Mountain Spirit

Part One: Background, dull but necessary

The Village of Mire was not much of a place, as its descriptive name indicated, but its denizens liked it because it had one outstanding asset: Mt. Miracle. When the villagers had a problem, they could appeal to the mountain, and the mountain would solve it. It had done so many times in past centuries. Once there had been a killing drought, and the mountain had brought copious rain. Once there was an invasion by a foreign power, and the village had been directly in the path of the marching enemy army, certain extinction. But the mountain had spewed out major rivers of lava that encircled the village, causing the invaders to hastily detour around it; later when the lava cooled and weathered it became fertile soil, another benefit. Once the king was going to set aside Mt. Miracle as a tourist attraction, moving all the villagers out and razing their houses; kings were like that. The mountain shook the ground warningly and blew out volcanic dust and clouds of villainous looking gas, satisfying the king’s men that this was no safe place for a resort. Once the village had gotten in a bad financial bind, so had asked for money; the mountain issued a lava stream of solid gold that forever solved that problem. When there was a crop blight, the mountain gave them access to blight-resistant plants on its lower slopes. The mountain always came through without stinting.

But there was a price: a lovely sacrificial maiden. She had to be the prettiest nubile virgin available, and of good mind and character, a perfect young woman. What the mountain did with her no one knew; she was never seen again. That meant there would be one or more heartbroken young men, not to mention her family. So the villagers were cautious about asking the mountain’s favor.

Now they had a crisis: almost all their marriage-eligible young women were gone. A recruiter had come and lured them away with the promise of fabulous notoriety and wealth as showgirls in the big city. Only homely women remained. Rather than marry them, the young men were about to go off to the city themselves to seek their fortunes. That would effectively wipe out Mire, which would slowly fade as the older citizens died out. Something had to be done.

The Village elders cogitated and finally, by dint of much discussion facilitated by several kegs of ale, came up with the answer: they would have to appeal to Mt. Miracle. But how could they meet the mountain’s price, when there were no remaining pretty girls? It was not possible to pass off any ugly one; the mountain knew the difference and would only be annoyed if they tried. They could not risk that.

But there was one saving grace: the recruiter had taken only girls of the age of consent, planning to return a year later to pick up some more as they came of age. There were some promising prospects, for the village was known for its lovely women. One outstanding girl had been one day short, and so was left behind, to her immense frustration. She would have to wait another year. This was Faire, smart, talented, sweet, virginal, and so lovely that mirrors brightened in her presence. Unfortunately she was also honest, so had refused to lie about her age, to the recruiter’s considerable disappointment.

The village men clustered about her, each eager to marry her. But Faire had been bitten by the bug of fame, and no longer wanted to settle for life as the dull wife of a dull farmer, miller, or mechanic. She wanted excitement and fame, plus maybe a really hunky rich young man who would forever dote on her. Nothing like that offered in Mire. So when the Village elders approached her, she agreed to become the Mountain Spirit. That at least would give her celebrity for a day, and who knew what surprises the mountain might have for her thereafter?

Thus it came to the ceremony of sacrifice: the village elders stood on the designated foothill of the mountain and made their case. “We beseech you, Mt. Miracle, to solve our problem: we need a coterie of nubile attractive young women to become loyal hardworking village wives. We offer in exchange Faire.”

Some of the older denizens shook their heads. It seemed impossible for the mountain to grant this particular wish, assuming it even wanted to try. What could it do? Advertise for immigrants? Girls of that description were notoriously fickle, and were unlikely to settle for the backwoods life. In fact, that attitude was the cause of the problem.

Faire stepped forward. If the mountain accepted her, it would grant the beseechers’ favor. And it did: a delicate gust of wind ruffled her skirt to show her marvelous legs, and tousled her lustrous hair, and the Spirit of the Mountain infused her. Suddenly she was twice as beautiful as before, a manifest impossibility, with an expression of rapture on her face. “Farewell, friends,” she said. “My destiny calls.” Then Faire spread her arms and floated up into the air and on over the forested slope of the mountain’s base. She glided up to the steep rocky faces, and disappeared in the swirling mist of the peak.

The elders visibly relaxed. They had known their offering was lovely, but there was always a bit of a fog of doubt when dealing with the mountain.

There was another part of the ceremony. If any man were able to climb the mountain to the top within two days, he could claim the girl and bring her home, and the mountain still would grant the favor. This was a compromise worked out in the mists of antiquity, so that the villagers could maintain hope that the sacrificial maidens could theoretically be rescued, though it had never happened. So there were a number of husky young louts eager to join the chase, the more fools they.

Part Two: Challenge, as it starts to get interesting

Heroe considered. The other young men were forging ahead, following the route that the Spirit Maiden had taken, albeit on the ground. This was bound to be mischief. So Heroe chose to walk around the base of the mountain, studying its avenues. He had two days, and a straight climb could be done in one, if unimpeded. That of course was the rub. He knew the reputation of Mt. Miracle: it did not like to be climbed. It tolerated birds on its higher reaches, and ants, but not much else. Finesse was required.

Heroe didn’t hurry. He was passing a turnip field, careful not to step on the plants. He had a sense that there was something here for him, if he just let it catch up. What he needed was not the fastest route, but the right route. That was not necessarily purely physical.

A mature villager fell in beside him. “You’re not from Mire,” the man said.

“I believe the challenge is open to all,” Heroe said.

“Oh, sure. But I’ve seen you before, somewhere.”

“The sister village of Bog.”

“That’s it! At their Challenge two weeks ago, petitioning their mountain spirit. I was there delivering a load of turnips. Hi; I’m Tunsley, turnip farmer. This is my acreage. I saw you crossing my field and thought I’d check.”

“Heroe, adventurer.”

“In fact you were one of the entrants. Bog had the same problem we did: their pretty girls getting raided. My daughter was one of them, here in Mire; we couldn’t hold her back. I had to get on home before dark, so I didn’t see how that turned out. You gave up on the chase?”

“No. I won it.”

Tunsley stared. “But nobody ever won against a mountain!”

Heroe shrugged. “Believe what you will.”

“But if you did, what are you doing here? I mean, you would have the prettiest girl of your village to love, cherish, and marry. I saw her take off; she was almost as lovely as our Faire.”

“No. I did not take her.”

“Now I’m not the brightest man extant, which is why I’m a farmer; turnips are easy. But this doesn’t make any sense to me.”

“She was a closet lesbian. She enlisted with the mountain so that she wouldn’t have to fight off the men any more. The mountain doesn’t care about sexual orientation, just beauty and dedication. She confessed that, in tears, when I won her, knowing that she had no further choice. But I didn’t want to do that to her, so I let her go. It would be like forcing me to marry a man; I’d never be happy, and knew she wouldn’t. I spoke to the mountain, and it allowed her lady lover to come up so they could live together in privacy, protected by the mountain.”

“You did a decent thing,” Tunsley said, amazed.

“I try to be a decent guy. But it left me without a bride. So I came here to try for this mountain spirit, who I think is even more lovely than the other.”

“My daughter knows her,” Tunsley said. “She’s no lesbian. She just doesn’t want to settle for the backwater village life. Can’t say I blame her. She could’ve been a star, if she’d lied one day about her age. I have to respect that.”

“I have to respect it too,” Heroe said. “If I win her, I’ll do what I can to enable her to shine.”

“I’m curious, as there has been no news from Bog. How did your mountain solve your village’s problem?”

“I can’t tell you that. It put a magical geis on me forbidding me to tell until after Mt. Miracle has been dealt with. But I can say the mountain came through. So will yours, if I win through to the peak.”

“You know that no one in centuries has ever made it to the peak?”

“Yes. But I hope to be the first. It’s a tough but honest challenge. The mountains don’t like to be bothered by weaklings any more than they want imperfect girls as offerings.”

Tunsley considered briefly. “I like you, Heroe, and hope you will succeed, though I fear you will die as so many have before you. Therefore I will help you, to the extent I can.”

“I had a premonition that there was something good for me here at the turnip farm. I suspect your help will be invaluable.”

“I have spent many years exploring the mountain slopes, admiring Mt. Miracle, and it has come to tolerate me in a manner it does not do for strangers. It allowed me to make a map of its features, some of which are beautiful, some dangerous. I will show you that map so that you may be guided in your challenge. But I must warn you that there is no way to the peak that does not pass by one or more threats. The odds are still against you.”

“I thrive on challenge,” Heroe said. “It gives my restless life meaning.”

Tunsley reached into his shirt and brought out a hide parchment. On it was drawn a crude but accurate map of the mountain, as seen from above. “This is it.”

Heroe studied it briefly. “This is exactly what I need. Thank you.”

“You may take it with you.”

“There is no need. I have memorized it.”

The farmer pursed his lips. “You are remarkable.”

“Not really. The mountain I conquered gave me certain gifts, such as premonition, minor magic, and eidetic memory. I did not appreciate the need for the third until you showed me the map.”

“Your mountain is helping you with this one?” the farmer asked, surprised.

“Yes. I believe it concluded that none of your local boys will succeed in ascending to the peak, and since I did not take the woman I won, it is helping me win another. It’s a matter of mountainly honor.”

“I am still learning things about mountains,” Tunsley said.

“They are to be sincerely respected.”

“They are indeed.” Heroe glanced up the slope. “I must get moving. I have another premonition.”

“But you’re heading right for the avalanche area!” Tunsley protested.

“Yes, as your map informs me. Thank you muchly for it.” He strode onward.

The turnip farmer watched him go, bemused. The challenge he faced was formidable. Was he a hero, as his name implied, or a fool?

Part Three: Adventure, self-explanatory

Heroe forged directly to the avalanche area. This was a moderately steep slope strewn with rounded rocks. It did not look too bad. But he knew better than to trust it. He stood at the edge, waiting.

Another young man arrived, walking an intersecting path. He had a hiking staff and a loaded backpack. He was clearly one of those challenging the mountain. “Get out of my way, jerk,” he snapped.

Heroe stepped aside. “By all means. But I feel it only fair to warn you that this is an avalanche area, not to be treaded lightly. It is better to bypass it.”

“Too bad for you, chicken. I have to make it to the peak before some other lout does, and this is the shortest route. You can wait forever for all I care.”

“I will wait,” Heroe agreed.

The man tromped on across the slope. When he got fairly into the zone, there was a warning rumble, as of stones being jarred loose. Instead of sensibly retreating, he hurried on forward. Heroe, watching, winced.

The rumble increased in magnitude. Rocks began to roll.

The climber broke into a lumbering run, but there was too far to go. A rolling slide of rocks came down, catching the man and burying him. His hiking staff flew up into the air, then clattered on the stones as if marking the place of burial.

The motion slowed, and the stones settled into their new places. The avalanche was over.

Now Heroe started across himself. The rumble resumed, but was powerless to restart the avalanche; the rocks were already moved. He came to the staff and took it; its owner would no longer be needing it.

He made it safely across the zone, thanks to his timing. He regretted the fate of the other climber, but the lout had refused to heed common sense.

Beyond the zone the slope developed a thicket of small dry bushes. Heroe paused again. His mental map indicated that this was a region of chronic fires. If he got in the middle of it, he could be trapped by a spontaneous blaze. But there did not seem to be an alternative route. How should he handle this?

He explored the mental map more carefully. Beside the dry bushes was a steep river channel that was now dry, the water diverted to an adjacent channel. The mountain could probably switch them back and forth to catch unwary climbers. Could he somehow make use of this? Maybe.

Heroe returned to the avalanche to fetch some rocks. He carried several to the stream bed and dropped them in, blocking it somewhat.

Now he went to the channel. “I’m going to climb through this to get around the burning field,” he announced. He wedged his feet in crevices and started climbing.

The water shifted. In a moment the stream was pouring along this channel, soaking him. Heroe scrambled out of it. “Or maybe not,” he said.

The water continued to pour, making sure he couldn’t change his mind. It coursed to the more level river bed below, encountered the block, and quickly overflowed, spreading across the dry field and sinking into the earth.

Heroe started across the slope. Fire sputtered, trying to ignite, but couldn’t get properly started, because of the water. One menace had canceled out the other. He could feel the mountain seething, but it was unable to get him.

Now he came to a jagged crack, a small chasm, too wide to hurdle, too deep to navigate. He would have to bridge it. Naturally there was no loose wood nearby for construction.

Heroe took down his backpack. He brought out heavy gloves and a length of stout cord with a small anchor on the end. He stood at the brink and whirled the anchor around and around in widening circles, crossing the chasm, until at last it caught against the trunk of a tree on the other side and wrapped around it, the anchor catching on the cord. Then he put his pack back on, tied the near end of the rope around his waist, and dropped into the crevasse. He smacked into the opposite wall, then hauled himself up hand over hand until he reached the ground and the tree. He was across.

The mountain rumbled angrily. Enough with this passive resistance; it was time to get serious. A vent opened not far up the slope. Brightly burning lava welled out and flowed like the liquid fire it was directly down toward Heroe. He dodged to the side, but the advancing tongue changed direction to follow. The mountain was no longer trying to make it seem like coincidence; now it meant to dispatch him directly.

But Heroe had an inkling of a notion, knowing that sort of thing could happen here. He ran in a circle, and the fire followed. He completed the circle, leaping over the stream of lava, and ran on. The lava intersected itself, took itself for an enemy, and fought itself. In a moment it was a whirling column of fire, as each part of it tried to surmount the other.

Heroe did not stay to watch the fray. He got out of there quietly but swiftly. Another threat evaded.

His next challenge was a sheer icy rock face leading toward the summit. It was almost vertical, impossible to climb barehanded. He opened his pack again and fetched metal pitons and a small hammer. He hammered in the first piton, then a second. The mountain shivered with ire, as if its flesh were being punctured, but it couldn’t stop him from making his slow climb, piton by piton.

But Mt. Miracle was hardly through. A wind came up, becoming a storm that blasted sleet at him and tried to dislodge him. He hung on, and when there was a pause, hammered in another piton. The storm raged, but could not stop him.

Finally, cold, tired, and hungry, he made it to the top of the ice face. Not far beyond he saw Faire, hovering just above the rock, eye-splittingly lovely, beckoning him. From there it was relatively simple to mount the peak itself. He had made it.

But he paused, suffering another premonition. This was too easy. So he got down on his belly and crawled toward the gesturing mountain spirit. Sure enough, there was a ledge, concealed by illusion. Had he walked straight ahead he would have fallen off it and been killed. As it was, he was able to navigate it by feel, get beyond it, and make it to the peak. Now he had truly won.

Part Four, conclusion, satisfying

“You made it!” Faire exclaimed, kissing him ardently. “You have won me. I feared you would not. I hated having to beckon you, but it was part of the challenge. Who are you?”

“I am Heroe, from Bog Village, some way distant. I will love you passionately, and cater to your slightest whim. I will take you on a tour around the world, so that everyone may see and envy your beauty.”

“This interests me,” she confessed.

“But first there is a detail we must attend to.”

“A detail?”

“Lead me to the mountain fastness.”

“As you wish.” She took his hand, and the pair of them flew gently down to the rock face he had so effortfully navigated. She touched it, and a door opened. They entered.

Inside the mountain was a chamber wherein floated dozens of lovely maidens in suspended animation. These were the sacrificial girls of all the prior occasions, locked in forever as they had been in life, not aging at all. All were pristine, but many had clothing and hair styles that bespoke prior ages. In fact some were centuries old, by exterior reckoning. It was like a historical museum. Faire had expected to come here herself, if not rescued. The mountain had assured her, non-verbally, that it was not an arduous confinement; it would seem like only an instant before she woke. The maidens were merely being saved.

“Wake,” Heroe said, and clapped his hands.

Immediately all the young women snapped out of stasis. “Oh!” they exclaimed almost together. “Have we been asleep long?”

“A decade at least,” Faire said. “Millennia at most.”

They were amazed. “It seems like only an instant.”

“Exactly,” Faire agreed.

“Listen up, girls,” Heroe said. “I am Heroe. I have conquered Miracle Mountain. But before I depart with my phenomenally lovely bride I must assist the mountain in solving the village problem. They desperately need lovely, talented, and obliging young woman to marry their farmers, millers, and mechanics and bear their children. Women who will not be tempted to flee to the big city for show business.”

The women looked confused. “What is show business?” one asked.

“That is where pretty women don revealing garb and prance around a stage, inciting leering men to pointless lust, as they are not allowed to touch the women.”

“Eeuu,” the girl said.

“What’s a big city?” another asked. She wore a dinosaur hide robe and evidently dated from a time before cities evolved.

“A huge collection of people, far away from here.”

“Ugh!” the girls chorused in horror. Then one explained: “We are Mountain Spirits. We must remain near the mountain, and commune on its slopes daily, for it sustains us. If we go away from it, our true ages will quickly manifest, and we will become old crones, age 28 at least. So we wish only to make loving families close by, and raise our dear children to be mountain spirits too.”

Heroe saw that the mountain had indeed solved the village problem. These girls would remain here, and so would their children. “But what of you, Faire?” he asked his new beloved.

“I have not yet become a full Mountain Spirit, though I have felt the passionate lure of it,” she replied. “You rescued me too soon. I still want to travel and see the sights. But once I get with child, which should not take long considering the sustained effort we will make, I will want to return here to stay. I am no longer interested in show business, just in fulfilling my natural destiny as a wife and mother.”

Heroe liked that answer. “You shall have it,” he said, kissing her.

“Oooo,” the maiden spirits ooooed, jealous. “We want men of our own to kiss and fondle and support.”

“This way,” Heroe said. He led them out the stone doorway. Then they all spread their arms and floated gently down toward the village, where a number of louts were about to become happier than they perhaps deserved.

Once again, Mt. Miracle was responding in full measure. There would of course be future crises, when it would resume its collection of sacrificial spirits. The mountain took the long view, having plenty of time.