The Mountain “’And as they watched from the log on the beach, the ship sailed across the sea into the golden sunset.’” Mother gently closed the book and sighed. “And that was my favorite story when I was a little girl. I loved to watch the sunset across the sea from the cliffs near my home, too.”
“And is that far away?” her little boys asked. “Does the sun set like it does behind our mountain? What is the sea like? How did you move here?”
“Now boys. You are avoiding bedtime with your questions. You know very well how I met Father, and how he brought me here on the mule through the pass, and the whole story of the farm. To bed. Seas and sunsets are topics for a morning, not for bedtime.”
The two boys shuffled to their beds, whispering to each other. “Some day,” vowed Sammy to himself, “I will find a way for Mother to see her sunset on the sea again.”
The summer days on the farm passed quickly, and the trips into the mountain were always wonderful. The fish in the creek practically begged to come home for dinner. The firewood laying throughout the forest was easily gathered. Father pointed out that each year the winds and snows brought down wood, which the sun dried, just to keep their house warm. All they had to do was gather and chop it. It was how God cared for his children, just as the stream cared for the crawdads and minnows, and the trees cared for the birds and chipmunks. Father spoke often of God, and of a thing he called faith.
When the hen laid eggs in the spring, Mother gathered only what they needed, and left the rest to hatch. “They’ll make fine chickens, and fine dinners next winter,” she instructed her boys. “We just have to have faith.”
When Father planted the beans and the corn, he explained how burying the seed actually produced new life, and at harvest he explain how picking the fruit and cutting the wheat actually was what made them useful. He explained life was like that, if one just had faith.
And when the family read together from the Books, Father’s favorite story seemed to be the one about the mustard seed. So far as Willy could remember, Father’s favorite explanation for everything, and the phrase he muttered under his breath as he wiped the sweat from his bald head, was “faith to move mountains.” Willy had heard it so often it was almost like breathing, “faithtomovemountains,” and he had never really thought about what it meant.
Mother was darning socks, patching pants, enjoying the breeze under the walnut tree, and the scurrying and chittering of the squirrels as they played tag over her head, when Sammy and Willy, playing with their sticks and blocks in the dirt near the garden, heard her sigh in the lengthening shadows. Today was the longest day of the year, and the sun had set directly behind the tip of the peak, lighting the snow cap with such brilliance that it shone in hundreds of colors. The sun had slipped gently behind, but it would be another four hours before it began to get dark. This was Father’s favorite time of day. “Working hours” he called them, and dinner was always served after dark, so he could work in the shade without missing any productive time.
Sammy and Willy knew why Mother sighed. She was remembering the sun setting into the sea, when it got dark in just minutes, and when, if the clouds were just right, the setting sun would glow red, then orange, then yellow, and finally dive into the sea in a huge, green splash. Both boys had talked to her about that, and drawn pictures to hang on the door, but neither knew what it would be like to really see it.
“We just have to move that mountain out of the way,” said Willy to Sammy. “Then Mommy can see the sunset. She did say the sea was just on the other side, only three days away on the trail. If that mountain were gone, I’ll bet we could see it from the top of the walnut tree.”
Such is the world of little boys. Five-year-old Sammy didn’t question that Willy could move the mountain. He just asked, “So how do we do that?”
“Easy. Faith,” replied his brother, and contented, they both returned to their toys, until it was time to gather the eggs. Neither gave it much thought, though both wondered just when the mountain would be gone, so that Mother could see the sea.
That evening Willy remembered to ask Father, “What’s a mustard seed?” When Father picked one from a weed growing beside the path, Willy asked what any seven-year-old would consider a logical question. “So, where do I plant it to make that mountain move so Mother can see the sunset over the sea?"
Father had too much wisdom to laugh. He tried to explain, but big words and big concepts have a hard time fitting into young boys’ minds. They whispered for a long time in bed that night, but couldn’t understand. Sammy had the solution. “We just need to pick all the seeds off all those weeds, and plant them all along the path through the mountain.”
They started the next morning. It is hard work planting thousands of little seeds, one at a time, and long before noon the two little boys were hot, tired, and three miles from home and lunch. That’s when they saw the three men—men with clear faces, gentle smiles, long beards, and very old, worn packs—walking toward them on the trail.
Willy and Sammy were mostly curious, as these men were not anyone they knew, and they could not remember ever seeing a stranger come over the pass. “Hello,” one stranger spoke. “You like our mountain?”
“Your mountain?” Sammy sputtered. “It’s just the mountain. That’s our farm at the bottom, but nobody owns the mountain.”
“Or the creek or the trees,” quickly added Willy. “But,” and here he got a clever idea. “If it is your mountain, can you take it with you?”
“Well, now,” said the man who had spoken before. “I think we could have a delightful little chat with you two, bright boys. Do you think your Mother would allow us to stop for a day, sleep on the grass under the tree, and maybe have dinner with you all?”
It was far easier walking back down, with others to talk to, and no one noticed that small pile of seeds Willy left beside the path. Willy hoped it wouldn’t ruin their faith that they had quit planting. Mother was pleased to have guests from the coast, who could tell her what was happening where she had grown up. And after Father got the men to help him reset a fence, he was pleased too.
But Sammy and Willy listened with rapture as the men explained about mountains.
“Are you trolls, then?” asked Sammy. Willy had been reading stories to him about forest and mountain creatures.
“No,” said the man who seemed to do all the talking. “I met one once. We care for the mountains, like you care for your animals. Some mountains have volcanoes inside, and they need to breathe fire, and change shape sometimes, and grow taller. We open them up so they can. Some mountains are thrust up from the earth, and they need to wear away and return to their beds after a long while, and we help them do that. They get all twisted out of shape if they don’t get back to sleep in time. And some mountains, made of ice, move all the time. They are like young boys, never in one place.”
“What about this one?”
“This is a Guardian. Where he is, all is well, and people are happy. But he has to move every five hundred years to another place. We wait for him to call us, and we help him choose a place where he is needed, and then help him settle down. He called us.”
“How did he do that?” Sammy was caught up in the story. Mother slipped back to her work, from where she had been listening in the shadows, sure these old men were as harmless as they were inventive. Father had already gone to bed, having given permission for the boys to sit for a while on the porch, near the men’s blankets, and chat with them. After all, this kind of opportunity didn’t come along much.
“Have you ever heard of faith?” It was the Speaker again.
“Oh, that’s too hard for us. Father likes it though. He says it all the time, faithtomovemountains.”
“Does he, now? Well, faith isn’t too hard. Hold up your hand. Five fingers, right? So, first there has to be a good reason, a purpose. Second, what you are thinking about has to be true, and right. Third finger, you believe it, and never quit believing. Fourth finger, you work at it without quitting. Then it happens,” and he turned down his little finger. “That’s faith. Have you heard the story of the mustard seed?”
“That’s what we were doing,” shouted Sammy, and his mother shushed him from the kitchen.
“Father is asleep.”
“That’s why we were planting them,” Willy whispered. “Do the seeds really move the mountain? Mother wants to see the sunset over the sea, but we can’t leave the farm and walk three days to the other side, and then three days back. So we wanted her to see it from here.”
“Or at least from the top of the tree,” Sammy added. Then, he remembered he had never seen Mother climb the tree, and added, “If she can.”
All three men laughed this time. “So that’s what you had, and the Guardian knew it. So he called us. Well, well. Boys, its time you went to bed. It’s late.
Reluctantly Sammy and Willy climbed the stairs. Something about these men allowed no tarrying. Something about their voices required one to do what he was told, and to believe them completely. Willy was sure that if those men told the mountain to move, it would.
Sammy and Willy couldn’t sleep. After what seemed like hours, they slipped to the end of the bed and drew back to curtain to look down on the men on the grass, and to see the big mountain. The men were not there. There were three small lantern lights slowly moving up the mountain, in three different places, none of them on a trail. The boys just stood there, until finally, the lights grew faint and disappeared.
“Why did they leave? Where are they going?” whispered Willy?
Sammy smiled. “You’ll see.”
The next morning Willy raced to the window. It was true. He raced downstairs, and outside in his bare feet. Father stood there astounded, scratching his ear and rubbing his eyebrows. He hadn’t even opened the barn yet.
But Sammy didn’t look outside, or go anywhere, except straight to Mother’s bedside. “Mommy, Mommy,” he called her. “Wake up. There is something you need to see. I want to see it with you. Come downstairs. Hold my hand. Mommy, you get to see the sun set into the sea tonight.”
JDBlack, aka Mr. Education, tour guide, outdoorsman, international educator, grandpa, gardener, bookworm, philosopher, and above all, Daddy.
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Contributor's Note
The connection to hiking isn't as tenuous as it seems. Long hikes are often accompanied by walking daydreams. Especially uphill sections.
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