The Ghost of the Mountain

They never knew the way he took through the burning forest, nor how that creature transformed, how that sniveling coward turned into the terror of the mountain. In a sense, I think he did die. I don’t mean he’s a ghost. He, if you knew him before, he was a coward, yes, but he was always concerned with how people looked at him, what they thought of him. Then, well, he fell in love. I don’t think he ever—she was kind and harsh to him, in a way, a way he had never known before. She saw right through him, but she also, maybe, she was the first one to ever see him. He’d put on the act, and she wouldn’t talk to whatever character he’d come up with. I remember, he was trying to sound successful, powerful; trying to impress her, you know? Got all dressed up, ordered a fancy drink, babbled enough to sound like he knew business talk. She just smiled. Polite, not interested. Well, plenty of people had seen through him before, but then she did something more. She laughed. “Why don’t you tell me who you are?” She might have said “…really are?” And he did. That, right there, was probably the first brave thing he did in his life; he opened up to her. I won’t say what I overheard, but it was the first time I heard him tell the truth. He was shaking, sweating. Every time he started to swerve into posturing, that laugh, that smile, a gentle touch, and he’d go back, repent, tell the truth. When he knew she was in danger, I don’t think an army would have stopped him. I don’t know how he made it through the fires, but we all know what he found on the other side of Hell. He’s never going to stop.