^{©2019 Michelle M Gardner}

On warm sunny days, the mountain sang. Only for a moment. Only 24 notes. And then silence. Sometimes the silence lasted for days. Sometimes, if you were lucky, you might hear the mountain sing twice in the same afternoon. 

Analay liked to sprawl on the roof of his family’s home on sunny afternoons. He would ignore the voices of his family and fellow villagers, filter out the sounds of work and animals. And strain to hear the faint song. As if someone had placed windchimes within the mountain itself. The reverberations wafted gently to him, sometimes borne on a wind and sometimes creeping softly through the still summer air. 

Most people ignored the song. Or made signs to ward off the ghosts, like the other frightful creatures in Granny’s stories that she used to scare little ones into behaving. “Eat your supper. Mind your mother,” Granny would say. “Or the ghosts will take you away and bury you deep inside the Singing Mountain.”

Great Grandfather swore that he’d seen one of the ghosts. It had been man-shaped, dressed in flowing white from head to toe. He’d followed the ghost up the mountain to a door so high, he said, that three men could stand on one another’s shoulders and still not touch the lintel. He said the ghost opened the door, then beckoned him in.   

“I stepped into cool darkness with the heat of the day at my back. The chamber was small, perhaps no longer nor wider than I am tall. The roof towered high above, higher than the giant’s door. A wall faced the door, the band of sunlight illuminating swirls of creamy white that flowed through a field of green, like milk flowing into coffee. I had just started to see a pattern in the colors. Then the ghost shut the giant’s door behind me. I couldn’t see anything, but I felt the ghost whisper past me. I shivered in the dark, wondering what would happen next. Wondering if I would ever be able to open that door again. 

“Then a spark of light burned my eyes. The ghost had lit a candle. The green wall was actually a door, which the ghost pushed open. After passing through the door, the ghost placed the candle on the floor. Beyond the doorway, it might have been a tunnel, but larger, like the hallway of Lord Malaby’s stronghold. Except it lay in utter darkness. The scent of stone stole through my nostrils and filled my lungs, but the air felt fresh and chill on my sun-warmed skin. So silent was that tunnel that I could hear myself breathe, hear the rustle of my clothes as I moved. Maybe I also heard the ghost, but the pounding of fear in my ears almost deafened me. 

“We walked away from the door and candle. I thought I saw a tiny glimmer of light far far ahead. But the ghost moved forward so much more confidently than I that its form quickly blocked that distant light. The glow could not penetrate the ghost’s form. At some point, I realized that I could barely see the candle behind me. I stopped, frightened of going further from my world. 

“The ghost paused as if it heard my fear. It might have turned toward me.  ‘Come,’ it said. Or I thought it did. But I also heard a sound like a large rock striking unyielding stone. A single strike only. I startled and shook, pressing a hand to my chest to keep my heart inside it. My body refused to follow the ghost further. 

“No!” I cried. My voice echoed and amplified in the hall, rushing back to me. I stepped backward, faster and faster, stumbling over my feet, until I turned and ran. Back to the candle. Back to the doors. Back to the light of day and the smell of earth and the feel of hot air. 

“Passing the candle so quickly that the light wavered, I slipped through the green door. I pulled it closed behind me with a whoosh of chilled air. I stood in that little chamber between the doors, once again in absolute darkness. My breathing sounded harsh, and maybe I whimpered a little. I fumbled my way to the giant’s door, trying to remember if there had been a handle and where it might be. Finally, at about chest height, my shaking hands touched cool metal. A lever. It moved easily. And, just as easily, the door opened and air rushed out.

Blessed, warm light flowed in. 

“I stepped through then pushed the door until it closed. With my back pressed to the warm metal, I looked down the mountain at the hills and trees. I had no idea how long I’d been inside but the sun was setting. Terror swept through me. Had I returned to my same world? Was our house still down there, beyond the first hills? My knees quaked until I recognized the reassuring scent of dry earth that I always associated with the mountains. I saw tendrils of smoke rising from the villages below. I heard birds crying and crickets chirping. 

“I headed for home. There was no path to get down the mountain, just as the ghost and I had followed no path going up. I struggled to find my way down. By the time I reached the valley floor, the sun had long set. But I wasn’t afraid. This darkness I knew…the stars and the moon. Small animals rustling the undergrowth.  

“The cool night air refreshed my senses. By the time that I reached the first hills, I had stopped shaking. As I got closer to home, my steps lightened. The world seemed so familiar and normal that I began to tell myself that it had all been a dream. I’d fallen asleep in the warm afternoon sun. Instead of worrying about what I’d seen, I began to worry what I would tell my parents of my unexpected absence. I should have been tending chores. I should have been home hours ago. I thought of several excellent and plausible excuses, and had picked the perfect one just as I turned down our lane. Just as I saw Mother standing with hands on her hips in the light spilling from the front doorway.

“Just as the mountain sang.

“I froze. Mother startled, raising both hands to her ears.

“The mountain sang a low, mournful tune. The notes floated down the street, gathering in the dark corners and pools of light. The simple melody sang of regrets. But it ended on two high notes, as if asking a question. Would I come back. Please? ”

Great Grandfather always shook his head at this point in the story, his gaze fixed on some spot far beyond the walls of their home. Perhaps he could see the mountain and the giant metal door. “I never found that door again,” he would say, rubbing his chin.

“That’s because it doesn’t exist,” at least one adult in the room would interject.

Analay always frowned at the skeptics. He loved hearing Great Grandfather’s story. They both had heard the mountain sing many times. Always the same notes, but never in the same order or even the same timing. Great Grandfather said he had spent five whole years writing down all the variations. With nary a repeat. What was the mountain saying? Analay wondered. What did the ghosts do up there?

 “Bah!” Great Grandfather would scoff at the skeptics. “I tried many times to find my way back. The path was difficult, but the ghost had seemed to know exactly where to put its feet…so to speak.”

He would sit back with a gleam of mischief in his eyes. He looked at the little ones gathered around him and said, “If you ever follow a ghost up the mountain, don’t be afraid. Follow the ghost down that tunnel to see that distant light. And listen to the mountain sing…from the inside.”

Once again he would look far away. “Must be a magical moment to hear that song from inside the mountain.”

THE END