Dear
Xenophon,
I'd
like to open with a quote from a living author, strange from me I
know, but here it is.
“That night
they rode through a region electric and wild where strange shapes of
soft blue fire ran over the metal of the horses' trappings and the
wagonwheels rolled in hoops of fire and little shapes of pale blue
light came to perch in the ears of the horses and in the beards of
the men. All night sheetlightning quaked sourceless to the west
beyond the midnight thunderheads, making a bluish day of the distant
desert, the mountains on the sudden skyline stark and black and livid
like a land of some other order out there whose true geology was not
stone but fear. The thunder moved moved up from the southwest and
lightning lit the desert all about them, blue and barren, great
clanging reaches ordered out of the absolute night like some demon
kingdom summoned up or changeling land that come the day would leave
them neither trace nor smoke nor ruin more than any troubling dream.”
From “Blood Meridian: or the Evening Redness in the west” by Cormac
McCarthy
I
guess I've been thinking about mountains lately. A white haired
lady, a teacher who, now in her silver years has gone deaf,
told me a story today. Many years ago, she traveled with her husband through
Tasmania, where they came to a hollow mountain, wherin dark red stone caves were carved out by the forces of nature, and there the two of them sat in private pleasure
drinking wine and eating a picnic.
Many
years ago I climbed Mount Ossa, the tallest mountain in Tasmania, with three
friends. It was our third day on the trail and
our water supplies were running low. We hoped to refresh our stocks
from a creek on the far side of the mountain, but, as fortune would
have it, halfway up the mountain, a tree had fallen beside the trail, tearing with it a large
boulder and breaking open the earth where a natural spring now
trickled gaily over the rock. We filled our bottles there and I
remember the water had the most amazing flavour, trickling clean and
clear and full of mountain power. Those mountain rocks were covered
in a lush green moss and the view from the peak granted us a vista of
our trodden path through the forests and valleys from Cradle
Mountain, and ahead to the plateau called The Labyrinth, where
only two weeks prior, a traveler had disappeared, and was never seen
again, presumed dead.
Those
mountains in Tasmania were not carved from fear, nor ordered out of the absolute
night like some demon kingdom. They were shaded and shadowed beneath
ancient forests, deep valleys full of the green secrets of a goddess
who needn't be named, but whose sanctity was revealed to me in a
waterfall glade at twilight where I gave my thanks and made a secret
promise.
My
hair grew longer after that night. Uncut for seven years, my curly
locks became dreads and I wove stories and shells and glass beads and
stories into them. Those mountains were perfect and beautiful and
the gifts they gave me have lingered in my heart, lightening my
spirit for the decades since that youthful adventure ended.
Your
adventure, Xenophon, was something else entirely.
“They came
to the mountain on the fifth day, the name of the mountain being
Thekes. When the men in front reached the summit and caught sight of
the sea there was a great shouting. Xenophon and the rearguard heard
it and thought that there were natives of the country they had
ravaged following them up behind, and the rearguard had killed some
of them and made prisoners of others in an ambush, and captured about
twenty raw ow-hide shields, with the hair on. However, when the
shouting go louder and drew nearer, and those who were constantly
going forward started running towards the men in front who kept on
shouting, and the more there were of them the more shouting there was
something of considerable importance. So Xenophon mounted his horse
and, taking Lycus and the cavalry with him, rode forward to give
support, and quite soon, they heard the soldiers shouting out, 'The
Sea! The Sea!' and passing the word down the column.
Then certainly
they all began to run, the rearguard and all, and drove on the
baggage animals and the horses at full speed; and when they had all
got to the top, the soldiers, with tears in the eyes, embraced each
other and their generals and captains. In a moment, at somebody or
other's suggestion, they collected stones and made a great pile of
them. On top they put a lot of raw ox-hides and staves and shields
which they had captured. The guide himself cut the shields into
pieces and urged the others to do so too.”
This
is just a scene, a moment, a fragment of time from over two thousand years
ago, when men who had marched nearly a thousand of miles through
territory filled with the mixed company of barbarians both wild and
free, savage and noble, until, with a great triumphant shout, with
songs and cheering, they erected a monument atop a mountain
overlooking the sea.
Xenophon,
thank you again, thank you always. Thank you from the generations
already passed, and from the the generations yet to come. Thank you
for surviving through the epic hardships of war and retreat, to write
this inspiring account of heroism and adventure, the Anabasis.
With
gratitude and respect,
Morgan
PS.
I can't find Mount Thekes on my modern maps, but these mountains
south-east of Trapezus look magnificent.
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