Mauna’s exposure to cruelty, to horror, to treachery, deceit, lies upon lies, had been minimal; a passing of tides and crowns and portals, intrigue he knew very little about, couldn’t begin to describe or understand. So his eyes were open and wide on the channels of the river, on the haunting aspirations beckoning them to this wide plain, on the distance between friend, foe, ghost, or spirit, breathing in tandem with the rest of the world, pondering what was to happen next with the same silly glee any child would have nurtured.
Except –
His grandmother appeared, as blue and defiant as he remembered – like a blade, like a piercing, penetrating cutlass of righteous adversity – and anytime he recalled her name in his memory, rolled it over along his tongue, it was thunder and lightning, it was blazing and furious, it was illustrious and riveting. He watched, bore witness again and again, to the untamed reach of her prowess, yearned to laugh, to call out to her, because she was back, not specks of stars or dust. But then she shouted out his father’s name, and his eyes floated to Zero, steadfast, stalwart Zekle, and the excitement died inside of him, because this wasn’t a time or place for happiness, to be enriched, enchanted, at the idea of the dead returning to their sides. His sire’s features are just oceans and waves of sadness, of despair, of a gut-wrenching sorrow clinging over cheeks and eyes, and immediately the boy only wanted to protect him, to reach out, to say it’s okay (as if naught was wrong, as if it was all a play, all a mirage). He wanted the brightness back, the ebullience, the beautiful reach of his joy bristling over the seams of every empire. The lad extended his maw, the soft, dulcet nares flared out amidst the spiraling bedlam, but didn’t get far enough before the words are whispered, shuddering over his form, be brave, little mountain (for what? For what?).
Then, over the river, on a piece of gold, on wings of satin and sagacity, his mother appeared.
The very first thing he wanted to do was glance sharply over at Vulkan, at Otem, yell out “I told you so!” because she had returned and they said she was gone, they said she was dead, they said she couldn’t come back, and he’d always had faith, he’d always believed in her-
But the words died in his throat, because the tears started forming along his cheeks, within his eyes, without prompt or declaration, no preamble, no whims, just pure, utter joy. “Mom!” He cried out, the biggest, grandest smile on his face, capable of lighting the heavens, of stealing the dark. He longed to fly out to her, to land at her side and giggle, delight, at her sheer existence, and he couldn’t fathom why Zero was sorry, why Otem was screaming at the top of her lungs, why the whole world seemed to be roaring in his ears. The boy scarcely noticed the nerves, the rancor, the energy clawing and crossing over their wares; the way others yelled warnings (his mother would never do anything harmful or wretched – she was the Mountain who Knew). She was his focus, his muse, his sun, his earth, and Mauna stepped forward, beside his father, wings stretching, unfurling, begging to be released so he could be by her side one more time.
Then she began to turn to stone, and he’d be too late, he’d be too slow, he’d never get to her in time – and the tears kept falling, one by one, blood-red eyes round and reverent. She had so many words for everyone and everything, and when it finally came to him, to him, there are dragons in the soil and in the sky, her gilded gaze pinpointed, segmented on his soul, and he received almost nothing. Just be good. He’d been barely known, too fresh, too young, too anything, last on her list, when she’d been first in his heart.
He didn’t know what to say. He had naught to give back to her; no fairy-tale wishes, no harmonic hopes, no illusions of grandeur. They died in his stare, as she turned to his father and asked him to come with her. It felt like the most brutal of betrayals, slammed directly into his chest, into his heart – as she begged, as she pleaded, as she reasoned for Zero to go. How? How could that be? How could she just leave him there without his father? How could she be so selfish?
Maybe because he was.
“You can’t have him!” The little mountain boy screamed at the top of his lungs, suddenly vicious, ferocious, a shield, a shard, lanced too many times in too many places. He stepped directly in front of Zero’s form (waited for the earth to strike, for lightning to spiral and burst him away like they’d done before). The tears flew down his face and lord, he didn’t care at all, mouth open and savage, unfurled, threatened, undone – incapable of facing his sire in that moment, ground down to naught but the minute essence of a child without roots, flung down the canyon who’d borne him. “Please dad,” he whispered after, trying to maintain calm when his entire body shook, trembled, quivered. “You can’t go.”
Mauna
CROWNS HAVE THEIR COMPASS-LENGTH OF DAYS THEIR DATE-
TRIUMPHS THEIR TOMB-FELICITY, HER FATE-
OF NOUGHT BUT EARTH CAN EARTH MAKE US PARTAKER,
BUT KNOWLEDGE MAKES A KING MOST LIKE HIS MAKER.
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Scint River
