The Mountains Call

Fonn was old. He was not sure how old he was, he couldn’t remember anymore. He sat outside his yurt, the cold wind bristling against his bald head. Pulling his robe tighter, he wondered how long it had been since his last meal. This thought led to other ideas, and Fonn’s mind began to chase after the past. When was his last meal? How long had he been in this desolate place? What happened to his wife? His Family?

A spark popped in the coals of the fire. It landed on Fonn’s wrist, causing him to jerk back in pain. He rubbed his skin and clenched his teeth. Looking again at the fire, Fonn wondered when he last felt warmth. Did the fire ever offer a respite from the bitter cold? After nursing his wound Fonn returned to his mundane life, stoking the fire.

Somewhere in the distance, Fonn heard a groaning thud resound across the landscape. His eyes raised from his fire and began to scan the horizon he had forgotten was resting at the edge of sight. How he missed the mountain to the east, he did not know. Fonn gasped at the sight of it. It loomed large over the bleak landscape and commanded Fonn’s attention.

Fonn stood to his feet. How long had it been since he last stood? It did not matter. The mountain called him. What else could you call it? The mountain bade Fonn to come.

At that moment, Fonn wrapped his robe tighter around his body. His long white beard chased the wind, but Fonn stepped forward. Fonn did not remember the last time he walked anywhere. He looked down at his feet, faintly recalling that he once had a pair of sandals. His bare soles carried him away from home and towards that imposing mountain.

The seasons changed. The cold wind gave way to snow and rain. Rain yielded to boiling air in the heat of the sun. The heat subsided and the cold returned. Fonn walked anyway, His feet following his curiosity. Fonn scoffed at notions of time and distance. Grasslands, forests, marshes, and hills provided no obstacle.

Did Fonn have a choice in the matter? Was he drawn by dark forces or benevolence? These things felt insignificant. Only one thing mattered, did the mountain call or not? Would Fonn find purpose within the shadow of the mountain? Another mundane environment to occupy?

After a lifetime of walking, Fonn reached the foot of the mountain. He gazed upwards. The mountain seemed to lean over him and condescend to him. Its great cliffs mocked him and its haughty peak dared him to ascend. A lump appeared in Fonn’s throat. What was this? Fear? When was the last time he felt fear? When was the last time he felt anything?

The mountain resounded again, roaring with a morbid tone that made Fonn’s knees buckle. The old man hit the ground. He covered his ears to shield them from the intense call of the mountain. He lay in terror for a time, but only a time. Fonn stood again and began to climb.

His knees ached. His back hurt. His breath was heavy. Fonn climbed high enough to see the world disappear beneath the mist. Fonn seated himself on a small ridge to rest. He pulled his tattered robe tighter around his body. As he looked out into the endless, misty void, he saw stars in the sky without luster. Did the stars ever shine? Fonn could not recall.

The mountain roared again, the ground rumbling so that Fonn fell from his ridge. He hit the ground leg first. Crying out in pain, Fonn cursed at the mountain. Why had it been calling him? What purpose was there in this? What is purpose?

Fonn grasped for a small shrub and pulled a branch from it. He tore part of his tattered robe away and tied the branch to his leg, making a splint. Where did he learn this? It did not matter. Fonn resumed his climb, His leg throbbing with pain.

Fonn reached a cave. Pulsating groans emerged, like the sound of one breathing. He peered into the darkness, and behold, light! this is the source of the call. What seemed to be a lifetime of walking was at an end, and the answers that lured Fonn here were at hand.

Walking through the cavern, Fonn saw the ground change from pebbles and stones to fine bricks. The walls transformed from rock walls to columns. The interior of the cave showed no signs of formation by human hands. The oddness of this did not puzzle Fonn as much as what lay ahead.

A great stone door sat at the end of the tunnel. Fonn could hear it breathing in and out. The door wore odd and ancient symbols around the frame. It held no knobs or handles and a light shone from behind it. Fonn knew that this was what had been calling out to him. His eyes lingered on the top of the door where he read one single word carved into the stone.

“Anachain”

Fonn was afraid of what lay beyond that door. His lip trembled and a shiver went down his spine. What was this? Why was this door calling out to him? Now that he had seen it he wished he stayed by his yurt, with his fire and the cold wind. Short of breath, Fonn began to walk backward. The air seemed to become stagnant, and the light behind the door took on a sinister glow.

The mountain roared again, and Fonn was in its throat. The door broke open and the light behind it flared with a wild fury. It captured Fonn’s gaze, his eyes transfixed on the eternal horror that unfolded before him. He had been pulled here, and now he was being tortured by indescribable sights and sounds.

Fonn began to cry. His heart pounded and his eyelids froze open. What he was witnessing was a pure calamity. Fonn’s life was a calamity, his lack of memory was a calamity, and now this hellish nightmare is a calamity. Fonn now knew what he came here for. The realization pulsed through his veins like liquid hellfire. Fonn knew there was no return from the madness.

The door closed. The cave was empty. The mountain rested.

An abandoned yurt sat alone in the desolate land. Over time its walls deteriorated. The wind blew icy cold. The fire that once strived to keep a man warm died out.