The Maternal Mountain

By: Leonora Rhoads

The little girl drummed her feet on the ground. She heard the rhythm of beautiful colors that swept the town. Her dress fluttered itself toward the mighty mountain that hissed and cooed at Nancy. She stopped, looked around, expecting to see new and friendly faces, applauding her. Instead, she was shrouded by a layer of darkness. It looked like a black night sky, with nonpareil stars that made her smile wide.

She heard herself sing with the wind. The mountains, the clapping, the hissing, the aroma of something delicious and strange. She had heard and smelled it all. For a moment, she stopped. The stars became so bright that her head started aching.

“Mountain. Open my eyes.” She whispered.

The wind became louder and the stars disappeared. Now there was just a world of shadows created by her bare imagination. She didn’t smell the aroma or feel the warmth of her mother’s skin that she had once felt. Instead, she felt like an apparition lurking in the trees, where only the smallest children could see Nancy. The scent was plain and simple, the wind was now forcefully caressing her body. “Mountain! Open my eyes!”

She was running. Running to an unknown place. Her dress whipped back and forth, sometimes hitting her back. But she didn’t feel anything. All she wanted was a vision, to see the Mountains and white lilies near the lake and the trees that protected her as if she was their child. The Mountain was her only salvation. Her only means of reparation.

She threw her arms in the air, waving for someone or something to notice her. Her legs stretched and her speed increased. The wind was her puppeteer. Nancy gasped and panted, waiting for a signal. But all she saw was eternal night that never turned into morning. She felt tears run down her pale cheeks.

Nancy never cried. She never knew the feeling, but now as she heard herself rustle across the steep forest, she felt her heart drop on the floor, stomped by animal feet and crushed by branches. She couldn’t breathe, and as much as she pleaded to return to her running state, she sat down and listened.

The wind slowed down, the sun scattered across the trees and dried Nancy’s tears. Birds chirped and sang a beguiling tune. The Mountain didn’t need to give her a signal, she realized, at all. She felt the grass tickle her feet and the Mountain brushing her hair. She smelled it again, the sweet honey-dew aroma that made her stomach feel empty.

Her dress twirled, her legs kicked. The Mountain, the lilies that sprouted every spring, the trees that supported and held her arms, they were all watching Nancy. Little stars began to trace the black sky, evoking ecstasy amid her own constellation. She did not need salvation, she did not need to see the nature that saw her. The little girl started laughing.

“Oh, clever, clever Mountain.”

Nancy danced. The Mountain smiled softly.