A Storm on the Mountain

CHAPTER II

Aanav paused for a moment, looking at the beautiful pack of the lost and outdated larches, their golden frill still intact, from sides, the circumference prodding out of it's conical appearance. In the golden hours, it was always the first visible treat, being kissed by the sun before anyone. He was jealous, and why wouldn't he be? To be tall and grand and have the privilege to shimmer and live happily for long, long years. Forever.

Eagles pondered about the peak very often, their sounds echoing throughout the dark valleys to the east; in the north, a large and calm mountain rested along with several offsprings in the form of a forest. It was very far, even though it looked closer than anything, almost to say that it kept crawling towards him, or vice-versa. A flurry of cold yet not biting air whipped throughout the ranges in the south.

He, in turn, lived like a dead tree in a graveyard.

Unturned, less glorious, tame, a little too fond and thoughtful. At mornings, he spent his entire time writing, heaps and heaps of words gathered and unhinged on his thin and weak paper. He penned whatever came to his mind; ideas, points, stories- short and shorter, poems- even shorter, songs with no hooks or rhythm. He himself seemed unaware of what life was; or better- where?

He'd done what people of age did, what dying wolves did, what people living in a graveyard did. He had painted himself out of the portrait, without any reluctance or firm idea of how he wanted to be colored. Yet, he considered the canvas to be a masterpiece; a time spent in creation of something ambiguous is a time worth invested in, right?

Or so he believed.

He preferred living there, at this distant, almost self-made imaginary tiny house, of that like in Goldilocks & The Three Bears or The Three Little Pigs. But no one really cared to huff and puff to blow down his tiny dwelling place.

The nearest neighbors lived yards away, below, connecting a very small and quiet town with just a handful of people living and eating and sharing business. Even the busiest days would be the quietest. The roads there were built well for it was literally the bridge between two cities and highways.

People heard- mostly made up rumors about the "mystery man" that lived up the hill. They barely ever saw him and even rarely heard his sound. So the vendors started talking about him having no sound in his throat. The women thought that he lived so secluded because he was surely a modern saint in exile. The fact that he never spoke made him even more divine to them.

After a certain while, a new talk stewed the townsmen. Apparently, the shepherd children had seen him in the late evening of a full-moon, sitting out in the dim-lit grass watching the holy pearl. They went and told their mothers, and them to their husbands. Now, he was declared a beast, a wolf-man. Nobody would want to go even closer to the mountain. Children were not allowed to roam around the mountain sides past six, a curfew.

Aanav was never bothered by the scrutiny, the whispers that surrounded him when he walked past the steep lowland of the town. His visits, were in-fact pretty brief and narrow. He didn't like to speak a lot to the people, and so would quietly buy what he could afford, mostly bread, milk and cheap vegetables, just ample; from the tiny supermarket at the local fuel-station.

At times, he came very tacitly, that almost no-one realized his presence, except for the old man who owned the café-cum-supermarket. He actually would greet Aanav during every ephemeral visit. Aanav never spoke or reciprocated in any other gesture, just blinked at the old man plainly, as if replying- and the man at the counter, Chester, as the name on his breast pocket suggested; would shake his head in appreciation, perhaps pretending to understand or making-up for the ignorance to not make a fool out of himself.