The Mountains of Mist

I've considered posting this story before. I've recently attempted to begin a new piece of fiction, with less than satisfactory results. Reading and then posting this (with a few minor edits) is my way of showing myself I can write decent fiction. Of course, the story is not without flaws. The pacing feels a little forced towards the end, and of course I'm completely clueless about the processes of tanning and making venison/deer jerky (even writing fiction requires research unfortunately). However, I quite like the voice or narration style I came up with, as well as some of the sentence structures (though if I wrote it now I might include more em-dashes and parenthesis).

I wrote this story as a challenge from a couple of 5th grade girls about two and a half years ago (I was working at an after-school club at the time). My only prompt was the title, "The Mountains of Mist." Somehow I managed to write this remarkably complete story in a weekend. And yes, this story is very poorly tailored for 10-11 year old girls. Needless to say, if I were to become a professional writer that would not be my target audience. 

Oh whatever, here's 5k of wordage. Enjoy.

The Mountains of Mist

By Harrison Parker

The mountains of mist were no place to get lost in the middle of winter.  For that matter, they were no place to get lost in the rest of the year either.  The mountains were perpetually covered, as the name implies, with mist, a showering curtain of drizzling water.  One might think that under such a constant faucet of water that the mountains would soon erode completely away.  Not so however, since obviously the mountains still stood, and had not yet been reduced to a series of lakes.

Yes, the mountains were continuously deluged with the patter of water, a downfall made louder by the sheer spread of the rainfall, covering the whole thousand mile range, and yet made quieter at the same time by the sheer continuity of the sound—over time one became used to the sound and no longer really heard it unless he (or she) stopped to listen for it.  One might get used to anything given enough time.

The hiker had been in the mountains long enough to make it to that point, that is, his ears had grown used to the constant sound of the mist falling and tuned the noise out.  He heard it now, if only because he had stopped to rest, and found a convenient alcove of rock to shelter under—a respite from the relentless fall of rain.  Truth was, there was nothing else to listen to, except for his breathing, the gurgle of his stomach trying to digest food it didn’t have, and his own voice—though he didn’t bother speaking.  Speaking might be dangerous.  Not because of fear of causing an avalanche, if the mountains could withstand the constant fall of water a little more noise could not hurt them.  He was doing his best to conserve his energy, and at this point talking might rob him of what little he had left.  Hopefully he would need his energy for other things.  Hopefully.

He had been up in these mountains for weeks at least, though the passage of time and the monotony of the life and the scenery here had robbed him of his ability to track it—that is, the time.  Time, too, had robbed him of the food his stomach protested loudly that it had not received, and the companionship that he had begun this journey with.  Warmth had also been stolen from him.  He had begun this journey warm, well-dressed and well-built.  He had had dry tinder in his pack, and matches.  He had had a pack.

He was cold—very cold.  Constant rain had soaked slowly through his clothes over time, eventually soaking him too.  Without fire he couldn’t dry out anymore, and it was foolish to even hope that the rain might cease, even for a few moments.  His pack had had spare clothes too, and blankets to keep warm.  He had been very well prepared when he’d set out.  At least, that’s what he and his friends had thought.  How wrong time, and these infernal mountains had proved them all.

He was shivering violently, his body using precious energy trying to warm up.  Energy food could no longer supply.  His body was lean now, much leaner than it once had been.  Weeks of little food—nothing really, except for what little he could forage—had his body breaking down muscle for energy now.  His clothes, once well-fitting, now hung limp and baggy off his huddled body--damp and heavy they clung to him, with a slow drip contributing to the sheens of mist.

The hiker knew he could not take much more of this.  He needed to get warm, but to be warm he needed to dry, and he had no way to make fire.  Hah, the mountains of mist were no place to be lost even in the best of times, and now it was the heart of winter.  The cold acerbated the already chilling effect of the mist, and together they were killing him.  He might have been alright, had he not lost his pack and with it all his supplies.  His food, his clothes, his blankets, his tinder and matches had been in it.  They were all gone with it.

Tinder and matches!  He remembered now dimly, through the sheer exhaustion that clouded his mind, the mind that tried desperately to escape the body’s plight by immersing itself in memories of being indoors, of a roaring fire in the hearth, of hot food in the stomach, and a warm bed to sleep in.  He remembered, packing, slipping some spare tinder and matches into a few secret pockets sewn into his clothes.  The tinder was useless by now, surely soaked and in no condition to burn, but the matches should still be good.  They had been coated in wax, waterproof.  They needed to be, up in the mountains of mist.

He fumbled, elated, with numb, slippery fingers for the pocket.  He had them out when it occurred to him.  The tinder was wet.  The matches would light, true, but he only had so many, and each would only last a few minutes at most, and would provide no lasting warmth, which is what he desperately needed.  Without anything to light, without his tinder dry, his matches were as useless to him as if he truly hadn’t had any.

In his excitement he had lifted, his shoulders had risen, he had sat up a little, but now he shrunk again, his shoulders drooped back down, and he slouched deeper than he had before.  It seemed to him he had come to this moment before, despair turning to hope, then back to despair.  He slumped still lower—and his back came up against something.  Something that was dry in this soaked landscape. It felt like wood.

The hiker froze, eyes wide open.  Could it be?  Was the means of his continued survival, even if only for one night, assured?  Slowly, as if careful not to startle a wild animal, or as if to conserve the precious energy he needed so badly, he rose, and shifted his position.  Yes, there it was: a small log.

But a log would do him no good, unless he could get a fire going well enough to light it.  But this still seemed familiar, as if this was still the same scene he had been through more than once.  He settled his weight down again, and against the incessant patter of the mist on rock and gravel he heard a rustle.  The rustle of dry leaves crackling.  How could this be?  The mountains of mist soaked everything; he knew that well by experience.

It was dark now.  Night had fallen.  How had he survived so long?  How, he knew he’d been here, lost and wandering, for weeks at least, though the return of some of his reason told him it had been longer.  It had been late summer, headed into early fall when his little expedition had set out.  It was now the dead of winter, which meant that it had been months at least.  How had he survived?  How?

Curiosity now drove him, more even than the survival instincts which had brought him this far.  He should be dead after months alone in the mountains of mist, especially now that winter had come.  More memory resurfaced.  They’d been gone, weeks, over a month when it had happened.  Fall had started in earnest by the time.  His memory shut down again.  He couldn’t bear to face it.  Whatever it was, it was too much.  He shouldn’t be alive.

So how, how could it be?  That question, more than anything, brought the matches back to his fingers.  He picked one, placed the rest back in the pocket, and lit it.  Not for warmth. This scene seemed so familiar, and he shouldn’t be alive. That was why, and for light, so he could see.

He lit the match and stepped back.  The match’s meager light did little to illuminate the space below the alcove which served as his shelter.  It did show him a small pile of leaves, presumably swept up by the wind here to dry as it received respite from the rain.  It also showed a pile of similarly dried pine needles, of related origin.  He also now saw that the log he had leaned against was just a part of nearly a whole tree that apparently had fallen against the alcove and splintered into bits.  How had that come to be?

His mind once again raced, searching to find how it had happened.  What had caused it?  He had been something of an expert on the mountains, before he had come here.  The tree, what was left of it, had scorch marks.  It had lit on fire?  Impossible, in these mountains nothing was ever dry enough to ignite.  This cursed, incessant rain saw to that.

How then?  The match burned out in his hand from a strong puff of wind. Wind. Wind was usually associated in the mountains with exceptionally strong storms, one of the few times the mist removed from the mountains of mist.  The storms usually only occurred in winter, but had been known to occur in the fall as well.  The storms also included lighting.

Lightning!  That was it.  Trees struck by lightning here would ignite briefly, but any flames would be instantly quenched.  That would explain it.

He stood there, grinning in exultation in the dark and shivering from the damp, and the wind that had picked up.  Until another particularly strong gust blew the hood off his head.  Survival instinct kicked in once again, and he surveyed his situation.  He was wet, cold, and the indications were that a strong storm was coming in, with the accompanying likelihood of flashfloods.  He had no food, as he’d been unable to forage anything during the day.  There was however a supply of dry leaves and pine needles, which would not quite be ideal kindling but would do, as well as splintered pieces of lightly scorched tree, some of which would be suitable for breaking up into kindling, and the rest of which would work for longer burning, well, somewhat longer.  It was pine, which was much better suited for a quick burn, but this was much better than freezing to death.

His hands expertly built up the fire for ideal burning, he lay down on the cold earth to block the wind, his match lit the kindling, and soon he had built up a fire, fully illuminating the alcove of his shelter.  He looked around, for the first time taking in his surroundings.  He had been wrong to think that the stone outcrop formed an alcove to provide his shelter.  Well, he had been right rather, but his view was incomplete.  It was actually the entrance to a cave, which had been carpeted by the passage of time.  Time and the deposit of several year’s worth of leaves and pine needles.

He stuck a broken off branch into the fire, pressing it into service as a makeshift torch.  Not perfect, but it would do.  As it ignited on the end he pulled it back out.  He wasn’t sure why he was expending this energy into investigating the cave, not when a short time ago he’d been conserving his all into mere survival.  Maybe it was that now, for the first time all day, he was warm and dry—or at least warmer and drier, it was impossible to be totally warm or dry up here.  He’d always been curious.  Yes, he always had to know why.  That was why he was here, alone, in the mountains of mist, miles from his home and anyone he knew.

He peered into the cave, pushing his torch in.  He wasn’t sure what he expected, but surely not what he saw.  To accompany the carpet of leaves and pine needles he’d previously noted there was a large pile of the same accumulated against the rear wall of the cavern.  The difference was, whereas the carpet had clearly built up as a result of wind pushing the debris into the cave, the pile seemed to be the result of flooding carrying the same debris against the wall.

Flooding was a constant danger in the mountains of mist.  Especially in the winter, as the hiker knew by experience.  He shied involuntarily from that thought.  With constant onslaught of water coming down, pools constantly built up in the earth and rock, and the water would reach a tipping point, carrying earth, stone, and plants away in furious flash floods, avalanches, and landslides.  This was the primary danger of the mountains in winter.  The cold and wet you could prepare for.  The flash floods were unpredictable—well they were actually, but by the time the signs came it was too late.  The wind picking up was the first sign.  The only hope then was to anchor to a sturdy rock.  The trees in the mountains wouldn’t do it.  All the plant life was carried away easily in any mass erosion occurring; the constant supply of water had the flora develop shallow root systems that were insufficient for survival in those circumstances.  The preferred equipment to anchor with was chains, obviously, but unfortunately they were entirely impractical—too heavy—so ropes were inevitably the equipment resorted to.  Anchoring was the best hope, but not much of one.  Travelers were all too easily swept away, whatever precautions were taken.

The wind was the first warning; it began to pick up sometimes hours before the floods occurred.  Then you still had some time, time to head home if you were still close enough—which was easy for most who ventured into the mountains of mist, because few came far—or anchoring as a hope if you were too far to make it in time.  The second sign was the lightning.  It would flash, sometimes once, sometimes much more, all over the mountains.  By then it was all over, and all that could be done was pray.  Once the lightning struck, at most there were moments until the dam broke, and then the trickle became a flood.

The wind was the first warning.  The wind had been picking up!  He had been so preoccupied with building his fire, with investigating the cave, and lost in his thoughts, that he’d forgotten the warning signs!  And here he was, staring at the wall of a cave.  A cave that had all the signs of being the very place any flooding would head directly to.  But where could he go?  He was still damp, and he was chilled, for looking into the cave had taken him away from the fire.

Turning back to the fire he saw that it had died down some.  He moved quickly to the pile of wood he had quickly and mechanically prepared, tossed his burning branch into the fire, and added more wood to the fire.  Where could he go?  Shelter was one thing, but it wouldn’t help any if he was washed into the stone wall of the cave.  He’d surely break bones at the least, and up here, alone, that would serve effectively as a death sentence.

Where to go?  He was unlikely to find another place with dry kindling and wood so handily available.  In many ways he could not have found a more perfect shelter, yet he could hardly stay when he knew a flood was coming and when this was obviously a favorite route for the floods.

He stood motionless, staring at the fire, as he grappled with himself, undecided.  A flash seared across his vision in the distance—lightning. The low roar of thunder roared in his ears—again, a flash, a streak of light, followed by the same low rumbling.  That one had been closer.  It looked like the choice had been made for him.  He had to stay, if only because he had a chance here.  If he went into the open his death was now certain.  The deluge started.

It wasn’t what he had expected.  Lightning fell and fell, with the thundering now nearly constant.  It was a wondrous light show.  It happened sometimes.  Back in the village, where he had come from, you could see it sometimes, the rain of lightning.  It was an amazing thing to see, like nature’s fireworks, accompanied with the knowledge that the nearby streams would be full for weeks afterward, and that there would be no shortage of water in the well.

Still he watched, awestruck and entranced.  That he knew of, no one had ever been in the mountains of mist to see this.  No one had ever been this close, had this good a view of the lightning rain.  Certainly no one had lived to tell about it.

Even that cheerful thought could not dissuade him from watching.  He would almost certainly die up here regardless.  In the best of times journeying in the mountains was a reckless gamble, and it was not the best of times now.  If he was going to be here now, he might as well witness one of the most majestic sights anyone could ever see.

As unexpected as it had begun, the lightning rain ceased.  The hiker leaped away from the fire, behind a large section of scorched tree he hadn’t included in his pile of firewood.  It was a good spot, right beside the entrance of the cave.  It was his best chance of avoiding being swept up in the flood.

He remained hopeful.  There was still a chance, there was always a chance, that the flooding wouldn’t come his way; that the water wouldn’t build up and break apart whatever area would bring the water rushing directly towards him and his shelter.  Coming into the mountains of mist was a gamble, true, but even the worst gamble came with odds, however slim, of success—or in this case survival.

He looked out into the dark landscape, which moments ago had been so bright, and strained to see.  His eyes had not yet readjusted to the dark, they hadn’t had time.  So too his ears were still recovering from the constant clap of thunder, so he couldn’t even hear the rushing sound of the water coming down, mercilessly wearing away at rock and stone.  Still he watched and he listened, hoping that if any chance presented itself he would catch it in time.  A chance for what, he did not know, but he waited tensed and motionless, prepared for anything.

His sight and hearing recovered as the moments passed. He could hear the rushing sound of the waters crashing down all around the alcove, and above too.  By now he was beginning to relax.  He knew, or suspected—and above all fervently hoped—that if by now the flood had not yet arrived to carry him away to his death, it never would.  And his hopes were proved right.  After half an hour of waiting and watching, the rain reduced to its normal misty drizzle.  He had survived to face death again, one more day.

The flow of water across the ground continued, carrying rocks, earth, plants, and everything that had come into its path with it.  Including, it seemed, a deer, which had now become entangled in a fortunate bush that had not been carried away in the onslaught.  After the hiker fished the deer out of the bush he discovered that the deer had not nearly been so lucky.  Near as he could figure, the deer had struck its head against a rock and been killed.

Well, that deer’s misfortune was a pure stroke of luck for the hiker.  He could not remember the last time he had eaten.  Well, he couldn’t remember much of anything right now, but he was sure he hadn’t had anything regularly since his group—again his brain rebelled from that line of thought.  He lost himself in a daydream of what he could do with the deer.  He could eat the meat, obviously.  The bones could probably serve as tools, with some work.  And with the skin he could make clothes, he could fashion a new pack.  It would even serve as a new blanket, to replace those he had lost.  Eventually his thought became more practical.  Obviously he would have to choose between those, and even a large deerskin would be hard-pressed to service as a full set of clothes for him.

This thought crashed him back down to reality.  None of this would be possible without a knife, and his pack had washed away—but he had never kept his knife in his pack.  He kept it on his belt, which he still had.  Compulsively his hand reached down, felt for the knife, and unsheathed it.

That done he set to work, skinning the deer.  Occasionally he would reach out into the river and snatch likely looking bits of flotsam, tree branches mostly.  He needed to cook the meat, and making a spit seemed the most likely way.  He worked mechanically, preparing the spit, fixing the skin for tanning, cutting up the meat to be cooked, throwing more word on the fire as it was needed.  The process occupied him, and young as the night was, it was nearly dawn by the time he was finished, and all the meat was cooked.  He wasn’t really sure how to cure the hide, or turn the meat into jerky, but he did the best he could.  He didn’t have salt to help the meat last, but the cold should help, and the mountains of mist never had bugs, the incessant rain kept them down.  An idea had struck him as he worked, and he had prepared the skin in a way so that hopefully it could serve as both a pack during the day—for carrying the meat if nothing else—and a blanket at nights.

His mind was numb from exhaustion.  He had wandered all day, and worked all night, on nothing but a few bites of the meat he had prepared.  Just as he was about to curl up and sleep away the rest of the night, the sun came up.  Every sunrise for months the hiker had been awakened by the most surprising part of life in the mountains.  Each morning, for a brief moment, the mist parted as the heat from the sun burned through it.

The hiker sighed, and then stretched as the sigh became a yawn.  He oriented himself.  If the sun came up there, then that was the east, and he wanted to go that way.  He pointed off in a direction relative to the sun for himself, and then gathered up the meat, checked over the campsite to make sure he wasn’t leaving anything, matches and his knife were his primary concerns, and headed off in the directions he had chosen.  He left the fire still burning.

He walked and he walked, and he walked some more.  He foraged some as he went, though all he found were some mushrooms, which he ate.  Mushrooms were the only reason most people came into the mountains.  The constant damp made the place an ideal breeding ground for the things.  He was still deep enough in the mountains that no one had come here to collect them, so those he found were bigger than those he had been used to.  Berries were another big item that came down from the mountains, though since it was winter they were out of season and he didn’t find any.  He was sick of mushrooms.  They were all he’d had for months, he was sure of that.  But mushrooms were better than starving, so even those he didn’t eat he plucked up and stored in his bag.

After no time at all, it seemed the night approached again, and he began his search for the night’s shelter.  Before long he found another likely looking alcove and made his way there.  When there he once again found the broken up tree, the pile of leaves and pine needles, so in no time at all he once again had built up a fire, and this time warmed up the venison.  Tonight the sense of déjà vu was stronger than before, if only because now he had clear memories of the night before.  This night was much different than the last had been. There was no wind, no lightning rain, and no flooding.

He curled up in front of the fire under his makeshift blanket, and fell asleep.  With sleep came dreams.  His body twitched and thrashed as his mind conjured up memories into his dreams, things he had blocked from his mind, things he had avoided thinking of for days.  He saw, clearly, as his companions were pulled away in a flash flood, his hands seemingly tied, or perhaps weighted to his sides, so that he could not reach out and save them.  His scream, released while he was still asleep, pierced the quiet of a night otherwise silent.  He saw himself, wandering through the mountains, coming to alcove after alcove, each conveniently having what he needed to start a fire, while he struggled to remember that in fact he did have matches to start one, waking again the next morning, choosing his course—roughly south-eastern, towards his village—and wandering some more.  Over and over again, he saw each scene replay:  his companions torn away from him in a roaring river, foraging mushrooms, seeing lightning rain, always narrowly avoiding the floods.

The hiker woke, shivering, at dawn.  The fire—what had been the fire last night—had long ago died out and become nothing more than cold ashes and scorched logs.  The blanket was a welcome change, even if he still was cold.  But where had it come from?  And the meat and mushrooms, carefully put away in a crudely made box of firewood?  Did he have some mysterious benefactor?  He didn’t think so, all this seemed familiar, not as if it had happened before, but like it had a familiar signature, a hand in it of someone he knew.  The fire, clearly he had lit it, that was clearly him, but he couldn’t remember doing it.  In fact, the box, the meat, and mushrooms all seemed like him too.  How could he not remember any of this?

The sun again broke through the mist.  It was dawn.  Compulsively he oriented himself to it again, reaching out with his hand and pointing the way he wanted to go.  Then he paused, considering.  This break in the mist was longer than usual, he could see more than usual, more than the mountains.  He could see smoke, smell woodsmoke.  A village was nearby, his village!

Just as this epiphany occurred to him, the sun faded, and the mist reasserted its dominance over the mountains that were named for its continual presence.  The break had been short, in truth not much longer than usual, mere moments.  Yet everything had changed in that time for the hiker.  The increase in the break of the mist at dawn meant he was close; he had nearly escaped the mountains.

He gathered his things, knowing now that they were his, and how they had gotten there.  As the mist had been pierced by the sun, so had the mist over his memory lifted, in part.  The hiker moved on.  Moving purposely as he hadn’t for months, he resolutely headed towards his home, munching on mushrooms and venison as he went.

He made good time, but he still had quite a ways to go towards noon when the wind picked up.  For the first time all morning, he hesitated.  He was close, closer than he had been for months to his only goal, but the truth was in the few hours he had until the flood would begin he would still not be near enough to make it in time.  A nearby alcove would be his best chance—he knew that anchoring was functionally useless in the floods; his team had been well anchored when they were swept away, the ropes had simply snapped.  Besides he had no rope, and sheltering in the alcoves had not failed him once in the months he had been here.

His eagerness to get home overcame his reason, however, and he broke into a run towards home.  His emaciated body could not sustain the action, and he soon collapsed, panting as he removed his face from the rocky, muddy ground.  After a moment he pushed himself back up, and he forced himself onwards again, as fast as his aching body would allow.  Then, when he had caught his breath, he forced himself again to a run.  Again, he collapsed, and again he pushed on.  On and on it went, until his reason resurfaced, and even then he went on, only now he was looking around, hoping to find one of the alcoves that had served such perfect shelter for him in the past.  Several hours had passed by then, and he knew his time was running out.  He was walking when he saw what he needed.

He’d just altered his path when the lightning started.  One, two, three, strikes hit home.  It was still too far away!  He wouldn’t make it; it would take a miracle.  He picked up his pace, scrambling over the rocky terrain, desperate to survive.  One more strike fell, and then the dam broke loose and the floodgates opened.  He still had time, he was nearly there.  But the already slick ground became increasingly treacherous, and he nearly fell with every other step.  He didn’t stop to regain his balance, but kept moving over the increasingly slippery ground.

The hiker was practically going forward on his hands and knees when it happened.  A pool on the mountain above him had built up to the breaking point and it gave, pulling an avalanche of earth and stone with it.  Helpless as it hit him, the hiker was swept away.  His already sore and weakened body would have had no chance fighting the current in the best of circumstances.  As it was he could barely struggle at all.

The massive mass displacement carried him effortlessly toward a nearby ravine.  The hiker had only time as he was hurled over the edge to take a breath, glimpse the river below, and the other side, before he struck his head and lost consciousness.

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When the hiker woke again, he had washed up on the bank of a stream.  He was soaking wet, his muscles burned, and he had lost his pack again.  But for the first time in months, the sky above him was clear and cloudless, there was no incessant patter of rain—it seemed almost eerily quiet—and for the first time in so long, he could feel the sun on his face.  He was still cold, he was bruised and scraped up from his tumble through the turbulent rapids of the mountain river during the downfall, but somehow, miraculously, he was alive.  He had lived through months alone in the mountains of mist.

His journey was not yet over.  He trudged along the river, towards his home village.  He was in familiar territory now, and simply had to follow the landmarks he knew.  It was even easier than that, since the river would lead him right there.

The village was in sight when he saw figures approaching him, greeting him.  Three were the members of his ill-fated expedition.  They had survived, likely the same way he had, and been carried by the river systems nearly all the way home.

Yet they were not the reason for the smile on his face, nor for the tears on his face and cheek.  He was home.  He was finally and safely home.  He wrapped his arms around his wife and child—and began planning his next trip into the mountains of mist.