What The World Leaves Behind

"Sit, children. Sit close. The fire is warm, but the night listens, and the wind carries stories if you know how to hear them."

"You ask about the mountain. The one that roars, the one that sings, the one that is older than the oldest tree and taller than the tallest man."

"Yes, I will tell you. But you must listen. You must listen like the mountain listens."

---

A long time ago—so long that no name remains for the ones who first walked this land—there was no mountain.

The sky was wide, and the plains stretched forever, rolling like the back of a sleeping beast. The rivers ran clear, the trees grew strong, and the people lived with the land as they always had.

But there was something beneath.

Something deep.

Something waiting.

It was not a god, no—no, not a god. But it was not a man, either. It was something between, something older than gods, something made of stone and silence and secrets.

And it slept.

For a time.

But all things wake, in the end.

...

The first time the mountain roared, the sky split open.

The people fell to their knees, for they did not understand. The ground shook, the rivers shuddered, the trees bent low as if whispering prayers.

"What have we done?" the people asked.

"What have we angered?"

The elders cast bones, they watched the flight of birds, they listened to the wind.

And the wind said: Nothing.

You have done nothing. You have angered no one. The mountain speaks because it must.

But people do not like to hear answers that are not answers.

So they built altars. They carved offerings from ivory and gold, from stone and bone, from things precious and things sacred.

They laid them at the base of the mountain.

And the mountain was silent.

For a time.

...

The second time the mountain roared, the sky wept.

Rains came for forty days and forty nights, flooding the rivers, drowning the land. The people climbed to the highest places, watched their homes vanish beneath the water.

"What have we done?" they asked.

"What have we angered?"

And the wind said: Nothing.

You have done nothing. You have angered no one. The mountain speaks because it must.

But people do not like to hear answers that are not answers.

So they sang. They drummed their hands against the earth, they raised their voices to the sky, they told stories of heroes and spirits and gods who could calm the storm.

And the mountain was silent.

For a time.

...

The third time the mountain roared, the sky bled fire.

Smoke darkened the heavens, red rivers of molten stone carved paths through the land. The people fled, but there was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide.

"What have we done?" they asked.

"What have we angered?"

And the wind said: Nothing.

You have done nothing. You have angered no one. The mountain speaks because it must.

But people do not like to hear answers that are not answers.

So they prayed.

They knelt in the ash, hands pressed to their hearts, foreheads to the ground.

They did not beg for mercy.

They did not ask for salvation.

They only said:

"We hear you."

"We are listening."

And then—

The mountain was silent.

...

And so it has been, ever since.

Every hundred years, the mountain roars.

Not in anger.

Not in warning.

Not in wrath.

It speaks.

Because it must.

And the people?

We listen.

Because we must.

---

"Now, children. You know the story. But tell me—when the mountain roars again, will you hear it? Or will you only ask why?"