Man from the Mountain

His descent was a memorable event in the lives of those who witnessed it. Silhouetted against twilight, a dark figure slowly made its way across the meadow below the mountain. Every head turned, every bent back straightened, all was halted, to gaze at the newcomer.

As distance diminished, the fading light revealed a man so shabby and uncouth it seemed no human eye had ever been laid on him. His hair a tree, complete with twigs and leaves that birds could nest there. His beard a bush of curly black, thick and coarse enough to scrub the deck of a ship. His clothes but filthy rags that belonged to none of the current fashion. And he stank! He reeked like an animal to whom soap is synonymous with semiotics. Yet despite the initial shock of his appearance, there appeared to be something in his deep dark eyes that held the gaze of on-lookers an extra second or two. A noble severity, mixed with a crude tenderness and a timid fear.

It had been 10 or 11 years since he wandered away; a child of merely 4 years of age, playing in the meadow in the shadow of the mountain. Unattended by those who should have attended, he curiously lifted every rock and looked behind every tree. Flowers and bugs, leaves and rocks all amazed him. He was irretrievably drawn into the pleasures of discovery, of exploration. and hopelessly lost. He discovered and discovered until the sun had made its way across the sky only to be slowly engulfed by the deep blue ocean. He found himself inside a cave, in the dark, lost on the mountain.

Time passed. He discovered the mountain by day, inhaling the fragrance of every flower, indulging in the juice of every fruit. He climbed every climbable tree and invaded every cleft in the rock. The dazzling colors of flowers and leaves were the pleasure of his eyes. His ears soaked-in the symphonies of the wind in the trees and the trickling of water along crystal streams. He indulged in every sunset and memorized the constellations. And by night he climbed the trees and crept into the clefts of his imagination. He discovered the world of his body, every nook explored and every secret made known. The solitude of his cave revealed deeper, darker pleasures. The mountain was exclusively his, and he the mountain's.

The boy grew into a man. And the mountain grew in him. He climbed its highest peaks and sat and stared at the horizon, with an absent look on his face. The sky became his mother and the ground he trod his father. And the distant sun his only lover. Deeper and deeper he went into the mountain, and the mountain into him. He was alone, with his thoughts, and the pleasures of the mountain.

They took him in, they shaved him up and bathed him. They groomed his hair and gave him a fashionable wardrobe. And as the commotion quieted down, the first to call out his long lost name was a woman. So breathtaking was she, surpassing all the pleasures of the mountain. He could see in her eyes what he later named fascination. He felt it too when he looked into hers. She was taken by his eyes and the absent look on his face that bid her join his mysterious journey to an unknown but exciting place. But when she tried, she found that there was no journey, and that she was the unknown and exciting place. To him, she was like the mountain. A tree to climb, a rock to look under. When he spoke, the crudeness and severity in his tone gradually shed all wonder away. He was no more than a boy, with a timid fear in his eyes that made her insecure. He was the mountain’s.

Time passed. And as he had once found himself in a cave on a mountain, he now somehow found himself on a chair in an office. He shaves, he bathes and furnishes his own wardrobe. He talks and writes and works and eats. He even owns a cell phone! But the absent look has never left his face. His 10 lone years on the mountain have made human contact difficult. He now realizes that with a force that shakes the depths of his being. The mere sight of human contact draws tears from the bottom of his soul like water from a well; slowly and gradually with a rope until finally, with enough strength it reaches the surface. And flows. But his water never flows, at least not in public. Instead, he wanders to the mountain and climbs its highest peak and sits there and stares at the horizon, and those around him can only see that absent look on his face.

He still finds it strange that men his age seek a car or a career and want to own a house and a home-theater. He is still convinced that all you need is a knife to carve stuff out of wood and a cave to sleep in. He still finds it strange that women his age spend so much time in front of reflective glass when in their eyes there is beauty that surpasses all the pleasures of the mountain. When they talk to him of what they had for dinner or what happened when someone did something, he honestly tries to conveniently respond but finds little, if anything, to say. For to him these things are alien, and the depths of his soul are all he has to talk about. It is all he had on the mountain. But he realizes that things are done differently in the meadow.

He loves to sit high on roof tops, and on benches overlooking places. He loves the sting of cold wind in his eyes. He loves, still, to inhale the fragrance of flowers and to marvel at tree leaves silhouetted against the sky. He even finds a cave to spend the night in sometimes. He likes to put his face into the air beating through a rolled down window of a speeding car. He could spend a day on his own lifting rocks and climbing trees talking to no one.

But this new discovery of human contact invades his every move and its exploration seems a foreign task. He occasionally finds himself fascinated by her or her. He can only smile when he sees her. And the other fills his thoughts when he waits for sleep to overtake. He has a special liking to those who are full of life and joy. What draws him more is that hidden darkness that resembles his. A timid fear that resonates with his. But he keeps his distance, he tries, without success, to keep away. Because he knows that all he can do is try to explore, and perhaps discover. As if it were another mountain. But they draw out his yearnings for what the mountain failed to provide, and with this drawing, parts of him he never knew are laid bare before his unguarded eyes. Like he was to the dwellers of the meadow at his descent.

He now wanders, between the meadow and the mountain. As his feet tread the meadow and try to find a place to stand, the mountain draws his mind and captivates his thoughts. He no longer knows whether he wants to belong to the mountain, or whether there will ever be a home for him in the meadow.