The Man and the Mountain

The Man

           He walks through the market, unremarkable; overlooked. No pack on his back, walking stick in hand. He walks steady: unwavering. Out of the market, across the flooded rice paddies, into the forest. With the sun rising he walks up the mountain.

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The Old Woman

           The sun is rising as the man arrives at the first clearing. To his left an empty dry field, to his right a red-reed thatched house surrounded by tall, pathless grass. A woman walks around the side of the house, in her arms a covered jar. She walks, ever slowly, towards the font of the house. She stops, looks up, gnarled hand blocking the light. From her coat she pulls a red cloth. From behind a cloud a bird swoops down. It takes the handkerchief in its beak returning to the sky. The woman enters the house, the man keeps walking.

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The Men and the Tower

           Upon the second clearing the man emerges. To his left piles of lumber. To his right a group of men humming loudly. They take some wood, layering it in a circle, the foundation for a tower. Overhead the bird flies, red cloth bright in the sky. The men yell, clamoring on the foundation waving weapons at the sky. The bird passes, the men keep working, the man walks.

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The Hut

           The sun is low behind the hut atop the mountain. The man walks to it, to his left an empty field to his right the dark, doorless hut. He walks in, greeted by a still figure. Wrinkled skin, candle in hand behind the figure a dusty bed. He hovers in the doorway, turns, and heads out.

           Beginning his trek down the mountain he sees the bird. It flies past the hut, past the cliff, over the ocean, to the sun.

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The Man

           At night the market glimmers with the soft, low light of paper lanterns. The man walks through, lantern hanging off the end of a rod rocking gently. No one pays him any mind. He walks out of the market, past the dark rice paddies and into the forest.

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The Old Woman

           The man emerges. To his left tall plants bearing fruits; to his right, a red thatched roof. From inside the house a young man emerges jar in hand walking to the back of the house. He stops, turns, raises one hand. The bird flies over the forest towards him. A red cloth is dropped in his open hand. He walks around the side of the house out of view. The man continues.

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The Men and the Tower

The man emerges into the second clearing. To his left bits of mismatched wood. To his right a tall tower, glimmering under the dawning sun. Under the soft light the tower shines: covered in gold, the wooden tower is no more. Overhead, the bird passes. The men shout, pointing at the bird. All is silent. A barrage of arrows unleashes. The bird heads higher, where the arrows cannot reach.

The men lean further out of the tower. Aiming and cursing at the bird. The first one falls then the next. From their golden tower they pour, the bird: unharmed.

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The Hut

           The sun is well out by the time the man enters the clearance. To his left wildflowers, to his right a simple hut; light smoke escapes the chimney, a little candle in the window.

           The man enters, greeted by a gentle smile over a warm meal. He sits on the floor, a plate placed in front of him. He eats happily, watched by a lady beautiful to him.

           They part with kisses. A shadow passes over him. He follows it. Past the house towards the cliff. Over the edge he steps. The water envelopes him; with eyes open he views the sun unclouded.

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The Crane

           Overhead it flies, wings long and powerful. Body, white, the only cloud in the sky. Once the man falls behind the sun it goes, gorgeous and high.