Coming down from the mountain

[Obsidian Heart]

I finished the last slow circle over the curved hood of the classic pickup and looked over it's shining surface.

"You want to know who Peter was and what he was doing up there? I could tell you a story that would fill pages and you still wouldn't understand. If you want the story, the entire truth of the matter so others will read and understand, then you'd have to walk the path he walked, breath the air he did, and then?"

Tossing the well used cloth into the wash pail I carefully swung it over the flat side of the restored pickup box and set it down on the hardwood floor and turned to the woman facing me.

"Then maybe you'd understand what kind of man he was and what kind of dreams he carried inside him for the people he cared for"

The starter turned over smoothly and the flat head engine purred to life beneath the hood and I leaned out the door to look the figure of the woman up and down a final time before letting my eyes rest on hers.

"I'm going to make a final trip to his town tomorrow, will be there a week, maybe more. If you want the whole story meet me at Sadie's diner at 6 a.m. and I'll buy you breakfast before we go. If you really want to write what happened to the man that came down from his mountain."

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I'd like someone to join me and help my character tell a story about another. Maybe along the way our own characters will create one of thier own between them as well. PM me if you will and then we can begin our fantasy.

 

[the_butterfly]

I arrived at Sadie's at 5:30. I needed time to settle into the place, to soak up the mood. He'd chosen to begin his story here. Beginnings were everything. They held all the subtle clues that revealed the end. I wanted this place and this beginning clear in my head before he started painting over it with the brush of his own memories and emotions.

The little recorder in my skirt pocket thumped against my thigh as I strolled across the parking lot. That would capture his words. In my little black notebook I recorded my words, just sketches impressions: a crescent moon fading away in the silver sky, faded curtains in the window, just beyond the window a silver-haired waitress filling sugar jars at the counter, an old man in a booth sipping coffee and studying the paper with a magnifying glass. Things faded, forgotten, lost with time. I made the notes and wondered how close these feelings would come to fitting with the story I was here to find.

I reached to grab the door handle just as a mourning dove called soft and low from the woods at the edge of the lot. The sadness went through me with a shiver.

 

[Obsidian Heart]

"Those things will help you remember what we speak of. But they won't help you feel"

I nodded towards the recorder she had placed on the edge of out table so carefully, the notebook she cradled in one hand with her pencil poised over the other.

"That's what I learned from Peter, you know. Despite the intensity of the writtens words and how they might move a person for a short time, they are after all just words"

I lifted the too hot cup of coffee the waitress had just filled and drank from it, the smokey, bittersweet brew burning as it crossed my lips and tore down my throat.

"Nothing replaces the actual thrill of a hand touching yours, you never know true pleasure or pain without that touch, and once you lose it?"

I looked to the woman and wondered if she understood my ramblings, or was she as naive as I was, before I met Peter. Another deep draw from the now cooling coffee and I placed the heavy mug down carefully, rolling it in my hands as I wondered where to begin or where to end.

"I met Peter on the highway, a chance meeting as I was gassing up my bike and he an old truck. Only it was really old then and didn't run worth a damn and he was looking for someone to repair it. He had tools but no knowledge of what had to be done and I had my hands, so I helped him"

In my mind I could remember the cool blue eyes and how they followed my every move as I worked on the old engine, pulling plugs and cleaning them, setting the gap with an old match and then the points with the paper of the book. His questions spoken softly as I worked, never irritating as others could grate you when they watched, curiousity in each word he spoke as he learned.

After I got his old truck running and put the tools away I looked smugly at Peter and announced proudly that all it took was the tools and the know how and almost any problem could be fixed on his old truck. I can still see the smile on his face as he listened to it run and then for the first time showed me the insight that he possessed when he replied

"Too bad all the situations in life can't be fixed as easily. If you're in my neck of the woods why don't you stop and visit for a while and we could discuss your life?"

Our food came and I lifted my fork and knife, lifting the first of the eggs done so perfectly that I nearly drooled as I tasted them and eagerly chewed.

"I turned down his offer of money and didn't think seriously of his offer either, even when he handed me a crude map of the turns and twists needed to find his place so high up in the mountains. Inside I denied I had any need to see him or discuss my life with a complete stranger, though I stuffed the map into my pocket as I watched him drive off"

The eggs were delicious and I was hungry so for a few minutes I forgot the telling of the story this young woman wanted badly enough to listen to my prattlings and ate in silence, enjoying the simple pure pleasure of food and the hunger it diminished.

The meal ended and my cup refilled I noticed for the first time my guests own meal of muffin and juice were hardly touched, her fingers busy scribbling in the notebook.

"I'll take you to his mountain, try to tell you how it was when I first met him and the changes it went thru before he left, but once we begin there isn't any turning back. You need to know that you'll be along for a ride that might take weeks before you return and when you do you keep your promise I want. A promise to tell the truth as you've seen it."

 

[the_butterfly]

A challenge! His eyes dared me to continue. It was almost a warning, yet his own promise was there even as he asked for mine. This would be no ordinary story.

I kept my eyes on my notes, making a sketch of him as I let the silence stretch bewteen us. I hoped he'd eventually move to fill it with his own words, the honest ones, the real things he needed to say. I stalled fiddling with notes, scribbling away, trying to make a decision. I knew what I should do. I hadn't decided what I would do.

My pencil filled the page with the gibberish I would later weave into a story.

methodical...sandy brown hair..still waters..so very deep...he watches..blue eyes..windows to the souls..his depths... clear blue...dimension... eyes rimmed with deeper blue...can fix a car with a book of matches...what else needed fixing?...this friendship wasn't ordinary..this man wasn't..Peter wasn't...linger on pale blue eyes...

His eyes roamed over me, assessing, sizing up. I could almost hear the thoughts running through his head. Can she do this? What is she made of? Will she do this right?

He was about five foot ten and if I stood my straightest I might reach his chin. I was fair skinned and my fiercest feature was an untamable river of strawberry blonde hair that was alreading escaping the bonds of a French braid. Next to that lean, tanned, outdoorsy look of his, I looked as substantial and vigorous as a moonbeam. Not that it mattered. If I chose to go, I'd get the job done. I always did.

He looked out the window, silently rolling the coffee mug between his hands. He didn't push for my answer.

I sipped cold coffee and scribbled again.

...Yuck, awful coffee..swamp mud!...he's patient...practical...practical clothes..blue jeans...t-shirt washed too many times to be sure of its color...clean...tidy...he's full of mystery...secrets....

He hadn't moved to fill the silence so I tried to prime the pump. "Do you have the map your friend gave you? Could I see it?"

He plucked it from the pocket of his shirt and slid it across the scarred table top, right past my untouched muffin. I ignored his curious glance at my untouched breakfast. A stomach full of restless butterflies left no room for food.

I unfolded the scrap of paper and spread it flat under my fingertips. The butterflies transformed themselves into a flock of flapping geese. Pressing the map firmly against the table, I struggled to hide a sudden tremor in my hands.

I didn't know the area, so the faded sketch meant little to me. I took a deep breath, let the sudden attack of nerves pass and refolded the map. He was playing his cards close, keeping quiet, offering no explanation, doing nothing to help my decision along. Our fingers brushed as I handed the paper back, that jolt of warmth replayed his words in my mind: "Nothing replaces the actual thrill of a hand touching yours..."

A memory burned like a hot iron inside me. Closing my eyes against it, I willed it back refusing to see. I punched the off button on the recorder. There was no decision to make. I'd known that before I walked into the diner.

I put the full force of my determination into my gaze when I answered him, "I want you to understand a few things. If I can't approach a story with respect and an open mind, I don't start it. If I can't do it honestly, I don't start. And most important, I always finish what I start."

I stood up hoping I at least looked calm and self-possessed. "You ready to go?"

I slipped the recorder into my skirt pocket and snapped the notebook shut. I would go anywhere. No turning back. The last thing I wanted to do was look back.

 

[Obsidian Heart]

"I'm ready" I agreed and paid the tab on the food with a few bills for the woman who had served us so quietly and yet hadn't missed a single thing we wished. I moved to the door and followed the determined stride of the bouncy reporter, questioning myself if I was doing the right thing.

"Ready to go back" I reassured myself as I took her bags and tied them into the back of the box, knowing the trail we would soon be on would be a bumpy one and not wishing to see her possesions lost.

The engine chugged to life and we pulled onto the blacktop, this time I was making the trip behind a windshield...and with a companion...

"I really had no where to go" I began again after we had traveled a few miles, after I had collected myself and absolved my mind of the sight of her tight fitting shorts over firm buttocks as she had walked towards the pickup.

"So I found myself driving the same road as we're on now, wondering what made me so curious as to follow the tiny scribbles on that envelope, and accept this mans invitation. Then I realized what it was he said, or rather what he hadn't said, he hadn't passed judgement on me or told me what to do...just offered to talk about...me"

It had been as if the man could read my thoughts...and later I found he was adept at that very thing...adept at telling what a person was feeling when those emotions were flitting across your face or eyes.

"It took me two days of hard riding though we'll do it in three easier ones this time, time for me to tell how it looked when I first rode in...and how things were and had been for too long."

I grinned then, thinking back of how the tiny community looked when I first rode in and asked for Peter, how timid and unsure the people had been and the way they looked at me as if I were a creature from outer space.

"The buildings were built more like barracks then homes, and after I watched a short time I found I was right, the single men lived in groups in several of the wooden structures, the single women did the same on the opposite side of the road."

"And across that line neither sex shall pass, till the elders deem it time, so as it was done it will always be done"

"I had quoted the words verbatim, the meaning in them so incredulous I had nearly slid back onto the seat of my bike and rode out, if it weren't for another young mans recognition of me"

I looked towards the passenger in the ancient interior then, knowing I had forgotten her being in the cab with me , and feeling embarressed for it.

"I'm sorry. I was just...lost" I tried to explain, feeling foolish and wondering not if but when she would ask to be let out of the pickup and be set free from the madman who was driving.

 

[the_butterfly]

"That's so strange," I commented absently.

His eyes widened in surprise when I slid across the seat closer to him. We hit another bump and I grabbed the dash glancing with distrust at my rattling door. I had battled with it to get it open while he'd been fooling with my bags and then I had struggled twice as hard to get the blasted thing to shut right. Despite his mechanical prowess with a matchbook, I didn't trust it to stay shut. Besides, I could barely hear him over the din of rattling doors, windows, and other assorted parts.

"Didn't that strike you as odd? Didn't it make you hesitate?"

He looked from me to the road and back again. His surprise turned to confusion. "Which?"

It seemed perfectly obvious to me, but I clarified, settling back bracing my hands on either side of me while the truck swayed back and forth. "Peter just wanted to talk about you. When you meet someone they usually want to tell you who they are."

He smiled at me then. A brief but genuine smile between glances at the road. I tried to remember if I'd seen him smile before. It was beautiful thing, hypnotic, bewildering... Had I said something amusing? I looked back over at the door. Maybe I 'd be safer over there. We hit another hard bump and I grabbed the dash. Maybe not.

I flipped open my notebook. Not that my writing would be decipherable, but I needed to stay focused on my job.

Houses like barracks...men and women separate...some kind of elders...ok a little ominous....but the talking thing...that should have been a warning flare...

I glanced sideways. The road had his full attention. What could he have possibly found so compelling that he'd be willing to accept an invitation to open himself up to a stranger? I shivered and wondered for the millionth time what this story would really be about.

 

[Obsidian Heart]

She had "pluck". I gave her that as we continued along and I wondered how to explain to her. It wasn't the fact I didn't know, or how to break it down into the who, why, where, when or how.

I wasn't a genius but self educated, everything I learned from doing it the hard way.

"Maybe you're curious what would make me follow such an invitation?" I continued, pulling over to a road side stop, knowing it was time we took a break as well as the restored pickup.

"It wasn't he had said anything so curious I had to find out, he made no offer that was remarkable...I simply had nothing better to do, no direction to turn...and I think in a few seconds Peter picked up on that, instinct guiding him to make that assessment of me and the offer to...talk."

Maybe that would be enough...maybe I didn't need to tell the reporter more about myself and keep the subject on the real man in the story...

"They called him WindWalker...I thought for sure they were all crazy, so far from the real world, so out of touch with it...that is until I walked into his house and the saw where he lived"

 

[the_butterfly]

I noticed the neat turn of attention away from himself and back to the story. I decided to follow his lead.

Now that they had stopped she slid back away from him again, giving him distance, hoping he'd open up more. I fired off a few questions hoping to to keep him talking.

"Windwalker? Why did they call him that? What was it about his house that changed your mind?"