Thursday, 26 September 2019

Book 3, Letter 11, to Xenophon, on Mountains.


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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