Where the Mountain Remembers the Song

Whispers of the Mountain

Aeron had always heard the stories whispered by the old folk of Elderglen—a land nestled beneath the shadow of the Great Talmor Mountain, where the springs sang and trees told tales. He had never believed them, not truly. But when his village’s crops failed and the river ran dry, desperation pushed him toward the legend.

The path to Talmor was not marked on any map. Only the deer trails and the instinct of the brave led one through the dense forest, where towering trees brushed the heavens. Their trunks were ancient, thick with moss and memory, their roots like veins feeding the land. Aeron walked beneath them in silence, as if speaking might awaken something older than time.

Days passed. His provisions ran low. Still, he pushed on, guided by the sound of water trickling through stone, faint at first, then growing stronger each dawn. On the fourth morning, he emerged from a grove and beheld a sight so pure he forgot the hunger gnawing at his gut.

There it was: a lush valley cradled by the arms of the mountain. Springs burst joyously from rocky outcrops, feeding a network of clear streams that danced through fields carpeted with wildflowers. Bluebells, golden daffodils, scarlet poppies—all swayed in rhythm with the wind. And above it all, the peak of Talmor stood majestic, wreathed in mist like a crown.

He fell to his knees and drank. The water was cold and bright, and as it touched his lips, a strange warmth flooded his chest. Strength returned to his limbs, and the ache of days faded. He lay on the grass beside the spring, lulled into sleep by the gurgling of the stream and the rustle of leaves.

When he awoke, night had fallen. Moonlight bathed the glade in silver. And across the stream, standing where no one had been before, was a woman.

She wore a cloak of woven petals, and her hair shimmered like riverlight. Her eyes were green as the moss-covered stones. She didn’t speak, but Aeron heard her all the same—inside his mind, like a song he’d always known.

“Why have you come, child of the village?

Aeron rose slowly, heart pounding. “My people are dying,” he said aloud. “The land is barren. The rivers are silent. I came to seek the spring. To ask… for help.

The woman’s gaze didn’t soften, but it shimmered, like a dew-kissed leaf. “This land is sacred. It gives only to those who give. What have your people given to the mountain?

Aeron’s throat tightened. “We used to honor the forest. We sang to the trees. But in time, we forgot. We cut the groves. We built over the meadows. We took more than we gave.

“Then you know why your land withers.

He lowered his head. “I do. But let me bring back the memory. Let me teach them again. Let me carry your song.”

There was silence then. Only the night sounds: the hum of insects, the wind in the pines, the whisper of water. Then, a soft breeze circled him, warm and fragrant. Flowers bloomed where his shadow fell.

The woman stepped across the stream. Her feet didn’t disturb the water. She placed a hand on Aeron’s chest.

“Then I will give you a seed.

From her palm, a single glowing seed appeared. She placed it in Aeron’s hands, where it pulsed with life.

“Plant this where your heart is strongest. If your people remember the old ways, if they sing to the land and share in its pain and joy, it will bloom. And with it, the waters will return.”

He nodded, tears in his eyes. “I swear it.

The woman began to fade, becoming one with the wind and the light and the song of the springs. Her final words echoed like a lullaby.

“The mountain remembers. Do not forget again.

When Aeron returned to Elderglen, he was a different man. The villagers gathered in awe as he planted the seed in the heart of the square, where a dead fountain stood.

He sang to it each dawn. At first, they mocked him. Then they joined him.

They cleared the fallen trees and replanted groves. Children learned to listen to birdsong. Elders told tales of trees and stars. And in time, the seed bloomed—a towering tree with blossoms like fire and light.

The day its roots broke the earth and water gushed forth again, the people wept.

Aeron never saw the mountain again. But when the wind rustled through the leaves, he heard the woman’s voice.

“The mountain remembers. And now, so do you.”