Left.

     Aching, this climb. I’ve been since dawn ascending this worn path. A stretch of gravel mounting the side of a slumbering beast, asleep for so long it has mossed and grassed over. The ease of summer strolls through flatter lands was now a reminiscence, and the dew sits heavy on auburn ash leaves.

Right.

     But the climb needs making if I am to pass over into the next valley. The next valley, that western Cwm, is a kind one where I will be housed by a stranger in return for merely telling of my travels. I will be warm and will rest, and may drink a little if I can sell the carvings of wagtails and skylarks I whittled on the road.

Left.

     In that next village I will post a letter to tell my elder sister I am alright. She worries about where and how I get about with my life on my back, my few remaining belongings exposed to the elements as the seams of the gunny sack split open. Perhaps I will find a new one in the next village or sit still for long enough to sew this one whole again. If I can find coins and the courage, perhaps I will even call her from a phone booth.

Right.

     Each step seems heavier, lifting these second-hand boots I earned from a farmer. A day’s labour and three days soreness these cost me; he had me shovel out the cow and pig barns, and the horse stables before hauling in more bales for them to feed on; I bruised my tailbone from slipping on the muck. The sole peels from the leather, flapping with every step, and I feel the water being squeezed out of the front of my socks with each step, only to be sponged back in as my foot lifts again.

Left.

     It is yet the morning, and the sun fights for its place amongst the grey folds of cloud overhead. I spent last night slightly misshapen, having slept in the hollow between some tree roots and under a thin canvas which leaked a lilt of water near the middle, making me sleep with my legs off to one side.

Right.

     I have just rounded a left bend, which I know to be one of the last from my camping on this mountain some years ago with a friend, in which we told ghost stories to the nine-year-old brother that one friend had brought with him. It was us who were scared when said younger sibling put a snake he had secretly caught on the floor of our tent.

     I halt.

     A score paces ahead of me I hear a rustling. I see the brambles, the blackberries on which have now withered or dropped off, shaking on the left of the trail – the uphill side.

     Shortly a black face appeared from the greenery, eyes squinting to avoid a thorny blindness. The white wool atop the head bounced forward as it passed out of the snagging bush. The rest of the creature came out, its rate of exit increasing as the thorns lost their grasp of its curling fleece.

     The ewe emerged with water-laden, sagging wool now dusted with thorns, leaves and small runnings of blood. It was followed shortly by calf. The little one also carried water, thorns and leaves in its coat, but was spared of bloodshed in its mother's wake.

     The mother trundled down the two foot slope and onto the path. She did so awkwardly, limping not to overbear her front right leg, which dragged a section of barbed, woody plant stem from it. Hobbling until central in the gravel trail, its body turned to face down the path toward me. Lamb followed, stopping just behind to the right of its guardian.

     Two pairs of dark eyes pierced the sparse mist to meet my own. The smaller eyes of the young carried hope in them – childhood naivety that the world is a just place is not an exclusively human trait -; the larger, elder eyes held sadness and grief, for they had bad news to deliver.

 

The path ahead is gone.

 

     Its mouth did not move, and I did not hear it say this - I did not hear a voice at all -, but I was told so. I knew it did not come from elsewhere.

     "What do you mean? There has always been a path here.” I say aloud. The air seemed thinner now, my voice croaking on the first words I had said today.

 

It has been washed away.

 

     “How?” I questioned “The rain has only been fine today. This path has seen worse rai-”

 

It was not the rain. The mountain woke.

It has had enough of man's unkindness.

A spring swelled. The land has slid.

The path is gone.

 

     I hear it now. The running water; the clattering of small stones being rinsed away; the dull thumping of larger rocks that rolled as the soil they leaned on had been stolen.

     “What will I do now? I needed to go that way to the next village.” I pleaded.

 

You shall continue on this path.

Your way in this world was decided before your first steps.

 

     The ewe’s coat now seemed darker than it had at first, washed with a black dust. The lamb beside seemed whiter now in comparison. The ewe placed its front foot down now, and the two-inch thorn stabbed in.

 

You will walk on to where the path is no more.

To where the roar of its leaving deafens you.

You will join the path in its fate.

 

     I sensed only truth in this. My stomach, now lined with lead, sat heavy in me. My left foot grew lighter in a boot that was no longer heavy; no longer waterlogged.

     “Can I not be forgiven for my unkindness?” I begged “I am sorry for the campfires I lit upon its back. I was young when I camped here.”

Left.

 

It is not your unkindness that angered it. The campfires did no harm.

The mountain was ravaged from below;

insulted by the theft of its innards for man’s wealth.

 

Right.

     “But I have not mined from this mountain. I have now pillaged its insides. I am not to blame for this robbery.”

 

But you are the one who is here now.

 

Left.

     The gaze finally broke. I blinked for the first time again. Both mother and child’s heads turned quickly, and they left the path on the downhill side. The pure white of the lamb's tail disappeared into the thicket.

Right.

     Each step was no longer mine but belonged to something older, greater, and infinitely more patient than I.

Left.

 

The noise grows louder. The roar swallows the world.

 

Right.

 

I slam my eyes shut.

 

Left.

 

Gods, help me.