Home: A tale of long awaited return

Gazing upon the mountains before him, he could not help but be struck by their beauty. The rocky peaks rose up from the earth for miles, each reaching for the sky as an outstretched hand reaches for its lost love. Snow capped the tip of each peak, even in the growing warmth of spring. Hills covered in grass and trees sprawled out from the base of each mighty peak, slowly falling down away from the sky.

He found himself standing on the crest of one of these hills, in the company of a songbird happily chirping as it built its nest deep in the branches of a tree. The sound of birdsong and the sight of the mountains filled his heart with a joy he had not felt since last upon this hallowed soil. Yet he did not smile. Deep down, he knew what awaited him when he entered the mountains. Deep down, he knew this would be anything but a joyous reunion. But standing here, on the doorstep of his homeland, he could not help but feel some form of happiness. What form exactly, he could not say, as it had been eons since he had last felt any shred of the emotion.

The bird gave out one last chirp before diving from the tree and flying off to find itself a midday snack, a well-deserved comfort after a morning of great toil. He realized he should do the same before making the ascent to his home. Keeping his eyes fixed on the peaks ahead, he slung his pack off his shoulders and sat down in the grass, using the bird’s tree to rest his back.

The bread he carried was a day old and somewhat stale; nevertheless, he welcomed the satisfaction it brought, even if the taste was less pleasant than the day prior. He took but a sip from his canteen, wanting to make sure he had enough for the journey up the mountains. The last of the salted pork looked at him eagerly from his pack, and after a moment of hesitation, he succumbed to the temptation. After all, he would reach his destination by nightfall. There was no reason to worry about having enough food for supper. The pork was accompanied by another quick swig of water. Just as he lowered the canteen from his lips, the bird returned with a chirp and perched itself on a branch next to its nest just above where he sat.

He ensured his few belongings were in order and slung his pack back on his shoulder as he stood. Before setting off, he looked up at the bird, who he discovered was looking back down at him. He dropped the last bite of bread in the grass, leaving it for his friend. The bird chirped, and he gave it a nod before taking his first step towards the mountains.

The hill sloped slowly downward from the tree the bird had claimed as its home. Where he traveled there was no road. Once, there had been many roads leading up to the great cities of the mountains. But now, after the war, the roads had disappeared. It was not so much because they hated the roads, rather, now, with the Kingdom gone, there was no one left to care for them. Their remnants remained, now dusty shadows of what they had once been.

He weaved around rocks that jutted out from the sides of hills. Each one had dreams of one day reaching as high as the peaks they stood before, but they were destined to grow only downward, until they became one with the earth, never to again see the sky. Trees dotted the slopes as well, yet none stood quite as proud as the one selected by the bird with whom he’d shared his meal.

What space not filled by rock and tree found itself occupied by blades of grass all trying to grow as high as can be. Their aspirations were crushed by the constant, vicious wind that halted their growth just below the height of a man’s knee.

Yet now, as he walked through the grasses and past the rocks and trees, the wind was kept at bay. The air was quite still but not unpleasant. Spring was yet still young, and the air kept a chill about it. To call it cold would be an insult to his home, as it sat near-frozen for almost the entire year. He could not wait to experience the joy of the cold once home in the height of the peaks. Winters in the North were satisfying, yes, but nothing could compare to the bitter cold, harsh winds, and whipping snow of the peaks.  

Gradually the earth began to rise, and it did not return down. Finally, he found himself on the mountain proper. Too long had it been since he had last set foot on these mountains. The war had kept him away, driven him across the sea, but now, so long after its conclusion, he was finally returning home.

Should he have returned sooner? Perhaps. By all means he could have. But had he wanted to? Of that he was less sure. He missed these mountains with all his heart. So often he would fall asleep somewhere in the northern wilderness, dreaming, longing, to wake up back here, back on these mountains. To wake up back home. But he had made a life for himself in what had once been a far-off and unknown land. More of his life had been spent in that land than it had on the mountains–those northern wilds had become his home. But it could not replace his homeland. The place where he had been born, where he had been raised, where he had spent all those long years with his family. It could never be replaced in his heart, no matter how much time he spent away.

After some time on the mountain, he stumbled upon the dusty ruins of a cobbled road. He smiled as he tread on the first stone. He knew he was in the right place. Many a time had he walked this road in his youth, going back and forth from the peaks to the lowlands for work. Part of him had been worried he was in the wrong spot. But memory served; he was exactly where he wanted to be.

The path led him through the mountains, doing its best to stay in the valleys and hug the base of larger peaks. The wind found its footing and blew with a ferocity unrivaled by any other wind in the world. Grasses slowly grew shorter with every step he took up the mountain.

The road ahead forked, either continuing straight or turning to the left. Without a moment of hesitation, he took the left path, just as he had so many times when he was young. He knew that up ahead, a waterfall fell from a lake perched on the edge of a cliff. The water fell far below, farther than the lake knew possible, to form a new lake at the bottom. Large lakes they were not, but a beautiful presence they were. They would be just up ahead now, over the ridge he now climbed.

His shoulders dropped and he could not contain a gasp when he saw the waterfall he recalled so fondly. But a trickle of water fell down the mountainside, filling a lake now better titled as a pond. His eyes traveled slowly up the meager flow of water before resting on the cliff from which it fell. What seemed to be a dam had been placed on the edge, limiting the flow of water to near nothing. Undoubtedly this had been built during the war, when food and water had become such a grave concern.

He had fled the mountains before the war broke out, but not before the famine had started. A new king had come to power about two decades before the fighting began. At first, all seemed normal. Then the taxes increased. The Kingdom demanded more be paid. More coin in their coffers. More crop in their storehouses. All in service of the Kingdom, not the people. The first increase had been an annoyance, but it was not threatening. But in the span of half a decade, they rose to such a degree that the entirety of the Kingdom was starving, save for the nobles and their soldiers. The mountains felt this most of all, as their crop was already less than the more forgiving climates of other regions.

Food became scarcer than diamond. Water, in seeming abundance from the snow, somehow grew impossible to gather and store. Thousands died. The Kingdom cared not. He hated to see his people suffer, his family most of all. When the rebellion began, he had been contacted. They wanted him to fight. But he refused. For doing so, he was driven out of his home. Part of him was thankful for this: He had avoided the bloodshed that came with war. But he could not help but wonder if he would have been able to do something–anything–to help free his home.

But it did not matter now. His home was free. The Kingdom defeated. The world once again at peace. Yet that alone had not been enough to draw him home. Many a year had gone by that he could have returned. Many a night in the wilds of the North could have instead been spent in the comforting cold of the mountains. But peace and the promise of cold were not enough to bring him home, nay, for he knew what awaited him on these mountains. He knew. But older he grew with each passing day, and it was from this he came to know another truth: If he were to die, it would be made easier if he was able to lay eyes on his home one final time. He knew not when death would come for him. It may not come with the morrow’s sunrise; it may yet be years away. But it approached nonetheless. And he would be ready for it.

Having spent a few moments too many staring at the dying waterfall, he decided it was best to continue on. The path led him deeper into the mountains, away from the narrow valleys and up towards the peaks. Small homesteads dotted the mountainside, built of the brave trees that managed to cling to life despite the winds. No doubt they were all farms, growing what food they could to feed those that lived in the frozen cities that topped the peaks.

The road rose sharply upward now, leading him towards his home. It lay nestled on a high up cliff, just below the tree line. A few hundred villagers called the cliffside home, although he knew not how many were left after the war.

He reached his destination just as the moon began its takeover of the sky. The sun, retiring from a day’s work, filled the sky with a warm orange glow, while the moon mirrored its path, fighting back with a showing of light as white and pure as a freshly fallen snow.

Now standing at the edge of his home, he stopped to rest. He made no move to sit down, instead he stood, allowing his lungs a moment to breathe. His eyes adjusted to the fading light, and he used his moment of rest to take in what lay before him.

Homes stood just as he remembered, beginning at the very edge of the cliff, and stretching about halfway up the slope. The buildings shared their appearance with the farms he had passed on the way, each being made of the same fine, dark wood and capped with slanted roofs of the same material. Nearly all of them stood two stories tall, although some grew to three and were used to house the animals they depended on for food.

Did he truly wish to see his home, his home? Perhaps the village was enough. Perhaps he did not need to look upon his own home to be satisfied. He bowed his head in thought before letting out a sigh and raising his head back up. He had to see it. For if he did not, he knew his death would come with regret. The regrets in his life were already many; yet he could not live with this one.

His first step into the village was accompanied by a deep breath as he tried to calm his mind. He made sure to turn his eyes to every home he walked past, wanting to compare them to memory. Candles danced in the windows, complimenting the warm, fading glow of the sun.

When someone walked past him on the road, he pulled his hood up to shield his face. He did not recognize the one whom he passed and was certain they had not recognized him. But something within him prompted him to don the hood. At first, he wasn’t quite sure what it was. But as he walked past another when he turned onto an all too familiar street, he knew. He knew why he hid himself away from those he had once called neighbors.

He had failed them. He had run away from the war, abandoning an incomprehensible number of his kin to die. His skill with bow and blade would have proven invaluable to the rebel cause, yet he had fled, not wanting to get caught up in the turmoil of war. Those that remained had experienced suffering unimaginable to him. The terror they must have felt every morning, not knowing what tragedies the next day would bring, was unlike anything he had ever felt.

While he had been away, his guilt had been present, although not strong. He was caught up in building a life for himself in a new land, a land in which he did not know how much time he would spend. And that life became something good, something fulfilling, something worth living. It became something he truly loved: wandering the wilds of the North, never quite knowing what the next day would bring. Never had he forgotten his true home, but he had made himself one in the North. One he truly loved.

Yet as he walked through the streets of his old village, the feelings he for so long ignored in the North came pouring back. The memories, the love, the loss, the guilt, it all returned. His breath quickened every time he looked at something new; whether it be the home of his childhood friend, the bakery that smelled oh so sweet every morning, or the home on the corner of which he had never seen the owner, they all brought back a memory.

About halfway up to his house—that was when the snow started. At first it fell only lightly, gently dusting the ground and coating the tops of houses. It took only moments for the snow to become violent. Flakes fell heavy and in greater numbers, all while being picked up by the wind and whipped about every which way. Snow clung to his cloak, soaked through his tunic, and nearly blinded him. A smile slowly spread across his face as he continued up the path. The warming air of spring was no match for the mountains; they had a will of their own and could not be denied. He was well and truly home.

The end of the road grew near, and he stopped next to the third to last building on the right. He did not right away turn to face it, instead his eyes remained forward, staring out at the wilds ahead. Not much was to be seen through the snow; he could barely see ten feet in front of him. Candles in the few houses in front of him did their best to shine through but were more often than not swallowed by the smothering snow.

The forest ahead hid itself behind a wall of snow, but he knew it was there. How could he forget the forest? Many a day he had spent up in those trees, hunting what little lived up so high. Sometimes, when prey made itself scarce, he would simply explore. From sunup to sundown, he would be out in the wild, learning every tree, every rock, every cave. Yet in that forest, he had found more than just what could be seen. He had found himself. It was those frigid nights spent sleeping amongst the trees, under a growing blanket of snow, that had shaped who he now was.

The house on his right called to him. It wanted him to look upon it, to enter it. He closed his eyes, took a long and shaky breath, and turned to face it. He now stood before the house. His house. Or so it had been called many years ago.

The windows were the only ones in the village left unlit; no one had lived in this home for years. Its quality was maintained–at least on the outside–but no one dared to call it their home. The door beckoned him forth, desperate for its handle to once again be turned by its proper owner instead of some caretaker who only cared for it out of selfish desire.

He approached the door and reached out for the handle. Oh how close he came to grasping it and flinging the door open, running inside and reliving the memories of his youth.

The memories.

Those were what stopped him.

He first thought of his mother, of how every time he would return home, a fresh meal would be cooking over the warmth of the fire. Every so often, he would help his mother prepare a meal; her delicious stew was still something he made whenever he could scrounge all the ingredients together. His mother had so much hope for him, so much belief that he would one day do great things. How wrong she was. Many things had he done in his life, but he doubted any would call them great.

His mind then wandered to his sister, with whom he had spent hours and hours reading what few books they had together. Those were tales of truly great warriors. Warriors who trained their entire lives for a single battle; warriors who found their place amongst legend. If only he had done such things to earn a place beside these powerful warriors of old.

His father had certainly tried to help him earn his place in history. Training had begun before he fully even knew how to speak. From when he woke up to when he lay down to sleep, his father drilled him in the ways of the warrior. He valued the training now, of course, but as a child it had been the last thing he ever wanted to do. The forest became his escape, even if only temporarily.

His brother had been quite the opposite of him, always focused on fighting and becoming stronger. As the two of them grew older, his father would oftentimes force them to duel. He could not help but smile at that memory. His brother was one of the few to ever best him.

So much memory lived within these walls. And now, even standing outside, they came back with a vengeance. So much memory.

He grabbed onto the handle. He was here. Shouldn’t he open it?

No. There wasn’t a point. He brought his arm back to his side. There wasn’t a point. They were all dead. All of them, gone, wiped from the face of the earth. All of them victims of the war. A tear rolled down his face. To think he could have saved them; if only he had said yes instead of running away. Maybe they would have survived.

He turned away from the door as another tear rolled down his face. He could not go in. He had to leave this home behind him.

He couldn’t bear the pain.

Knowing it would be foolish to brave the mountain pass at night, he continued up the road and towards the forest. Ignoring the calls of a concerned villager, he walked out of town and into the woods for the night.

He found himself a spot under a tree where the snow was not so deep, pulled his cloak tightly around him, closed his eyes, and fell asleep.

His bones were as cold as ice when he awoke the next morning. The snow had since stopped, and the tree had done its task of keeping him sheltered well. Hungry but without food, he returned to the village. Yet he did not stop; he did not so much as look at any of the homes nor the faces of those within. He walked through the village without pause and began his descent from the mountain.

The pain in his heart was stronger than any pain he had so far felt in this life, yet he welcomed it. It had done him good to return to his home, even if it brought so much hurt. How he had missed these mountains and these snows. As he made his way back down, he knew that this would be the last time he would ever walk this path. This would be the last time he would ever hear the waterfall tumbling from the cliff and crashing down below.

He followed the road down as far as he followed it up, breaking away in the same spot where he had first joined it. This day brought more wind than when he had made his ascent; the plants whistled in the breeze, giving him something to focus on other than the pain in his heart.

When he reached the crest of a hill, he turned back to gaze upon these great peaks one final time. He knew it would be his last time here. Never would he return to these lands. Never again would he set foot here. His home it had once been and his home it would always be, but he could not bear the pain that came with returning here. He had to go back north.

A chirp came from the tree next to him. He looked up to see the bird standing aside its now-completed nest. He smiled and gave the bird a nod before continuing on his way. The smile stayed on his face as he walked away from the mountains. The bird was home in its nest, perched up in the tree. And home was where he now set his sights. Home was where he would soon be.

About the Author

Ryan is a first year creative writing major and an aspiring novelist with a soft spot for short stories and flash fiction.