The Mountain

The camera opens to the sight of The Undying Mage, sitting under the sky in quiet contemplation. It is still dark, though the first rays of daylight seem imminent, with the horizon already illuminated. He is sat on the shores of Masqopolis.

“In my long life, I have witnessed firsthand many of man’s follies,” he says in a murmur, lost in thought. “In my journeys to Africa, I once came upon a tribe, in the middle of a dispute. Their chief had recently died a strange, sudden death, and several of the priests wished to be his successor. The late chief’s widow, wishing to secure the seat for her young son, coyly suggested to the ambititious men gathered that they prove their mettle by doing that which no tribesfolk had ever done before: climb the great mountain Yzheh, which had claimed the lives of all who had set out for its peak.”

He shakes his head, a small, fond chuckle bubbling up at this memory. “Normally, the mere mention of the mountain’s name would have quietened all. But the men, their blood roaring in their veins for glory and grandeur, accepted. One by one, they vowed they would conquer its peak, the first to do so being crowned the chief. They departed, their families anxious but hopeful; the widow of the late chief wore a very curious smile as she watched them go, even as she forbid her pouting son from participating.”

“Days passed, and then weeks. The village waited with bated breath for any news of a victor, but none came. Finally, a search party went out.”

The Alchemist heaves a great sigh, as if still exasperated by the audacity of those men. “The bodies of the men were found strewn across the base of the mountain. Some had reached higher, and fell prey to the many dangers that awaited a climber. The widow listened to this news with no surprise, even as others wailed in grief. She had knowingly goaded those men to their deaths, for she had known that no matter how learned and wily the physician, no matter how charming the skirt-chasing Casanova, no matter how freakish the strength of the monstrous, cold-blooded warrior that scarcely looked like one of their kind, no matter all the guile and power and resourcefulness of all who had set out to scale the mountain,  they were mere mortals. The myth of the Mountain that had stood the test of time for aeons would not be undone by those whose lives and dreams were but a fleeting fancy in face of its grandeur.”

“And so she raised her son to be a wise chief, the sort of man who would never be so foolish as to challenge that which is beyond his comprehension. ”

He falls quiet, his tale ending with a lesson for his audience.