The Lost Dreams of a Broken Poet

The High Mountains of The Mind

As the previous story, this was originally written in Spanish for a short story writing competition in my country (did not win, sadly). I do feel, however, that this is one of my best short stories.

Enjoy!

In the High Mountains of the Mind, a young monk jumped from stone to stone. He chases a lizard, he gets distracted by a white butterfly, he continues his game.

In the High Mountains of the Mind, a boy can play until Night falls. So he runs and dances and shouts until the shadows stretch and it's time to return to the temple.

In the High Mountains of the Mind, a figure draped in dark clothes observes from afar. Their dull gaze follows the little monk, who laughs and cries and jumps with excitement. With patience they wait until they can go out and run and dance and cry like the boy had done before.

Don't go out, little monk, the other gurus warned him when the boy wished to continue his adventures once the fireflies lit up like lanterns in the dark. Don't go out or the creature in black will capture you.

Yet, despite their warnings, the child remained between the rockroses and bluebells longer and longer each day, the grass caressing his cheeks as he watched the first stars lift in the horizon.

In the High Mountains of the Mind, a brave little one defied absurd rules and played with the frogs from the stream; with the rabbits from the forest; with the dandelions, blowing wishes to the clouds and sun. The boy was lonely. His only companions were his tall staff, the little ragdoll tied to it and the warm summer breeze. There weren't any other little boys like him to play with...

So one dusk he remained seated with his frogs and butterflies, watching how the sun slowly dropped in the horizon, how the shadows covered the white mountaintops, their black fingers reaching towards his stone.

And he kept waiting, hugging his cloth friend tightly.

And at last, when the moon had risen in the sky bathing the landscape in a mantle of silver light, the stranger appeared on top of a large stone, tall and silent.

"Hello!" The child shouted, waving happily.

The figure cocked their head to the side, but said nothing. The little monk then stood up, cleaned his golden and crimson robes and picked up one of his favorite frogs. With his energetic and clumsy steps he climbed onto the stranger's stone.

"Hello!" He repeated. "Look, she's called Princess." And he gave her to the stranger, so they could hold it. The jet-black figure, without speaking a word, held the little frog gingerly, careful not to hurt her. And that was enough for the little one to consider them his new friend. "Do you want to go anywhere? I know a lot of good places to play. Shall we go? What's your name? Where are you from? I live with some really boring monks who don't let me go out when it's dark. Do you know why they don't let me go out? It's not too bad outside, though it is a bit chilly..." The stranger then took off their dark and patched cloak and placed it on the slight monk's shoulders, who smiled gratefully.

They walked in silence for a while, the only sound to be heard was the monotonous slap on their feet and staff. Princess croaked every once in a while, until she got fed up with her company and jumped in search of her family and stream. Now, only the monk and the stranger walked along the High Mountains of the Mind.

The road began to slope, the boy slipping and tripping several times. So the stranger simply picked him up and placed him on their shoulders and then continued their stroll. And so they walked the whole night for hours on end in complete silence, the little boy humming simple tunes that the stranger followed with the rhythm of their steps. And at last they reached the top of a mountain, white with snow.

"Look," the stranger finally said, and the sleepy monk opened his eyes.

Northern lights painted the sky with a thousand colors, shimmering over the lagoons and lakes. The boy opened his eyes widely, bewitched by the dancing sparkle and lights.

"How pretty the night is!" He whispered, sitting on the snow. Next to him, the stranger grinned like the accomplice they had been in this mischievous adventure. "But it's so cold..." He said to himself. Shivering, he hid below a rock, hugging tightly the ragdoll made from scraps of black cloth. He closed his eyes, wishing that the black cloak were actually real, his new friend real...

In the High Mountains of the Mind, a young monk slept with a large grin under a resplendent night. Next to him, a figure of black protected him from the mountain cold and the dangers of the dark, their black, woolen cloak covering his body, a mantle of love and affection.