Raven Library

He had been warned of the icy wind haunting the mountain. Some said it was the ghosts of those who died trying to scale the heights – warning others to turn back. Others laughed, “Only tricks in your mind,” before going back to their mead. One wide-eyed woman by the fire could only mumble about demons and evil whispers.

“Don’t listen!” she said. “All lies. Don’t listen.”
 She went back to staring at the fire, arms wrapped around her knees.

Too far from any hearth to remember what warmth felt like, the man huddled closer to the rocky wall of the mountainside in hopes of escaping the bite of the snowy wind. His arms shook uncontrollably as he pulled his scarf tighter over his chin, ice crackling in his thick beard.

“I am stronger than you,” he began the mantra – the only words keeping warmth and life in his chest. “I am stronger than you. I will claim the Fire Orchid. I will end the war of my people.” These were his truths; his final bulwark against failure. This mountain, of all challenges he has faced, will not defeat him. The Fire Orchid – that legendary strength of gods and kings – will be his. With it he will end the bloody rebellion and bring peace to his nation. To his family. To his own heart. These truths were all that drove him; all that fortified his determination. He had to believe all this was possible, achievable, so he repeated it to himself during the sharpest of winds and every time his footing slipped on the deadly mountain cliffs. “I am stronger than you …”

As each bitterly-icy minute lingered then passed he began to notice the pitch black of night had lessened, only slightly. He could now see a yard or two ahead. Ending his mantra, he slowly pressed on through the snowstorm. Twice he had to stop and cling to the cliff for fear of being blown off his feet and down into the gray grave of the storm below.

On this mountain death was never far.

Exhilarated by the most recent escape from death his heart pumped the warmth of life into his chest. He inched his way over a thin precipice. On the other side, where the cliff-walk widened, he stopped short. With no other place to climb, he was faced only with a cave opening. It was small, only large enough for a wolf to scramble through, but the mouth was at eye level. The entrance was black – a dense darkness that, for a second, he thought he could reach out and touch. The still darkness of the cave, it seemed, was colder than the bitter wind; a cold that cut past the body and into the spirit. This new evil – yes he sensed it – only gave him pause long enough to recite his mantra one last time before he hoisted himself, head first, into the mouth of the cave.

Night beyond night. Nothing could be seen, not even the frost on his nose. Both the deadness of the air and the perfect silence amplified the darkness. Outside, the mountain threatened death with bellowing howls; in the cave, the man felt as if he was walking in the silence of death itself.

Fully inside, he stood for several minutes, waiting and hoping for his eyes to adjust. They never did. He saw nothing. He heard nothing. The blustering wind, just outside the cave, could have been miles away. Not even the sound of his own breathing reached his ears. He began to whisper his mantra of truths but stopped short when no sound came from his mouth.

Panic shocked his mind. “What is this?” he thought. “There’s more to this darkness than the absence of light! There’s an evil here. In this cave with me.”

Having been denied the use of sight and sound he sat on the ground and began feeling the rock around him, thankful to the gods for his hands. He discovered the cave was just wide enough that he could stretch both arms out and touch the cold rock walls; but never knowing how high the cave reached. He stood up and began to inch forward, slowly feeling the way with his boot. The cave was long and winding.

“Who are you, child of man?”

Panic, again, shot through him like electricity. He jolted to a stop, nearly tripping backwards. Barely breathing and eyes wide in the darkness, he felt utterly vulnerable. Naked before the questioner.

“Why are you here, man? You may speak.”

Deathly-silent minutes passed before he dared reply. Finding his voice had come back he quietly spoke, “I seek the salvation of my people. I have come for the strength of gods and kings – the Fire Orchid.”

“Is that true?” The whisper was not a voice. It was heard in the man’s mind; not even heard but thought as his own thoughts. Yet somehow distinct. “How do you know the fire orchid is on this mountain? Or even real? Not one has been seen since the end of the First Days and the death of the Final Prophet. Your finest scholars can only pontificate about its qualities. You know nothing for certain.”

He paused, confronted with the doubts he had suppressed for so long. “But my people are dying. I have to believe it is here; my heart knows it. My heart can feel its fire. I have to believe we can be saved. I must find it!”

“Oh, mortal, mortal man. I have dwelled on this mountain longer than kings have ruled your land and I have seen no salvation here. There is no power here that can end your war. Do you want to waste time up here while your people die below? You should return to them. Could you not do more good there, pleading with the rulers, than blindly ascending this endless mountain? Save yourself – save your family! – and go back home. All the fire orchids are extinct, regardless; if they ever existed, at that. The fairytales of old were only created to give divine approval for the greed of petty chieftains. You know that in your heart, too.”

A longer pause. The doubts, this time, were hardly distinguishable from truth. The faces of his family and neighbors flashed through his mind. He remembered, too, a time when an armistice had been called between the warring factions. Though only temporary, the peace treaty was brokered between the heads of the factions. Maybe he should go back. After all, the Fire Orchid had little to no evidence of existence. No one could prove it to be real, though many still believed the old stories. He did once. Now he was not so sure.

“Go home, friend. Even if one rested on this mountain, and you somehow managed to survive the finding of it, what would you do with the flower? You do not know how to use it. And why do you consider yourself worthy to bear it? Your weakness has been made known on this mountain. A man so oft on the verge of death cannot be strong enough to end a war.”

The man, confronted with his own weakness, sat again on the rough stone. Silent for what could have been hours, he dwelled on the questions before him.

Finally, when he could bear the weight of the darkness no more, he stood to his feet and lifted his head. “There is small truth in your words, spirit. But you ultimately weave deceit. No, no one has seen the Fire Orchid or smelled its aroma. But many of us have felt its warmth. We, as you say, have seen the temporary victories and uneasy peace treaties of rulers. But we have also known that the hope – Yes, the hope alone! – of the Fire Orchid, and with it the blessing of the gods, is more powerful than the swords of kings. It is hope in this salvation that drives me, spirit.

“Your questions are fair but your deceitful purpose will delay me no longer. Your lies have kept me on the floor of this cave for too long. Free me from this darkness and leave me to my cause!”

Immediately, he could hear his own breathing again. The curse had lifted. The only whisper he heard was the wind, far behind him, at the cave entrance. Slowly his eyes adjusted, and the dark of the cave was not so oppressive. He saw a faint glow ahead of him.

He stepped forward in the confidence of hope, repeating his truths:
 “I am stronger than you. I will claim the Fire Orchid. I will end the war.”