he was high enough to see over the tops of the trees.

          He pushed on ever upwards. His arms and calves soon burned from the effort. Sweat trickled down his face and stung his eyes. His breath came in a ragged, but steady rhythm as he surpassed the height of the surrounding hills. He risked a look above. There was yet more climbing ahead, but the peak was drawing nearer.

          A horse-sized shadow passed across the sky in a rustle of feathers, momentarily blinding the stars. The boy gasped in horror as he recognized the gargantuan owl for what it was. It turned its snowy head down and regarded him with eyes like twin coals. It dipped its wing and wheeled towards him then gave an ear piercing screech he felt in his teeth.

          The owl swooped into a dive, raising its talons as it hurtled towards the boy. With nowhere to hide, the boy clung to the mountain. He cried out as the owl’s talons raked at his back. The wind of the owl’s passing and sudden pain threatened his grip. His left hand slipped, and he swung back and forth, nauseous at the drop yawning beneath him.

          The owl hooted in triumph and began circling for another attack. The boy scrabbled with hands and feet, desperate for grip. His feet found a toehold, but the rocks under his left hand were loose. Hanging on with three limbs, he pried at one of the rocks until it came free in his hand.

          The boy sensed more than saw the owl dive into its second attack. He turned, rock in hand, and waited. Just as the owl’s glowing red eyes came level with his own, he swung the rock with all his might. The blow struck across the owl’s brow with a heavy crack. The great bird squawked in surprise and fell. It flapped its wings noisily, only regaining its flight many feet below. He watched as it glided off into the night, waiting for it to wheel back, but it did not.

          The boy took a moment to breathe as his heart descended from his throat. The fight had been short, but it had drained him nevertheless. His arms and legs had begun to tremble with fatigue. The wounds he’d received from the owl’s talons burned, and warm blood soaked his shirt. 

The beast had gone for now, but how long did he have before it came back? Perhaps he’d been a fool to climb in the first place. He should return while he still had strength. He looked back at the peak, then again below. The hardest part of the climb was yet ahead, but he’d come over half way. He wouldn’t turn back now, not until he’d learned the truth the mountain had to give.

          The boy pressed on. Chill winds whipped at him, stealing the warmth from his fingers and toes. He could no longer hear the rocks he’d knocked loose striking the ground and his breath rose in misty plumes.

          Every inch became a struggle. His arms and legs felt like water, water that would soon freeze. He was too cold to feel the cuts in his palms, but he could see the bright wet patches left behind where he’d placed hands. His breathing grew more desperate, every lungful a battle against the thinning air.

          Snow whipped through the wind, blinding him. He fought on by feel alone. His arms and legs were leaden with cold and fatigue, forcing him to coax them on with every movement. He began counting every pull, waiting for the moment his strength would fail him, and he would plummet to the earth below. One, two, three, four. He pulled one more time, and his hand found flat stone. Hope surged within him as he realized he’d reached the top. With a final burst of strength, the boy dragged himself across his belly to the safety of the summit.

          For a time, all he did was breathe deep gulps of air. The parts of his body that weren’t numb ached, but the glow of his success warmed him. Once he’d caught his breath, he forced himself unsteadily to his feet, ready for the mountain to show him what he’d earned.

          The mountain's top was surprisingly flat. Snow drifted and blew about the peak, though none seemed to settle on the ground. Curtains of light hung in the air above, and voices spoke in the wind. They whispered in his ear, urging him forward, for what he sought was nigh at hand. He felt as though he were standing at a threshold, thought to what he could not say.

          On the other far side of the peak was the shadow he’d seen from far below. Through the snow he could see that it was indeed a tall rock. A fire crackled invitingly in a hollow at its base. The boy stumbled forwards, eager for the life-giving heat.

          As he closed, a figure stirred in the darkness and leaned into the fire’s light. It was a woman, though she was impossibly thin and taller sitting than he was standing. Whatever the woman was, she wasn’t human. She radiated an aura of primal patience. He’d felt it once before in the chill breeze of early spring, a sense of something that yearned, yet could afford to wait because it knew it would be as surely as the sun would rise. He’d heard of spirit guides before, perhaps the woman was one of these? 

The boy moved closer for a better look. The woman was wrapped in a white blanket speckled with dabs of rich brown. A smell like autumn loam hung about her like an earthy perfume. He took another step then stopped short. Fear gripped him as he saw her face was covered by a mask in the likeness of an owl’s head. She tilted her head towards the boy, eyes like twin coals regarding him from within the mask. He drew back, ready to flee.

“Stop, boy,” the woman commanded. Her voice was not the smooth of freshly sanded wood, but the smooth of a river rock, carefully sculpted by eons of wind and rain. “You have nothing to fear from me, not now at least. Come sit, before you freeze to death.”

          She beckoned, and the boy took a step forward. The fire’s healing warmth called to him.  As he drew closer, he could smell venison roasting over the embers. His stomach growled hungrily, though he still made sure to sit opposite the woman, keeping the fire between them.

          “Caution is well and good, but your eyes already feast on my supper.” She gave a small laugh. “Though I suppose I’ve never known a boy your age who wasn’t hungry. Eat.” She waved a hand towards the strips of sizzling meat. “I offer freely.”

          The boy eyed the woman warily, but he could not deny his hunger or cold. He snatched a strip of meat and stuffed it in his mouth, savoring the sweet flavor. The heat from the fire soaked into his limbs while warmth from the food radiated out to fill his belly. The tension and weariness slowly drained from the boy’s body, and even the pain from the claw wounds on his back began to subside. After he’d finished his third piece of meat, he felt ready to speak.

          “I know you are the great owl,” the boy said, hoping he sounded bold. “Why did you attack me?”

          “To know if your desire was true,”she said, acknowledging her attack without a hint of remorse. “Now tell me what you have learned of this place so far?”

          “This is a dream.”

          “It is.” The woman gave a nod of her mask.

          “But it is no ordinary dream.”

          “True indeed.” The smile in the woman’s voice was obvious. “It is good to see you’ve managed to piece that much together for yourself.”

          The boy considered his next question carefully. The woman waited patiently, and for a time the only sound was the popping of the logs in the fire. 

          “Why have you called me here?” the boy finally asked.

          “I have done no such thing.”

          The boy thought about it and realized the woman was right. “Then why has my heart called me to this place?”

          “A much better question,” the woman said approvingly. “You came here because you seek a guide, and I have answered your call.”

          “Guide me to where?”

          “This is more important than where, boy.” She reached under her drape and produced a walking stick. “Don’t look so confused. I’m here to explain. Follow me.”

          The woman used her stick to gracefully rise. Standing, she was easily over nine feet tall, though somehow the boy no longer felt intimidated. She left the ring of light around the fire, gesturing for the boy to follow. He did as he was bade, though the warmth of the fire and food lingered with him as he walked back into the snow and darkness.

          The woman’s draped blanket rustled as she walked. Her stride was long, but slow enough the boy could easily keep up. Snow whirled through the air, but no flake ever settled on the woman’s shoulders.

          They made their way to the mountain’s edge, on the opposite side from which the boy had climbed. Far below he could see a vast ocean stretching into the horizon, the frothy peaks of its waves glowing in the light of the stars above.

          The woman waved her stick in a wide arc that took in the entire ocean. “Look boy, what do you see?”

          The boy peered through the haze of snow. Despite the great distance, he could feel cool spray against his face and hear the rumble of the waves breaking against the mountain’s face. As he continued to look, shapes moved just beneath the surface of the water, each one a window into another life.

          “I see hope, fear, pain, and joy. I see vast riches and grinding poverty. I see crowns of glory, and tongues of scorn. I see love both gained and lost. I see a scholar, a scoundrel, a warrior, a tyrant, a wise man, and a father.” The boy stopped recounting what he saw as he realized describing the vastness of the visions before him was impossible. “What are these things?”

“They are the future,” the woman said, then pointed her a long finger at him. “Your future.”

          The boy felt taken aback. “Do I have a destiny?”

          The woman chuckled. “No, boy, something far greater. An opportunity. Listen, what does your heart tell you?”

          The boy listened. The crashing waves below called to him, and he felt a yearning to stretch his arms and leap into the silvery waters below, to swim as deep as his lungs would allow, and sail as far as the winds would carry him. The winds and the surf and the visions beneath the waves played like music, a melody as old as time yet fresh to his ears.

          “You hear it,” the woman said softly. “That is the call of life. It comes to all boys who would be men, and girls who would be women. Now it is your turn.”

          The boy felt a sudden swell of anxiety as the visions played out before him. “But which fate will be mine? Which of the visions is true? Which of those men will I become?”

“All of them,” the woman shook her head, “or perhaps none of them. The future is written in sand, not stone. I can promise only that nothing of worth will be gained without toil, the chance of success walks hand in hand with the risk of failure, and the road to wisdom is often paved in sorrow.”

“I know what you say is true,” the boy said as he looked down. “And it frightens me.”

“It is only natural to feel so.” Suddenly the boy felt a long hand rest gently on his shoulder. “The gift of life is no gem to hold, or carving to admire, but clay to be molded by your own hands into a shape that only your own heart can tell you.” She gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “Now it is time to choose. Go back the way you came or take the gift that lies before you.”

          The boy stood at the cliff’s edge as visions both great and terrible played out before him. He thought of his village and the safe, familiar life that he had come to know. Safe, yes, like a butterfly’s cocoon.

If he leapt into the ocean below, what would be his portion of joy and sorrow? Which of the possible futures would become the truth? He could not say. He knew but one truth, the truth he had climbed the mountain to gain, the truth that had changed his life forever. If he returned to the safety of his village, none of the futures the ocean offered would be his. It was the only certainty, but it was enough.

The boy stretched his arms wide and cast himself from the cliff. Wind whipped against him as he fell, whistling past as the ocean hurtled up to meet him.

From far above the woman cried out, “You choose well!”

          The man awoke in his warm bed, tucked in a corner of his familiar cottage. He dressed, packed his few belongings and left his village. A delicious sense of excitement glowed in his chest, and hope lightened his step. As he passed through the village gate, a snowy owl watched him from her perch in a tree. He gave her a nod of thanks as he turned to the west and began his life’s journey.

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About the Author

Russell has enjoyed both reading and writing from a young age. He wrote as a hobby during high school and college, later graduating from college with a B.S. after studying Zoology and Economics. 

While not writing, Russell enjoys hiking and volunteering at local sled dog races. Russell has a long standing love affair with cars and can occasionally be found attending open track days at local race courses. 

For more information about Russell and the series he is writing, please visit his website at undertheninesuns.com.