The Mountaintop

She hadn’t been alone her whole life; only as long as she could remember.

She had known some people for a while. Many people, in fact. Tavern owners, musicians, travellers of all sorts. They had all walked alongside her on her quest at one point or another. For the most part they had their own places to go, so they would eventually part at a fork in the road, bidding their goodbyes, wishing each other well. Those fleeting moments of company were always joyous, but all ended in bitterness when the winter wind would grab her by the collar again, rushing past her clothes to remind her how unforgiving loneliness was. Her smile would fade then, her hand raised in a friendly wave would fall back at her side, lifeless and blue. And she’d walk, and walk, and walk.

Brutal, everlasting whiteness covered every crevice and edge of the mountains. Water so cold it hurt to drink responded in rippling riddles to the crunching sound of the snow underfoot, to the huffs and puffs of her visible breath as she ascended.

The sun too looked white from there; white sun, blue shadows, purple where she mustn’t fall asleep. She did little of that: always by increments, afraid the sun would run too fast and leave her behind. So she slept, and she woke, slept, woke, lit a torch to keep walking at night when her body became a liability.

How many times now had she heard the sweet song of surrender? Dreamt, half-awake, of a soft, warm hand to hold, inviting her somewhere kinder where she wouldn’t have to fight through every day? She’d almost taken that hand, once or twice.

But it was the mountain that sang now. Life where she expected to find none, because there hadn’t been a single stir of it for days, for nights. A yellow flower, the water flowing more easily, almost ticklish, jumping over and under stones with childish glee. Grass, green and thick; clover in large splashes, like it had poured entire clouds of them but they’d all dried up under the sun, leaving only puddles of round purple flowers in their beds of threes or fours, heart-shaped leaves so simple yet so real they brought tears to her eyes. If she let out a sob, no one could tell; it ran away with the water, happy to be free.

At first she saw butterflies. White, then yellow, then of colours so vivid she thought herself in a dream. The next day she was greeted by rabbits with some white left in their fur, easier if they wanted to hide in the snow below. But here, almost at the top of the mountain, there was no need for that. Light brown fur, fat bodies, she couldn’t remember ever seeing anything as simply alive as those little things. They followed her for hours, seemingly unconcerned by ideas of territories or lairs left unattended – clearly ignorant when it came to humans, and what happened to their kind in the villages down where the river slowed her course.

The next morning she found their tiny corpses parading in blood, and foxes, bellies full, cubs play-fighting under the first rays of sun. She mourned for the rabbits, a single thought, then welcomed her new companions with open arms.

Again she walked, a day, a night, sleep came more easily now that winter had no hold on her anymore. Paradise waited for her, overflowing from the source not a day’s walk from her now. Up there she would finally rest, fold her legs under her and drink one last time before she never knew thirst again. How could she, when she was about to finally…

The source bubbled up from a rocky formation, like the earth had thought to create some sort of column or stand to honour the magic that flowed from its core, but given up halfway through. The very top of the fountain stood no taller than the mushrooms surrounding it. At its centre, almost invisible for the incessant movement of water and air, laid a bright red stone.

She plunged her hand in the water, choking on her surprise when its freezing grasp planted daggers between her knuckles. But the mountain had prepared her, so she held on fast, and soon the stone was feeling the breeze for the first time.

“I had a mother,” she spoke through the disuse of her voice, the dryness of her throat. “She must have loved me, I think. They say mothers love the hardest. So please, please bring her back. That’s all I need.”

She brought the stone to her lips and drank, sucking the droplets that clung to it. She plunged the stone in the water again, drank some more. Her hand turned blue and unfeeling, and yet she insisted, dipped and drank a third time. That’s when the cold seized her heart, an icy glove that squeezed and squeezed and squeezed. Her eyes welled up with tears of pain but she held the stone to her chest and wished with all her heart.

The cold receded.

There was silence, and a hesitant warmth. The source itself had ceased to move, or perhaps to exist; her eyes were closed and she dared not open them.

Then a hand brushed her hair away from her face, a soft hand, warm, alive.

“So this is my girl,” a woman spoke.

She saw her before she even realised she had opened her eyes. Grey hair, a kind face, wrinkled. A strong chin, sharp brows. They looked so much alike.

“You have been so brave, and look how you’ve grown,” the woman continued, her hand still gentle and loving on her daughter’s face. “You did so well. Now that it’s you and me, we can finally make it – a world just for us. What do you say?”

“Yes,” she breathed out, blinking new tears out of her eyes. She felt so overjoyed her heart could have burst into pieces. “Our world - you and I. Always?”

“Always,” her mother promised.

Hand in hand, mother and daughter stood at the top of the mountain. The daughter wished for a world that would never take her mother away from her again, and her goddess of a mother made it true, wiping out all those who could wield spear and sword, robbing them forevermore of the power to ever slay her again.