The mountain beneath his feet shudders with each stroke of his pickaxe. He glances up at the dull gray of the coming storm and redoubles his efforts. His limbs tremble from the cold and his teeth chatter.
He hears a clattering and a rumbling and turns quickly about. A rockslide on a nearby slope sends up dust and makes the ground beneath him quake.
He wears two cloaks about him against the cold. The one on top is a woman’s cut. Both of them are ragged and dirty from many nights spent sleeping in the streets.
He chips away splinters from the hip bone of a giant skeleton. It lays with its back to the mountain like a man in a chair. The notched sword of a giant is impaled through its chest and into the mountain.
The monstrous form of ribs rises far above the man. A hundred years stale stench wafts on the winds as the youngest generation of vultures circle the rotting corpse.
His donkey shows as many ribs as the giant.
Your bones will be broken,
The shingles of your homes shall clatter to the boulevard.
The sound of the pickaxe pings against the sides of the mountains. It is answered by the rumble of thunder. The clouds churn and glow like a fire has been lit within them by the setting sun.
Lone clouds slowly move by, low in the sky.
The rockslide continues, throwing dust into the air.
The sword trembles with the mountain and vibrates in the wind. It tones a low thrum he can feel through the wraps he calls shoes.
The weapons you forged will become your tombstone
And your grave will be defiled by insects.
Finally, he breaks into the marrow of the bone and reveals the gold blood that once flowed through the giant’s veins. He widens the hole greedily as the rockslide calms down and the storm nears.
The blood is cool now, but he easily scrapes it out into a sack. In his head, he is already figuring the portions between them when he gets back. His portion is the largest.
The mountain groans and the bones moan and creak, shifting their enormous weight. The donkey brays.
The flame you took down from the sky to warm your hearths
Will eternally burn your foundations.
He’s gathered up as much as he can hold and he strains against the glittering metal’s weight. He straps the gold on the donkey’s bare back and unties the animal from the bush; the rope chafes against the chapped skin of his hands. The donkey resists.
He huffs from the exertion and tugs on the rope, trying to force the donkey to move.
Other holes have been chipped in the bones. Other men’s skeletons lie by the giant’s. Some of them are broken from falls, cracked from the cold or by men’s forged steel.
Suddenly, the wind blows harder and the storm looms higher than the bones of the giant. Lightning flashes across the sky and cracks the air with its shout.
The dust from the rockslide flees before the storm.
The rains your children played in will turn to ice.
Your crops will never grow again.
The donkey lurches forward and jogs over the stones past him. He struggles and stumbles over the rocks to keep up as they head back down the path. Part of it is covered over now with the stones of the rockslide.
His mind turns to the shelter of his home. Secluded street corners where the wind could not come through one’s already thin clothes.
Your blood shall flow through the ruins of your homes,
The streams will carry it down your rubble-strewn streets
He rushes from before the storm into the valley. It is almost upon him now and the first few flakes of a blizzard fall.
He urges himself on with the thought of what he can buy. He could afford a fireplace, food every day, clothes to warm him…and a bed! A bed!
He passes a small cluster of violet flowers in the cleft between two boulders and he remembers his promise. The gold was for himself and the others, but for the owner of his extra cloak, the only request was a flower that grew on that mountain.
The forest isn’t far away now. The trees mean wood for fire and shelter from the wind quickly numbing his limbs. He is counting seconds now until he freezes. He would have frozen a lot sooner with only one cloak.
Your wealth and power shall disappear
Like the glory of summer with the coming of winter.
He scrambles over the rocks with numbing limbs and reaches the flowers. He scrapes his arm, drawing blood as he reaches for them. He has to watch his numb hand to see it grasp their stems. Petals bruise beneath his grip as he tears them from the dirt.
He hurries back to the donkey and they huddle against each other as they stiffly walk down the slope and into the trees.
He gathers wood as he walks, gripping the sticks in the arm opposite the flowers. He pushes through a thicket, barely feeling the branches brush against him. In the midst of the bushes, with snow gently falling, he attempts to make a fire.
Instead of leisurely thinking of life
You shall try to grasp it by force at the heel.
He warms himself against the donkey, then tries again.
Finally, smoke lifts from the sticks and a flame lights. He greedily stokes the fire with larger and larger wood until he can feel the heat, then, he warms himself before gathering more.
After he has enough stocked beside him, he picks up the flowers where he dropped them. Their color is richer than even the gold in his bag. He gently takes those bruised ones and tosses them to the side. He holds up the only two that remain and keeps them near the fire.
Night falls. Snow gathers over the land. He takes some of it and melts it in his hands to fill his water skin. He puts the flowers in the neck of the skin so they can drink. Then he stokes the fire and lies down to fall asleep.
But you shall fall and rot, never to rise again
Flowers bloom and die, but come again in spring
The evergreens above his head creak with a coating of ice. Their branches rattle against each other. The gray of morning has come.
He wakes, stiff as frost. He stirs and snow falls off him. The fire is only embers from the night. A wisp of smoke trails into the air.
With clumsy-cold fingers he stokes the fire back to life. He warms himself, then takes a drink of water, careful not to bruise the remaining flowers. He tucks the water skin into his cloak, near his heart to keep the water from freezing and the flower petals soft.
Morning lights the sky into a dull gray. He lingers by the fire, the only warmth for many miles around. He eats what little is left, just some moldy bread and cheese.
Your survivors shall flee the ruins of your city
But no corner of the world will give them refuge
He loads the donkey with his plunder and only then begins to leave. He pushes himself through the thicket and travels the forested valley floor.
He sweats as he pushes his way through snow drifts. He pauses and rests, careful not to work too much. The trees block any breeze that would otherwise reach him.
The warmth reminds him of his top cloak. Without it he would have frozen, yet he is warm now. The woman who lent it to him, is she warm? Or is the cold gripping her heart in its stony fist?
You shall leave the rubble-buried bones of your families
Their bodies finding no peace upon burning pyres
Half the day passes before he climbs out of the valley into the Slow Highlands. The still form of a giant’s skeleton faces away from him, midstride. The bones are bleached white and large icicles cling to its jaw and ribs. Its form towers above the frozen lake to its right and the mountain ridge further to its left. The rolling hills it walks over are covered in evergreens. The height of their boughs are but grass beneath the skeleton’s feet.
The pine trees give the only green the land grows. The lake mirrors the sky. White and slate grays. Its smooth surface is like the work of giants, not of nature.
The man unconsciously follows the gaze of the skeleton’s uplifted head. A sharp summit of pure ice juts itself into view above the far ridge. Hues of dull cold blues marks the ice in contrast against the whites, greys and greens of the mountains.
He looks behind him, before him and to the sides. There is only the slate grey of sky blowing in from a sliver of blue on the horizon. The air is calm even in the open. The shortest way back is across the lake; a thin separation between life and death. If winds don’t freeze him, the waters might.
You shall leave that day of disaster
But another shall pursue you, slowly overtake you
His hand presses gently over his heart where the flowers are. The frigid air bites at his chapped fingers. He feels the roughness of her cloak. A small breeze comes and goes, making him shiver.
He sets off across the frozen lake.
The giant is stopped mid-stride, as if time itself became its enemy.
The landscape passes slowly by. The day passes by. The lake does not. The man and donkey walk over its expanse yet never reach its end. The giant’s still form stays upon their left.
A daze falls upon the man. His body feels like lead. The lake is an endless horizon.
The sun sets a cold pink-red, rimmed by purple-tinged gray clouds.
Still he walks, his mind as blank as the slate boards below and above him.
The curse shall follow you
It will corrupt your paths and the loot you carry
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A breeze picks up. The clouds set with the sun. The sky’s chill gray is replaced with a pale blue moon and cold stars.
The glaze over his eyes clears and he blinks. He looks about him as if just waking.
The patterns of ice, snow and rock glow the same as the surface of the moon. The shadows of the trees are as deep as the sky’s black voids.
He frowns at the world around him. He is still crossing the lake. The sky is dark when it should be light.
A wolf howls far behind him. The donkey jerks on his rope, nervous.
He turns, slowly, as his danger dawns upon him. There, far across the lake, black shapes moving.
Your flight will be slowed
You shall hear your enemy’s horns and know your end
He runs. The donkey senses the fear and runs ahead of him, pulling him along. He slips and falls, catches himself with the donkey’s rope and pulls himself back up.
Another howl, closer. The donkey veers towards the trees on the shore.
The thumps of hooves and feet echoes in the lake like drums. The ice groans.
Howls. Scratching claws close behind.
He glances, just a moment. They’re spread out behind. Horrible black shapes. Four? Seven?
The shore is near. He grabs at the bouncing bundle on the donkey’s back frantically. He pulls free the pickaxe.
You shall not face them with fire or sword
In the distance you will see your champion
A wolf snarls just behind him. He nearly falls as it jumps on his back. His cloak keeps the wolf’s fangs from tearing out his throat. Sliding, he twists and flings the wolf to the ground.
In one motion he brings the pick down. The wolf yelps and breaths its last.
A wolf jumps at the donkey’s back. The donkey kicks both hind legs into its body. The wolf flies through the air and lands with a thump.
The remaining five keep their distance, snarling and baring their fangs. He raises his pick.
Cracks spread in the ice below them. Their sound is piercing and deep. The ice is thinner by the shore.
He takes a careful step back. The donkey keeps close. The wolves keep pace in a crouch.
You shall hail the last savior of your people
One of the great kings of old
A wolf leaps.
He swings the pick and misses, embedding the point in the ice. Cracks burst out from the impact. The wolf bites his arm.
He yells and lets go of the pick.
Three wolves jump upon the donkey. It bucks and thrashes them off. Its hooves pound the ice.
The last wolf runs at him and he kicks at it. He slips and falls. The wolf biting his arm lets go and scrambles out from under him.
The ice breaks under the donkey. It keeps its front hooves upon the ice. A wolf falls into the widening pool and scratches its claws against the sides.
But your enemies shall chase close behind you
Your champion will not answer you
The pack of gold upon the donkey’s back begins to slide off.
He pulls the pick free and swings it in an arc around him. The wolves back off.
Two of the wolves scramble out of the water and shake themselves off.
He turns and takes a few steps towards the donkey. The sound of claws behind him betray the wolves’ intention.
He spins and takes another in the side with the pickaxe. It yelps over and over as it retreats into the forest.
Loud cracking sounds beneath his feet. He quickly falls prone.
The wolf attacks. He kicks it.
More cracking beneath him.
The wolves’ ears perk up. They back away from him.
You shall offer gold, jewels and many riches
Yet your champion will stand still and silent
He scrambles on all fours and leaps for the donkey. The ice breaks beneath him. He falls into freezing waters.
His hands and feet go numb. He resurfaces and sputters.
He swims to the donkey. The donkey still clings to the side. The gold is pulling it down.
With numb hands he opens a sack and pulls out gold. He flings it on top of the ice.
The donkey falls off the side and begins to sink.
He goes with it. The dark waters close above their heads.
With the light of the moon through the water, he finds the tie in the rope. He pulls on it hard. The rope comes free. The gold sack falls into the depths.
You will throw your riches to the ground to run
But your enemy shall overtake you
He and the donkey swim to the surface.
He gasps when his head breaches the water.
He hauls himself up onto the ice. He shivers uncontrollably.
The donkey gains foothold and climbs back up. It shakes itself off and trembles.
He forces himself to stand. He rubs himself and staggers towards the forest. He fumbles in his pocket for flint and steel.
He stumbles up the bank to the first tree. The donkey follows after.
The wolves begin to gather again.
He strikes the tender to the dry pine needles beneath the tree.
Growls behind him.
He strikes again. The flint falls from his numb hands.
You will be struck where you stand
No mercy will hold your bane at bay
He picks up the flint again. Again he strikes the steel to the flint. Sparks light upon the needles.
A wolf draws too near. The donkey kicks, slips and falls. The wolf limps away.
The other wolves are hungry. They approach. He turns to face them.
A tongue of flame lights the night. The fire gives the wolves pause.
It grows larger. The wolves growl.
The fire licks up a branch and sets it ablaze. The wolves slowly back away.
He stands as near the fire as he can. His whole frame trembles. He can barely feel the heat.
The wolves keep their distance as the fire grows larger and engulfs the tree.
He regains feeling in his hands, a painful tingling. He pulls off his clothes and sets them aside to dry.
Though you dressed as elegantly as birds
Your bodies shall be burned like coal
The fire grows and envelops the tree. It spreads to the trees beside it.
The donkey stands close by. He has to nudge it away from the fire else it burns itself.
The wolves stalk back and forth restlessly. He watches them warily, then sees the yellow glint upon the ice. The gold. His journey will have been in vain without the gold.
A flaming branch falls. Only one half of it is burning. He picks it up and approaches the wolves, his frame still shivering. They snarl and back away. He yells and sweeps the burning branch at them. He shuffles close to the gold he saved, scoops some up and backs away.
He repeats this several times. Each time, the wolves become a little bolder. They don’t back away when he swings his flaming branch.
He retrieves the last bits and returns to the burning trees. The wolves won’t retreat, but they won’t brave the fire either.
He gathers the gold into the pockets of his cloak. His body prickles all over as it regains feeling.
Your souls will not find rest in death
Even hell will not accept them
He dresses and follows the fire as it engulfs the forest. The wolves follow him, looking for a sign of weakness.
He picks his way through the ashes carefully. He can feel hot earth and ash through the rags wrapped over his feet.
The entire night the wolves haunt him and are kept at bay by fire, ashes and smoke. Startled animals flee from before it. He coughs on the air and covers his nose and mouth with his shirt. The donkey shivers from fear now, not the cold.
One might think the giant brought the destruction to the forest. Yet, the skeleton is lit from below as if walking the plains of hell. Smoke drifts up and obscures the clear sky.
The fire roars around him as he leads the donkey. The acrid scent of smoke soaks into his now-dry clothes. Ash falls like snow.
He drags his legs and the donkey droops its head. A wolf howls behind them. Wearily he looks behind. Shadows amongst dull red glows.
You shall watch as your empire is forgotten
Your great deeds become as common as sand
The snow gets deeper. The fire dies slowly as the snow upon the trees melts to water.
Numbly, he realizes the smoke and ash is covering their scent. He keeps walking through the night.
He dares not rest. The wolves might find him if he stays still and slumbers. Long hours pass by. There is only smoke, ash and fire. He must be careful not to lose his way.
Finally, the morning comes.
The fire dies upon the slope he trudges upward on. The cold seeps into him once again.
He draws near the top of the ridge. The lake lies below him. The giant skeleton is obscured behind white drifts of smoke. It stands upon a charred smoking plain.
He turns from the sight and looks ahead as he slowly steps over the rise. There, sparkling against the sun is a mountain of ice. It sits upon a low craggy mountain and a grand sword is thrust almost its whole length into the rock. At the foot is a dirty brown smudge of buildings with tendrils of smoke rising from chimneys.
The morning sun turns ruddy orange. The ice soaks in its color as the sky turns to burning fire. The blues flee and it becomes clear, as if melting.
You shall wonder how you became great
Like aged men pondering their youth
The kneeling form of an armor-clad skeleton shows itself embedded within the great pinnacle of ice. The silver metal reflects the morning’s light and tints red.
Carts pulled by donkeys drive slowly from the village to the pillar of ice by winding roads on the mountain’s side. The driver’s shouts reaches his ears.
He blinks slowly, as if in a dream. He turns again, looking backwards. He searches in the gaps of smoke, looking for what might ruin him when in sight of his goal.
There, shapes upon the black and white ice of the lake. The wolves turn their heads in his direction every so often. One stops, as if considering turning back, then follows the pack.
He watches them until they disappear into the trees. Then, he turns and begins walking again. He is close to the town now, but every part of him wishes to huddle down beneath a tree and sleep.
A thought strikes him and he fumbles inside his cloak near his heart. He pulls out his water skin. A wilted and smashed flower hangs out of it.
The songs of gods you shall remember
Those who gifted your champions their power
He stops walking.
The donkey lumbers on head low; it knows it is close to home.
After a moment, he hangs his head and walks after it.
The day passes and soon he is shivering from cold. The village is lost from view as he walks amongst the trees.
A tear drops from his cheek to the snow. Little gold does he have left to pay back those who gave him food, who gifted him the donkey and pickaxe and lastly, the one who risked her life by giving her cloak for warmth. For her, there is only a wilted flower.
Bags he imagined giving them. Their faces lit up with joy and astonishment. Next they throw a party and put him in the center. He is their hero and savior!
The gold weighs heavy in the small pocket.
Too soon he reaches the city. The guards know how he went, what he was looking for. A gold piece for each. They let him in.
The gods you trusted in your youth
Will not heed your weeping prayers
The thugs saw him go too. He throws down a few pieces to the frozen mud street and runs when they scramble for them.
He goes first to the one who gave him the pickaxe. He hands over a couple pieces. The man looks at him disappointedly.
“The axe?” The man asks.
He shakes his head.
The man turns away.
He goes next to the wife and husband who lent him the donkey. He returns the donkey and hands over a couple pieces to each.
“Where is the rest?”
He shakes his head.
“Where is the rest?! Where did you hide it?”
The husband strikes his fist into the man’s face. He sprawls on the ground, dazed.
“You greedy son-of-a – ”
The man scrambles to his feet and runs.
You shall haunt the living in your land
Like the demons you fought of old
He goes to those who saved up food to give to him. A gold piece to each.
One looks at it as if in a daze.
He leaves before anything can be said.
Another simply snatches up the piece and walks away.
Shoulders slumping, he heads to the last place, the place where the owner of the cloak is. He follows the tight and dark back alleys to one that shares a wall with a fireplace. The cold still seeps in from the cobblestones and from the open sky above.
There, huddled in straw stolen from the stables lies a woman. A homeless child sits close by, watching over her.
He stops at the sight of her pale face and shivering lips. She coughs weakly.
She sees him and smiles.
Few among the spirits of your dead
Will seek to bless the living instead
Tears run down his face as he kneels before her and draws forth the wilted flower. Its vibrant color has darkened.
She smiles and takes the flower. “It’s beautiful,” she says.
He turns and gives the child a single gold piece. The child takes it reverently and stares up at him in astonishment.
Only three gold pieces remain in the pocket of her cloak. Those were supposed to be his share. He removes the top cloak with them still in it and covers her shivering form. He can see how her sickness has weakened her.
Her arms are thin and wiry. The skin of her face is pulled tight.
He remembers an old friend who looked like this long ago. In a week he passed away.
She takes the flower into her palm and crushes it into a pulp.
His chest constricts. The reactions of those before didn’t hurt as much as this. He hangs his head.
She takes the crushed flower and eats it. She sighs and closes her eyes. Color returns to her cheeks and she stops shivering.
Her eyes open and she looks at him. She tells him,
“Many curses the old gods laid
Few blessings giving aid
Even those are not cheap
Only found in the deep
But there is one
You should not shun
In winter’s bite
Follow this rite,
Many are the flowers that bloom in spring
Very few when no birds sing
Those that grow among the rock
When land is white as chalk,
But look for royal flair
Petals gentle and fair
Eat one and wish
For eternal bliss.”
Together, the man, the woman and the child left the town.
With one piece of gold they bought warm clothes. With another they bought food. They left the mountains and settled near a village in the wooded plains.
The last two pieces of gold bought them tools for farming and woodcutting. With these tools they built themselves a home and a way of living.
There they are to this day.
The End