29th of July 1954

Over a month has passed since we began to summit the great mountain known to the locals as “Esh”. This name had confused me, as the locals had explained that the name meant “an everlasting flame”, a strange title for the coldest peak in a range of mountains that constantly threatened to freeze one’s mucous membranes. Supposedly upon the peak there lies the gift of immortality, the flame of life. The ancestors of the simple people that lived at the mountain’s base and worshiped it as a god had supposedly seen this flame of life pass through their village many centuries ago and begin to climb the mountain along the very same path upon which I now stand.

When I had begun planning my trek with Antonio, we dreamt of earning the right to select a new, more fitting, moniker for this great mountain. One that would be used by the civilized world that eagerly awaited our successful return. Over the weeks that elapsed as we scaled cliffs and carefully passed over crevasses, we would occasionally bicker over which of us would earn the right to name this magnificent wonder of the natural world. This stone, the greatest of all, had watched over the eastern continent since the beginning of time, and I had long since decided that my life’s goal would be for it to bear my name. Millenia after I become ash my name will still be remembered. I will be worshiped in mountain form and never truly die. Antonio and I have agreed that he who touches the peak first will earn the right to name this spire. The challenging part of the climb has passed, and we now hike upon a gentle incline towards my dream. Throughout the day I placed every stop softly, attempting to conserve my energy for the final sprint to the top. 

The peak is concealed by clouds, making it impossible to estimate how much longer we must walk. Antonio is concerned that if we don’t arrive within the next three days we will not have enough food for the descent back to the base. I have already made terms with the fact that this mountain shall either bear my name, or I shall die in the attempt. I write this now sat in the snow staring towards the clouds. The dark night, so high in the sky and many thousands of miles from the wonders of modern lighting, has revealed stars the likes of which I have never before seen. Within the clouds obscuring the peak I see something else. A strange glow emanates from within. Beckoning me towards it. I attribute it to my imagination, or the lack of oxygen, or maybe it is a construct that my brain has generated representing the sheer magnitude of my desire.

31st of July 1954

I had gone to sleep yesterday knowing this would be my last sleep before we broke through the clouds and would finally be able to see the peak. When I awoke I was alone. Antonio had abandoned his sleeping pack and food. He had taken his coat and oxygen and struck out on his own as quietly as possible, determined to reach the peak before me. I wept as I chased after him through the day, knowing that my dream had died, that he had been more determined to reach the peak than I was. Our collaboration had shattered as we each tried to achieve the childhood goal that we had shared. I was no more than 100 meters behind him when he broke through the clouds. As he slipped out of my reach, so too did my dream of symbolic immortality. I was destined to be forgotten. Occasionally mentioned alongside Antonio for maybe the next century, but where his name would be enshrined in history, mine would soon fade from history books.

I briefly considered turning around and returning to our tent to await his triumphant return. I am ashamed to admit that what drove me forward was not curiosity or a desire to complete my journey, rather I was pushed onward by the darkest of human impulses. If I could not be the first to the top, I would be the only one to reach the bottom. I broke through the cloud cover with my hand on my knife, a knife that I had used to split bread with Antonio, a knife that I had used to cut him free of tangled ropes. When I breached the clouds I realized that Antonio had stopped, he stood frozen staring towards the peak.

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When my shock that he had not yet reached the peak, and glee that my dream was still alive had passed, I looked towards the peak and collapsed to my knees at the sight of what Antonio had been staring at.

A man, in the nude, sat cross legged on the precipice. My world collapsed around me. My dream, recently revived from the dead, again destroyed. I arose and charged towards him. The gentle slope of the mountain plateaued, and the snow had melted around the man. With my feet on flat, dry stone I was able to gain speed as I plunged my knife into the mysterious naked figure. Blood leaked from him but the man did not budge. As I thrust my knife into him time and time again, he simply stared curiously into my eyes. His voice was frail and quiet as he asked me my name. I did not respond, I simply kept stabbing. Curiously, I did not grow tired. I was no longer cold. The nagging hunger that was now my only remaining companion had disappeared. Eventually, I realized the futility of my attempt at violence and backed away from him. The man was tall, almost two meters, with the light brown skin tone commonly found south of my homeland. He was also entirely hairless. One might have described him as handsome, with his strong jawline, deep blue eyes, and lean figure. Again he asked me my name.

The Naked Man

“Dante.”

I nodded at him, and pointed to his companion face down in the snow. I bent my finger, asking him to carry the body over to me. He turned to the corpse, and placed his hands over his mouth, as if in shock at what he had done. 

“I. I needed to be first,” Dante stuttered at me.

Humans had always resorted to violence over the slightest inconvenience. This one was no different clearly, yet they always seemed shocked by this tendency, as if believing themselves to be inherently different and morally superior to all the humans that had come before. I beckoned for him to carry the corpse to me. 

“What was his name?” I asked.

“Antonio.”

I placed a hand on Antonio’s head and waved Dante away. Antonio burst into flames. Dante stared into the flame, then at me with horror in his eyes. Perhaps flames were no longer the customary way to honor the dead, or maybe Dante simply detested Antonio and did not want him honored. Regardless, this was the way that I had always honored the dead. Antonio burned until nothing remained of him but ash. It occurred to me that maybe I had been on this mountain for so long that stories of me had disappeared from the world. Throughout human history I had been a god to some and a devil to others, but regardless I had been a legend across the globe. Perhaps I had been sitting alone on this mountain for so many years that modern societies no longer viewed me as an integral part of their history, rather when Dante looked upon me he saw a figure drawn straight from his homeland’s folklore.

“What are you?”

“That is a story that will take many days to tell. If you wish to hear it you may want to head back down and bring your sleeping supplies up here. While I can cure your hunger, thirst, cold, and weariness, you will still need to sleep. You should be able to collect your tent and sleeping pack and return here by nightfall.”

“You saw us climbing up?”

“Of course, I keep watch over the whole mountain,” I responded.

“What are you watching for?”

“So many questions,” I said. “Collect your supplies and I will begin my tale.”

1st of August 1954

When I returned to the summit with my supplies I noticed that the man had not budged from where he sat when I had first seen him. There was no sign of the blood that had spilled from him or Antonio during my fit of violence, the only difference from the morning was the pile of ashes that Antonio had left behind. As night fell I noticed that he was glowing, the same glow that I had seen emanate from the clouds on previous nights. As curious as I had been, I had fallen asleep as soon as I had set up my tent, and I now write this entry in my journal the morning after I murdered my best friend. When I exited my tent he immediately began to tell his story. I suspect that he is lonely and was waiting for someone to reach the top. I doubt my abilities to recount his story accurately verbally, so I have transcribed it in my journal.