I’m sure you are familiar with the tale of Icarus. A man, highly ambitious, flying too close to the sun. Burning. It is a tale, often repeated, existing in many forms. In this instance, it’s name was Icarus once again, but this time it was no man. It was a mountain.
Mount Icarus was a dream for many to climb, its peak’s enticing anyone who came across it. I was too young and foolish to listen to the warnings. They assured me it was impossible, and in climbing — like Icarus — I would end up too close to the sun.
I explained my ambitions at the local bar before I went, drunk on confidence, and beginning to slur my words.
“To me, that mountain is little more than a hill,” I said. “Only fools would say I have no chance.”
The bartender chuckled. “I guess I must be a fool then.”
His smile turned to an intense stare. “That mountain is not there for climbing. It’s there as a warning.”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever you say,” I smile through his intensity. “Warning or not, it’s going to be mine by the end of this week.”
“Hundreds die on that hill every year. Every one of them comes here, and tells me how they’re going to be the first.”
The bartender was increasingly concerned. His eyes showed worry, but he also knew there was nothing he could do to stop me.
“You're exactly the kind of people it’s trying to warn. Don’t let your ambitions kill you. You have your whole life to do stupid things.”
Unfortunately, I’m a terrible listener.
The base was barely a challenge, the incline barely more than a shallow hill. I was physically well, and this stood no difficulty to me. What I didn’t realise, was that it wasn’t the mountain that was the challenge. After I reached the first plateau, and began to make camp, the realisation of my mistake was beginning to settle in. That was when the whispers started. Words wrapped in the wind. Barely audible, but certainly there. At first they confused me. Maybe the first plateau was a popular destination, I thought, knowing it wasn’t. These whispers weren’t from any visitors. The whispers were at home here. The frost bit at my fingers. I tried to write down the words as I heard them.
Snow. The tops of the peak were layered in white.
Forest. A green blanket wrapped through the valley.
Corpse. I wasn’t sure I had heard it right.
A corpse walked up the snowy hill,
not knowing we were still
watching and waiting
for the regret to kick in
I hadn’t seen any corpses on my way up. In fact, I hadn’t seen any on the whole mountain. Hundreds died every year. So where were the bodies?
This short and sharp, great work.
Thanks for sharing