The Mountain Sighed
(A make-belief Drew & Pappa story)
He had been lost to himself for some
time. Somehow alive, but not alive; aware, yet unaware. Alzheimer’s had muddled
his brain so that he was no longer sentient; his body responded only to
sensations, textures—tactile awareness.
He had no ability to tell how many minutes or months he had been this
way. He knew no one, not even himself.
And then he did. His mind seemed to open
to brightness, to a white fog that seemed to encompass him; slowly, as from the
ground in front of him, it seemed to gradually lift, to become thinner, less
white, more gray and he perceived the ground itself: rich, black soil, covered
with leaves, green and brown and tree trunks on either side of him that seemed
to part for a road, not yet paved, rough yet well trodden which stretched
before him. Looking up, the grayness clearing, becoming only a heavy mist, he
saw, in the distance a figure advancing toward him, moving in a familiar, firm
stride; a figure that seemed to walk with a purpose. Above him, the
impenetrable white fog became clouds in a sky of white, gray, blue and
lavender. His attention now, though, was not on the sky but on the figure
greeting him with a smile he knew and eyes the same blue as his own.
“Who are you?” he asked, forgetting
anything else.
The figure smiled broadly. “You don’t
even know yourself, much less your own kin.”
The man looked at the figure closely. In
truth, he had just discovered himself
again, and did not feel he could know anyone, kin or not. He shook his head,
thinking to free his sight and his mind from cobwebs. He saw that he was now in
his familiar khaki pants and plaid work shirt of thin cotton. On his head was
the work hat that he had worn for years; on his feet, his brogans. He was a man
in his prime again; he could feel his muscles flex and knew strength in his
arms and hands that he had long forgotten. For a few long moments he forgot this
figure of a man and took stock of himself, fully alive and aware for the first
time in what seemed new life. Then he remembered his companion, and again
asked, “Who are you? Where am I? How did I get here?”
The stranger smiled again. “You can call
me George. The rest of your family is waiting to see you, but I’m usually the
one who is the first to welcome my grandsons—or great grandsons, in your case.
D’you remember now, who you are?”
“Why, sure. I’m Andrew Jackson Brannon,
but my folks call me Jack.”
“That’s right.”
“But I just got here.”
“Yes, it took you some time to get
here—longer than we would have liked, but let’s not worry about that. You’re
here now. Look around. D’you know where you are now?”
Jack took in more of the area—saw colors
of brown and green, heard sound of water
running out of mountain rock, becoming a creek, cutting its way through a
ravine close by. Mountain laurel bloomed on a hill. “I’m back home,” Jack said.
“But I don’t know how I got here.”
“Never mind that now,” George said.
“Folks up ahead are looking to see you—your wife and son most of all.” Sudden
tears came to Jack’s eyes. Could he—would he—see them again? “I just thought,
before I took you to them, you’d like to see your grandson once more. It will
be quite a while before you get to shake his hand.”
“Where is the little fellow?” Jack wanted
to know.
“He’s not such a little fellow now,”
George replied. “Since we’ve been on this road and talking, he’s just about
grown up. Look.”
As George pointed, Jack could see that he
was, indeed, on the top of a rise. Not a mountain where he had grown up, but
one George seemed to know well. Jack followed him up a rise to a clearing,
where George pointed down. Jack followed
this line of sight and saw a young man, wearing black leather jacket, baseball
cap and jeans, making his way to them, though it was apparent the young man
believed he was alone. He stopped, periodically, looked around, as if to
memorize the scene and continued up the steep walk, to the plateau.
Jack smiled broadly. That was his boy
alright. “What’s he doing here, George?”
“Oh, he’s here to do school work on this
place. His mother told him I fought here, back in the Revolution, with the
other Over Mountain Men, so his folks brought him here. It was his idea to
climb up to the top by himself, though.” They watched in silence as the young
man made his way through the trees. “He’s built like us,” said George, “but his
eyes are brown. Reminds me of my Cherokee wife. Her name was Acorn Eyes—they
were brown, like his.”
Jack watched in silence, as his only
grandchild stood close by, within a few feet of him and George. He wanted badly
to reach out to him, to touch his shoulder, to let him know he was there, but
knew how impossible anything tangible might be. Yet he was proud of him and
gratified to at least be here, to see him, nearly full grown.
George turned to Jack. “Glad you came
now, I reckon. We’ve got to get going, though. I promised your wife it wouldn’t
be long.”
“I’m ready,” Jack nodded silently. He
felt happy for what lay ahead; sad, for leaving what was behind. Just the way
of life, he knew. He drew in a deep breath, full of the sweet aromas of the
wood, the mountain, the life underfoot, and as he exhaled, the white fog
descended once more, enveloped both men, and they were gone.
The young man on the cusp of manhood was
now at the bottom of the hill, with his parents. “So was it worth the trek up
to the top of the mountain?” his mother asked.
“Yeah,” Drew replied. “I really got a
better idea of what the land was like. I might have stayed longer, but it
looked like it was about to get foggy?”
“Foggy?” his mother asked. “In the middle
of the day?”
“Yeah. I know how it sounds, Mom, but
yeah—it was like a cloud was coming down. It was weird. And one other thing—up
there at the top, there are no trees; it’s like a plateau, but I could swear I
could feel the mountain sigh, and there was a warm wind, rising from the
ground.”
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