Burning Mount Mansfield

My two older brothers and I occasionally look for firewood for our kiln. Father is very particular about these kinds of stuff. My father, a self-taught potter, takes great pride in his work. ‘The finest clay pots emerge from the perfect fire, kindled by the dead woods of the mountain, he’d say. Rumor has it that the spirit of these dead woods transfer to the pots through its burning remains. From how I see it, it’s like the last breath of the wood becomes the first of the clay, literally breathing life to father’s work. Sure enough, it may be true. For the past decade, not a single crack has been seen in the works of Old Man Pablo. He’s a genius in his own right. Unlike him, my brothers and I — I must admit — are not something you write home about. This morning, my father told us that he might start buying clay in town tomorrow after breakfast. Although he didn’t explicitly say ‘fill the shed with wood, the three of us knew what he meant. Sharing looks with the brothers, we know we are in for a long day of work tomorrow.

I hear father setting out at the break of dawn. My brothers and I slowly rose from our beds one by one, pressured by the creaking wooden door as father went. We hurry to finish our meals. No time to pick our teeth. I grab my green checkered scarf and beanie, wear the red wool hunting jacket hanging on a chair, and lace up whatever boot I can find. At the ripe age of 15, all the clothes my older brothers wear fit me perfectly despite them being in their 20s.

In our search at the base of the snowy mountain, my eldest brother, Dante, noticed the hollowness of the dead branches. We are just a few kilometers away from the cabin. He takes another wood from his sack and tries peeling the bark off with his gloves on. It falls right off like butter, which tells us it’s no good for the kiln. Victor, my older brother, suggests climbing higher up the mountain, a thought all of us knew is beyond the scope of the search.

“Father said to get firewood near the house. That was his only instruction. You know how father is,” I reminded us all.

Victor ignored me, as per usual. He’d hope Dante might consider bending the rules just this once.

“It’s for the good of father’s pots. If bark’s not better than butter, we better bring another, am I right, brother?” Victor said, putting on a convincing face.

Dante scans the area one more time. Our house is located in the middle of a spruce-fir forest. The sun is still hiding, but you can see our shack from afar. The cabin-like home is plastered at the center of the clearing. A lot of debris and bits of possible kindling are lying around, but even without testing every single wood, I can tell it won’t pass father's standards. After our mother's passing some years ago, we survive by selling pots to the local village. We could sell lumber if we hew some here, but father is adamant on not killing the forest anymore. Father and my visiting uncles tried to cut down trees for the kiln nine years ago. And it was the worst period for us, as the story goes, I wasn’t old enough to understand back then. Father couldn’t make a single pot without a crack, so only a few bought his work. And by the end of the ninth year, the next tree we could find was 2 miles away from home. Since then, father strictly uses dead or fallen trees for the kiln and was incredibly praised for both his skill in clay handling and mastery over the flame. That was when people honored father by giving him the title: ‘The Firnace’; a fitting name since we are in the middle of a fir forest.

“Let’s be quick, then,” Dante said after a while.

“Father will be madder than a wet hen once he knows about this, you know,” I said.

“Then put a lid in it, dimwit.” Victor replied.

It’s too early to fight. So I let the insult fly pass my head. Regardless of how we feel, Victor and I walk behind Dante. None of us has ever gone higher up the mountain before except for Victor, yet Dante walks confidently, wearing the empty sack around his broad shoulders as if it’s his home. Behind the towering figure of Dante, Victor trails with a pep in his step. He rolls his sleeves up, showing his lanky, skinny arms, and places his snow-white hand on the hatchet hanging from his hip, all with a smug look on his face. He’s probably hoping to find a deadfall and chop the heck out of it. Despite his malnourished looks, he carries the hatchet for a reason. I, for one, am not that excited, but I put my faith in the bright and early Sun, so I follow suit. The air is incredibly warm and welcoming and the subnivean climate is tolerable. As we trail higher, Dante and I scour the area, while Victor is swinging his hatchet, probably in his own world. The firewood appears to have saps, which tells us it isn’t dry or seasoned enough. I grab a few promising ones and store them in my sack. Dante is still hopeful that we can find better firewood up high. But in fact, it only got worse. I keep my tongue tight, sealing any complaints that may fly out. Dante, despite seeing how worse and more scarce firewood got as we went higher, refused to go down without a good sack. Out of all of us, he sounds and acts most like father. A perfectionist and a stoic. I never saw him playing around and dozing off like my other brother, Victor, who one might consider an adopted bastard. Victor, despite being just two years younger than Dante, is nowhere near responsible. He only wants to see what’s on top of the mountain, not really caring about the firewood father needs. As for me, I just want to go home.

The light from the sky died down to a dull violet hue, and we are starting to get wary. At the sound of my rumbling stomach, I let my tongue loose.

“If it wasn’t for Victor we could’ve been home by now eating supper!”

“Sure, and bring that poor firewood you got there to father so he’ll be choking from the smoke.” Victor replied. “Besides, I haven’t found a good deadfall to test out my new ax,”

“It’s not an ax, it’s a hatchet! You can’t even lift an ax, knucklehead”

“Go home and eat a rock!”

Once we start, it becomes too difficult to stop. I can’t even hear myself by now because of how loud Victor’s gorilla mouth is. I spot Dante walking silently ahead of us. He turns towards us to reveal a heavy expression in his eyes.

“Feeding the flame means feeding the family,” Dante calmly said. “Both of you must understand this. Father values this firewood more than anything, probably more than us. If it pains you to follow me and meet father’s expectations, then you are more than welcome to return. With the firewood you carry back, it would be too gracious for him to offer you both a piece of bread.”

We stopped fighting when Dante began to talk. Victor pulls my beanie down to my chin and I retaliate by shoving him to the side. But both silently traipse behind Dante by then.

It’s now late in the afternoon, yet there is no sign of good firewood. We are approaching deeper into the woods, where there are thicker canopies and denser understories. The sun should be directly above us now. But the light cannot reach us because of how sheltered we are by the spruces’ natural ceiling. We took a quick break and ate the bread that we brought. The day is surprisingly fast. Not long ago we were just a few steps away from home. Now we are halfway up the mountain, half a day away from the cabin. Victor has his sleeves back down, and his lips no longer smile, only quivering. Like him, I suspect my face looks red and shivering too. The sun is getting weaker and the snow is getting taller. I am about to convince my brothers to quit, I know Victor would bite the offer at an instant, but Dante grows persistent. And so must we. As we trek higher up, the canopy opens up to a gray sky, but the wind grows stronger and colder. From where we stand, I can spot our cabin. It looks so small, smaller than a pebble. The torches aren’t lit so father must also be late. Marching upwards and slowly losing sight of our home, the sun slowly fell from us, and we can no longer enjoy its warmth. Darkness blankets the sky. No moon but many stars light our path.

“Maybe it’s time to go down now. I don’t mind not eating supper, as long as we can sleep in the house.” I finally said.

“Have hope, Aiden,” Dante said without turning back.

Victor chimed in, “That reminds me. Maybe it’s better to set up camp nearby. I heard from a friend that there’s a cabin on top of the mountain. I bet we’re close.” Saying this regained his sense of adventure.

“Have you ever reached the top, Victor?” Dante said, head slightly turned.

“No, but I was close though,” Victor emphasized. “I bet I was the closest to reach it ever in history.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, dude, who do you take me for?”

“A monkey,” I mumbled, but somehow he heard me.

Victor was about to turn on me, but Dante stopped and said, “I’ll be looking for that cabin. I won’t be back until I find good firewood. I need the two of you to go home and tell father about this. At least, knowing there is still one more son that looks for his firewood, father might share supper with you.” He said this with a cold expression in his eyes. All fell silent.

We know how hard father can be on us brothers, but I think Dante had the shortest end of the stick when it comes to father’s love.

“Surely I can’t just leave my big brother alone in this scary, spooky winter wonderland,” Victor wrapped his lanky arms around Dante’s shoulders. “I know I’m coming with you.” He said while looking at me playfully.

“I think what we need to do is get food first, then we can find that monkey’s cabin,” I replied, making an overly serious face. Before Victor could get any closer, Dante grabbed him by the jacket.

“I must have been a saint in my past life, for the Lord has blessed me with two kind brothers.” Dante half smiled as he said.

We never know how to take compliments, especially from each other. Father raised us to be like him, as awkward as a rock. So all three of us stood there nodding our heads to no music. Deep in our hearts, we felt his words and wanted to reciprocate. But a howl echoes from a distant mountain, breaking the silence. It came from the West, but a reply from another pack of wolves boomed near us. The sound hit me like a ton of bricks. The impact swept me off of my feet. Despite covering my ears, I was still shaken by the shrill chorus. It left a single high-pitched note in my right ear. I struggle back on my feet. The wind is stronger now, colder and more unpredictable. The snow is pelting our backs and faces, and the stars are slowly being killed by the clouds. Losing sight of my brothers and the spruce we are surrounded by, I squint to see clearer through the forming haze. I can hear my heartbeat getting louder and louder, like an angry visitor knocking on a wooden door. Right there! I caught a glimpse of a moving figure in my periphery. It looks like Dante. He seemed focused on the forest where the sound came from. Nearer to me, I suspect the silhouette to be Victor’s. His head is frantically scanning the whole area, the hatchet in his hand. But another figure appears behind them both. It looked like a man crawling furtively. Without thinking, I called for my brothers.

“Dante! Victor! Behin—,” I couldn’t finish the word. My throat is so dry from the cold. I think my lungs are about to freeze. But I struggle back on my feet while my eyes locked on Dante’s silhouette. The crawling figure became three. Then it pounced. Suddenly, the haze cleared out, revealing Dante bathing in his own blood. He is fighting two all by himself. One on his back, the other chewing on his forearms. He is standing strong, no, he’s limping, blood is dripping fast down his elbows, head, and legs. Out of nowhere, Victor tackled the wolf behind Dante, using the hatchet to muzzle the beast. Dante fell to his knees, keeping his free hand on the creature’s nose. It all happened so fast. The clouds open up like curtains and the stars light up the scene. The snow was slowly being decorated by my brothers’ blood. A painting of their murder right before my eyes. Victor is yelling at me from a distance, but I can’t hear him. The deafening high pitch note lingers in my ears. But as soon as the note subsided, the horrors revealed itself more gruesomely this time. As if an aftershock, flesh and clothing being ripped into pieces, Dante, grunting and moaning, the incomprehensible shouting of Victor, the slowly approaching wolves to my left, while my legs were anchored in ice.

“Run, Aiden! Run!” I finally understood Victor.

His voice. It sounded like he was about to cry but concealed it with anger. Regardless, his words freed me from the snow. Without hesitation, I turn my back on them and run back down the mountain. Clouds of warm vapor pass me as I run through each breath. I can feel the nose of the wolves from my nape down to my ankle. I threw the sack of firewood behind me, hoping it would miraculously kill the wolves. Cursing myself all the way down, I find myself back to the dark and dense part of the forest. I only hoped that the darkness could conceal me from the predators. Until I can still hear the howls of the four-legged beasts, the moans of my dying brothers, and the moist, warm breath of the wolves behind me, even if it’s imaginary, I won’t stop running. Aimlessly, pathetically, I run for dear life. Not a minute had passed, I caught a cramp, a real nasty one. It forced my other leg to hold the entire weight of my body. I am so exhausted that my good leg buckled in. Before I knew it, I was tumbling down the mountain.

⟰

I woke up lying under a canopy. My head hurts like crazy. The last thing I remembered was hitting my head on a spruce tree, which explains the massive headache as. The sun is already shining directly above me, squinting as I look. It must be midday already. My beanie was most likely buried in snow after that glorious tumble. Good thing I didn’t become a huge snowball and cause an avalanche. In the middle of a snow patch and nearer to the clouds, I lie. I run my fingers on my forehead checking for bumps or blood. Then I began to feel someone’s shadow creeping up on me. I instinctively turn toward the mountain. Sweating cold bullets, and I felt my heart stop… no wolves.

I let out a sigh. Then everything that happened the night before flooded my thoughts. Every ounce of my strength left. I drop to my knees and curl into a ball. My thoughts ceased to exist, or rather I was caught between the crossfire of every firing thought that I was overwhelmed by the chaos. Unlike my mind, my chest feels a sudden emptiness; a hollow firewood. My stomach began to hurt so badly that I want to vomit but am too weak to. I don’t know how and what to feel. Even my elbows became numb to the sheer coldness of the ice.

The emptiness felt peaceful for a moment. There is no more left to do. A blank slate. It oddly felt relaxing. Yet it dawned to me how I would face this new life without my brothers. The tranquility of the wind had shifted. The silence became a quiet anger; the rage mixes with guilt and regret; my conscience enveloped in sadness. Reality, I felt, was a joke, an elaborate prank. Doubt settled in my chest so comfortably like it rested on a depression. Death was so fast that it left me naked. Only that he didn’t bring with him my thoughts, rambling on louder than the storm. And now my peace, the momentary emptiness in my head, is stolen away from me.

I shouldn’t have left them to their deaths. I should have died alongside them. I need to tell this to father, but I don’t know if I still have the strength to tell him. Matter of fact, I don’t think I have the strength left to go down this mountain without dying. I don’t even know if I can see him again at this point. The crater in my chest widens.

For a while, I pondered. I took the word lightly: the word hope. The sun will shine upon us again. That’s what they always say. They weren’t wrong. The sun shines mercilessly on my face right now. But it’s meaningless at this point. What is the point of tomorrow when I don’t even whant to see it.

I couldn’t save my dead brothers, and that was it. I could have. Maybe. But all I did was run and scream, shitting myself all the way. I lie there, stuck and slowly being buried in snow. It surprised me that I didn’t cry. Only the growing heaviness in my chest burdened me. Crying would take all of the energy from my listless body. I have become heartless from my hopelessness.

At least cry for them, I demanded myself. It’s the least I can do, so I waited. For hours and hours on end. Until my tears form, until I am completely buried in snow… until my breathing stops.

“Have hope,” I heard someone say.

My body jumped from underneath the heap of snowpack, gasping for air as I freed myself. I placed my pallid hands on my cold face where I felt the wet tears from my eyes. I controlled my breathing and two-handedly slapped my face. My brothers might still be alive. What kind of brother would I be if I abandoned them? Surely not a kind one. So I stood up as if rising from the grave. With shuddering knees, I force myself up and walk back to where I abandoned my brothers.

In my journey upwards, I face one of man’s many enemies, nature. Downslope winds seem unwelcoming. It was still bright in the afternoon, but the gusts sure are more unforgiving this time. It even stole my green scarf. I hesitated to retrieve it as it flew up and down and through the woods it vanished. I carried on, fighting off the bullet-like hail that hurt my now-exposed face. I had with me a piece of bread. As expected, eating it felt like eating ice, but I had to make do.

After a few miles of trekking, my body began to furiously shiver, and my legs are starting to give up. I tshelter behind the mouth of a nearby cave, where light still passes but the wind can’t. I try to make a measly campfire by assembling a kindling for the flame to grow, but even after twisting the sticks out of focus with breakneck speed, I can’t even make it smoke. If it is this or dying beside my brothers, I would have died happily with them. I hope they reserved a seat for me in heaven. I know Dante would. I chuckled. Then laughed, later hysterically. Tears began streaming down my face that freezes up when it reaches my cheeks. I don’t know if I am laughing or crying at this point. All I know is that I lost it again. Hope. The moment when I thought the sun was shining upon me again, is exactly when fate snatches the sun away from me. Hunger and thirst doesn't faze me anymore. I have become immune to the coldness of this world. What bothers me isn’t material. It’s an internal battle between my spirit and reality. I know I am going to die, but I refuse to die right now. My mission has yet to be fulfilled, but my body may give out before then. I was so stubborn up until now. So here I am, conceding my hope again. After seeing how no flame can survive the cold, I surrender to death. It is inevitable; only a matter of time.

“Have hope,” I heard the voice again.

Then it came to me: I still have the power over where my body will rest, an epiphany surfaced through the sea of my depressing thoughts. If I go back down the mountain, I will most assuredly not make it. I raise my bent head towards the light, and soak in the heat of the afternoon sun. Somehow the day is longer. A blitz of hail rushes just outside the entrance of the cave beside me. The sudden barrage of snow went for a good minute, then there is no more after. The mountain became silent. The stillness in the air is my signal. Hope filled me up like a hefty meal of eggs and toast, and I ran out of the cave and marched up the frigid, indifferent mountain. If I die today, at least let me rest with my brothers; that is the plan.

The path upward is steeper and the snow gets deeper. And breathing is becoming a struggle. I mustn't inhale too deeply because it hurts, it freezes my lungs. With my gloved hands covering my mouth, quick bouts of inhales and a long exhale I find is ideal. It kept me going without worrying too much about snowflakes sequestered in my nose.

The snow’s height climbs up to my knee. I must have walked a good mile or two from the cave by now, and the snow squall isn’t getting friendlier. The wind is regaining its previous speed and I can’t see much from the whiteout. But there are fewer trees up here and more boulders decorate this area. I just pray under my breath that those things won’t start rolling down. I took my wool jacket and used it as a shield in front of me. This is how I imagine wars being played out: me as the lone soldier, the hail as the opposing army’s merciless arrows. In a way, I am at war with myself.

By now, I am able to manage the blizzard, but walking an almost vertical incline, matted with a meter of snow, took the wind out of my sails. I feel my pace slowing down to that of a snail’s, and pulse becoming difficult to find. Icicles are forming on my skin, hardening my jacket — making it difficult to move — and my hands turning violet. My spirit is wavering. My tired body cannot shiver enough to combat the frigid temperature. The steps I take barely give me an inch towards my brothers. I force my body forward, but the lower half of my extremities don't follow. So I topple forward. The jacket saved me from directly touching ice on my face. So this must be my ending. My funeral: no trees in sight, all blurry white, and the snow numbing my every sense. The orchestra of ground blizzard serenades my death. Maybe this is not that bad after all.

Despite being buried alive twice, I cannot remove my thoughts completely. It lives regardless of my decaying body. Being underneath the snowpack is surprisingly warmer than being exposed to the sun and covered by my jacket. This is much more comfortable. It’s just like I’m back home where the kiln burns kindly. I bet I can sleep soundly here if I try.

“Don’t,” the voice startled my thoughts.

I open my eyes and it’s pitch black. I can hear the rampaging snowstorm more clearly outside this shell of snow I’m buried in than my shallow breathing. It’s getting harder and harder to breathe, like my lungs are anchored on the soil of the mountain. Keeping track of what is happening makes me so inundated that I just want to rest my eyes. I try to sleep, listening to the white noise.

But then a burning sensation seared my back. I sprung out of the snowpack, shattering my snow coffin. With my eyes wide open, I bared my teeth and felt the veins on my temples pop while enduring the most gut wrenching scalding of a lifetime. Like a farmer to his lost cattle in a pasture, I’m being branded. The pain is excruciating and it electrifies my whole body. I am yet again revived. Facing the whiteout, the blizzard pelts me with a thousand of its arrows, but it somehow doesn't hurt. I can see, just barely from a distance. I can make out a figure in front of me. I don’t know what’s real anymore. It looks like the figure is waiting for me. It nodded its head. So I trail behind him leaving my jacket behind. What saves me is the lingering heat, like the size of a hand, on my back that seems to push me. It stings but it doesn’t hurt. I walk with my eyes closed because it helps me concentrate. The familiar feeling of being pushed by Victor came to mind. He’s strong, but he’s gentle, like how the kiln is, the scorching heat against the fabric of my wool sweater is kind. I plow through the snowy path for who knows how long. Listening to the figure in front of me, he leads the way by paving the steps for my feet.

It must have been hours, but it felt like minutes. It isn’t before long when I realize that the snow I am trekking gradually lost height. The orchestra slowly fading, the army ran out of arrows, and the burning hand on my back disappeared. I keep my eyes closed all the while. The heat is now in front of me. I continue my walk towards it, drawn by the comfort it brings, and I feel my feet being soaked. Did the snow melt? When the heat in front of me strains my closed eyes, I slowly open them. At the top of the mountain, where man is taller than the clouds, I stand before a mellow campfire. It burns brilliantly, like a star amid the night sky.