The Journey

Here's another story that I just finished yesterday. This story was kind of weird as the idea started off with the ending. It felt strange to be writing partially in reverse, which was probably also what gave rise to me writing in present tense, something that I've never really done. That felt bizarre as well, but I think I actually like the way it turned out. As always, any feedback, anonymous, attributed, positive or negative, is definitely welcome.


The sun glowers oppressively as the rocks give way under Alex’s feet. The precarious scree filters angrily down the hillside while he stumbles and falls, desperately hunting for purchase. The unsympathetic ground gives him no charity, but continues to gently dissuade his ascent. The small rocks eventually crush themselves into an uneasy footing with great reluctance, allowing him momentary relief.

Alex pauses, shaking his head in silent disdain at the disagreeable slope. He looks backs to the distance he has already covered, and is grateful that he slid back less distance than the previous times the rocks have given way beneath him. The gentle incline of the scree means that it is not dangerous to ascend, merely troublesome. He knows that his perseverance will see him to the next plateau before the final ascent, but wonders how it seems like such insurmountable terrain. Something in the continual setbacks drains his optimism, but his commitment is steadfast with devotion, so he tenaciously sets his mind against that of the mountain.

The sky is ostentatiously clear, its vibrant blue almost mocking Alex and his struggle. A solid week of rain has inundated the ground with ferocity, making veritable mud pools in the ground, and provided lubrication to facilitate the shamelessly hostile movement of the scree. Yet today is cruelly magnanimous with liberal heat, and Alex can almost feel the curve of every stone reflectively emblazoned upon his palm as he crawls up the slope.

A moist heat swamps Alex, the humidity and his own sweat combining to stick to his skin. His small backpack clings wet to his back, its insulation merely amplifying the feeling of the tepid damp. This wetness is only reduced on the portions of his exposed skin, where the high temperature of the midday sun drills upon him to boil away the water into the already flooded air. But despite the soggy sensation that surrounds him, his still longs to continually drink the water from his cool water bottle.

Making a pact with himself to reach the top of this slope before pausing, Alex braces for what must be another impending scrabble of rocks. They shift uneasily beneath his boots, daring him to continue, goading him into a temporary confidence. He moves with measured caution, shifting his weight as the rocks protest his ascent. His feet are slow enough that the rocks cannot rouse from their fickle position, and his boots eventually tread with belligerence on unyielding stone.

He looks at the undulating flat with a slight sense of relief, then glances backward to gloat on his victory over the antagonistic scree. He knows he will come back down this way, but then their nature will serve his purpose, though he knows know that they will be wholly stubborn and make his descent troublesome too. He knows that he is likely to roll his ankle if he tries to make his way down with excess zeal. But the descent is not his concern now, for he can see the final peak a relatively short distance away. Taking another sweet swig of his beloved water, he drives forth to his destination. The muddy ground is pliant beneath his heavy stride, accepting his boot too eagerly, making headway just faintly more tiresome than it should be.

A stifling breeze continues to rise as he walks, its unpleasant touch adding to the difficulty of his passage. A large hill to Alex’s left poses as a windbreak to shield him from the brunt of the force, but merely seems to channel the wind into a path against him. The hill gradually falls away as he continues, prompting the wind to attack more fiercely from the side. The wet wind thrusts angrily through his short hair, assaulting him through the thin trees that lean towards the ill-defined track. But with each step, his burden seems lighter, for he knows the summit is close.

The plateau narrows, the cliffs to either side shrinking closer as the last hill looms above. Vegetation hugs the ground in an attempt to hide from the turbulent wind, roots clinging tightly to maintain their unrelenting grip in the softened dirt. A deep valley stretches to the right, a cold, inviting lake dwelling in the distance. Its surface shows no flecks from the wind here, the spacious landscape dulling the tempest into a placid whisper in that faraway place. A glass upon the high ground, it shows the lucidity of the sky with infallible detail, as though diving into it would be like flying through the vibrant blue overhead.

Stone abruptly ends the loosely shaped dirt track, the path now a jagged assortment of rock. This indistinct trail drops down slightly before coming to a small basin at the foot of the summit, a small depression that temporarily shields Alex from the harsh airstream. The wind whistles exuberantly through an apparent cairn in the small ridge, but the hollow is tranquil.

Alex pauses a moment before he starts to ascend the last hill, jarred by a sudden wave of signs. Screaming for attention amidst the muted colours of the natural scenery, their bright and loud demeanour is an affront to his senses. They warn of the danger of the final ascent and the peak itself, dangers Alex is aware of acutely, for he knows that a fraction of incaution can be treacherous on even the most benign terrain. Their appearance is still coarse and disrespectful, despite the necessity of admonishing people that they are not the masters of this land.

As he climbs upwards, Alex feels the wind redouble its ferocity in some final attempt to dissuade him from his journey. He is resolute and steadfast, unfailing in the determination of achieving his goal. Despite the doubts he has had in coming this far through both torrential downpour and now oppressive heat and humidity, he knows not even the harshest of conditions can make him retreat from this impassioned task.

Each step and movement upwards on the perilous rock is steeled with conviction. A small rock is dislodged by his passing, and skitters away vigorously over the edge, clattering several times on the near-sheer cliffs before the sound is lost to the vast void below. He is startled by the proximity of the edge and his fingers grip tighter on the steep ground, his hunched form clinging in sympathetic fear.

The ascent is harsh and flecked with jagged stone to the top. There is no marked passage for Alex to follow, only the way that his mind conjures as the safest and clearest in the brief period before his every action. His movements verge on being rushed out of desire to be free of the furious unnamed presence wishing his failure, tempered only by the overwhelmingly stubborn need to succeed.

A sudden violent gust of wind catches Alex off guard and he slips hazardously. Seeing the edge desperately close, he claws desperately at the toothed rocks, demanding they accept his grip. His muscles tighten in a strangling embrace as the stone pokes his flesh with venom, and his balance is restored at the expense of his bravery.

The path down looks so short and safe, juxtaposed with the protracted, unyielding path ahead. His fear engulfs him and insists upon capitulation, and he is frozen in place as his mind is pitted against the malevolent spirit of nature. He remembers his vow as he placed his first footstep upon the track, his vow that he would make it to the top, and it calms him and compels his resolve return.

With his commitment again unhindered, Alex hugs the rock with newfound energy and speed. Each movement feels easier as his terror fades into a memory that he uses to drive himself higher. His rise is accompanied by a gradual diminishing of ferocity in the wind and terrain, as though they are reluctantly succumbing to the reality of his inevitable victory.

Unexpectedly, the slope falls away, and Alex finds himself able to stand. From focussing only on his next movement, he finds that he has reached the top without even knowing it. A wave a relief saturates him with elation as he takes in the view around him.

A beauty ineffectually related through words and pictures surrounds him, drowning him with its serene vision and colour. He is imbued with an empowering harmony that swells from this solitary paradise. Peaks of multicoloured rock stare up at him with sullen envy, while trees wave from below with celebratory thought. Even birds circle beneath, trying to ride the breeze upwards to meet him, but he is unmatched as he surveys the vast landscape.

Glancing about the height of the climb, he is taken by the enormity of his achievement. Momentarily, he has conquered this peak, successfully facing down the challenges it has placed in his path. But he knows that it has not always been as such, and that it has proven triumphant against others. He wanders sombrely towards one edge of the summit with his eyes downcast, searching for a sign he knows will be there.

In a moment, his vision is centred upon it, a small cross, carved into an indefatigable stone. He shut his eyes in silent respect for a few precious moments, before lowering himself to the ground and heading over the sloped edge that it marks. There is no real drop, just a steep incline to a small ledge below, a recess in the shadow of the peak. A cliff looms only a few short steps away, but he is unafraid, for the ground is sure and the air only speaking with a soft flitter. He unzips the top of his small backpack and removes a plain silver urn with slightly shaking hands.

The moment takes forever as he wills himself to action. He unclasps the protective lever holding the top of container closed, and then removes the top. This too is an unending second. Frozen in an instant as his mind travels years, he is unable to move or do anything but react to the varying gushes of wind as they breeze overhead with a solemnly distressed tempo.

With the paralysis gone, Alex is able to slowly move his body. The motion is surreal to his senses as he leans forward minutely, his arm stretching out then falling like a lever as his hand tips while gripping tightly. As it lays in the balance, his muscles almost freeze again, as though they are unable to tip the last tiny distance required. But he overrules their crude protest, and the ashes flood freely in a fine dust. They trickle loose with the wind, captured by the flows of current as they unchain from each other, a mist of grey ascending and spreading with liberated vitality.

Echoes whisper of the past as this moment suspends in time. Passion, tribulations, endurance and dedication whirl in a vortex of precious memories that are contained within, a seemingly infinite bottle of emotion that sweeps through decades with a learned ease. They are reminiscing of ageless sentiment, imparting this feeling by infusing it firmly with future, an unlosable component of life itself. Then, as suddenly as it arrived, the moment is gone, and the last speck of grey vanishes into the undisturbed tranquillity.

The urn empty, he turns and places it in a small recess in the face of the cliff, safe from the forces that might seek to dislodge its vigil. He leans down and removes a small chisel and hammer from his pocket, then carefully begins carving into the statuesque rock that will be the urn’s only company on the small ledge. The writing is small by necessity and awkward by inability, but after slow effort, the work is completed. His feat accomplished, he breathes a sigh of relief. A rejuvenating air fills his lungs with renewed vigour, like a final gift of thanks for his efforts. It is an appreciative energy that he knows will sustain him for the lengthy return journey.

Days later, he returns home, through continued trudge then silent drive. The house is quiet as he opens the door, an invisible effigy of his solace omnipresent in the room. He feels reluctant to enter the shower and wash away the marks of his journey, as though they somehow diminish the reality of it all. Yet the soothing touch of its beads quickly releases the tension in his mind and body. His muscles twinge faintly from stress, but he knows he is not yet finished. He dressed and walks to his study, one final responsibility remaining.

His fingers clatter softly over his computer keyboard, a means to pass the news onto others. The cold electronic glare of his screen seems faint and contaminated after days and nights in the open air. He knows that he will likely not receive much response, only the soft knowledge of bewildered expressions as the words appear on screens in far reaching places. Some may politely request photographs, though he guesses that will probably be disappointed with those that he will provide.

Part of him laments the lack of interest he knows that his email will spark. He considers it sad that he was the only one who cared enough to make the journey, the only one with that required sense of desire to see it done. He knows that the others would have left the ashes in some accessible place for the convenience of respect. Kept in some easily accessible place, it would have been easy to pay the commonly expected tribute, not requiring the strenuous undertaking that was bequeathed. Alex sees the sentiment as a transgression of personal desire against emotional request and is thankful for his devotion.

Suddenly distracted by an influx of noise, he glances at his wife, holding their infant son as she arrives home. Babbling half-words, the baby is too young to understand what Alex has done, but one day Alex hopes he will understand. She sees his thoughtful gaze and returns it with a smile, a knowing measure of empathy. Supportive as ever, she rises slowly then walks over. Clasping his hand in hers, she looks solemnly at the photo from the summit, giving a soft, comforting squeeze.

Waves of doubt rush over Alex, for as much as he feels he has done the right thing, a sense of loss sweeps him. Only now does the impact press upon him of that passing, the magnitude of the emotion sweeping through and causing a tear to well and draw down his face. Yet he knows, somewhere, somehow, two souls will appreciate his journey. And he hopes that someday, another may inspect that ledge with curiosity and passion. For all that remains is an empty urn and a single inscription: As we never were, though may we always be.