BY DR. AGONSON
The stone stairs were all that saved me once I’d entered the fog. My heart sank when I looked up and saw those dank clouds slowly passing overhead, saw that my path led right into that darkness, but the terrors behind me, the torture and pain that was in store for me if I were caught, the ignominy I’d face if the captain got me again under his power, spurred me into that dank and dreadful uncertainty. Without the stairs, though, I’d have been lost. Soon, the fog was so thick, I was groping like a blindman. I’d certainly have been lost were the path not so well prepared. Weariness and fear fought within me, and my tired body shook with cold and dread as I struggled my way up, step by step.
All the time, I wondered if they would guess, if they would follow. Certainly, I had no other way to run, but with the clouds covering me—well, if I couldn’t see in front of me, how could they spy me crawling up the mountain? They might just think I had found a way to double back and go down the mountain, as I had tried at first. No, it wasn’t all bluster and misdirection when I said I wouldn’t go up these stairs. But, when I found that I couldn’t sneak back down, that the guards were too wary for that, I knew I had to use my one chance at freedom to escape, escape in the only direction that was open to me.
Then, it seemed to be all at once, the clouds thinned and were gone. I blinked at the sudden brightness, for it was like the difference between day and night. The noonday sun was high, the clouds I’d just transcended, a shimmering sea of whiteness below like a flowing river of snow, its bright, reflective surface suffering not a shadow upon this strange mountaintop.
I had been, till now, crawling; yes, I had gone up those stairs like some sort of pilgrim on his hands and knees, though that was by necessity not devotion. Now, as I found myself in this strange realm of light, I froze a moment, gaping. Here and there, pale patches of green grass sprouted over the low, coiling mists, or some sharp jut of bare rock sprang up, yet, with those sparse exceptions, there was only but a little island, the mountain’s top, to be seen.
I stood, my arched back aching as I straightened up, and walked like a man again as I left the occluding clouds. The stairs continued up what now appeared, not the dreadful mountaintop that had haunted me these last months of my imprisonment, but a little knoll like some simple, rocky hill I might have, on some romantic whim, climbed in a free hour just to see what could be seen.
Because the light seemed to shine at one from all directions, I have said that there were no shadows, but there was, in some sense, the imitation of a shadow, a tall, obsidian stone, thin and polished, rising like a frozen tongue of flame. As I came near the obelisk, the ground seemed smoother, the pitch flattened into a plane. No shadow, but a dim reflection; I could see the shape of me walking in that dark glass, stumbling, shaking as I approached.
The bright, glowing mists coiled about this mystic landmark, this legend of death which had troubled men for uncounted centuries. But for the sound of my labored breaths and the fall and crunch of my every step upon the gravel, a perfect, silence rested here.
I stopped a few paces from the stone, and then there was only the sound of my breathing, slow and heavy. An utter loneliness: all around was the white sea of billowing clouds, a blindingly bright heaven, above the sun shone with a cold and merciless light, and before me the great mystery that had brought the captain and therefore me here.
I stared at myself, studying the outline of my face. The broad strokes were there, pale and monochrome, like a sketch in charcoal: There were my cheeks, my jaw, the brow, even the wrinkles of my brow, the pointed nose, but no eyes, just holes, shadows, darkness.
Then this thing of shadows spoke. I was silent, but I saw the reflection’s lips move, its mouth opening unto a darkness like the eyes; like a whisper in my ear was my own voice speaking sweet promises to me. Power, revenge, control, all for a little sacrifice.
And I knew the tale of this place, for it was the tale of my people. Great power could be found here, power the captain desired. I might give it to him. I could feel the stone searching my mind and clinging to my hurt and hatred. Pictures of the captain at my mercy, at the mercy of the shadowy me within…
I pulled my hand away. Almost, I had touched the stone. My hand had stretched out, almost unrealized. I had almost switched places with that waiting demon. I would not touch it, and the shadowy reflection died. I watched as it dimmed and faded away. The presence which had assaulted my mind was gone, and like the ending of a headache, an exhausted relief.
It is a cold place, that mountaintop, and none of my people dare go here anymore. I am the first in many generations. There are no stairs on the way down. You have to make them yourself.
Tale Told 