by James Welsh
One day, a villager ran into the town, quicker than even his own breath. The villager dragged a trail of dust behind him on the dirt road, like a shadow at dusk. The villager kept repeating, “Everyone, come to the mountain, quick!”
“What’s going on?” Some were afraid that boulders were tumbling down the mountain, which had happened once or twice before, blocking the road going into town.
“I saw it with my own eyes!”
“What?” The response, exasperated.
“A torch, a torch is coming back down the mountain! I can see the light! It’s Alexander, back from his quest!”
Some of the villagers teased the man, who wasn’t known for his sight. And after all, they had long lost hope in Alexander’s return. They thought it was easier to imagine him dead, even going as far as to dig a grave without a body to bury in it. They crowed, “Old man, what makes you think it was a torch? Maybe it was just the sunlight glinting off the mountain?”
The villager, a balding man with a beard of wires, grew scarlet. “You think I don’t know fire when I see it? No, it’s not the sun – it’s Alexander with his torch. Have faith in me for once.”
The elderly merchant, who heard the news, rushed from his stall. He led the crowd of curious townspeople down the road and towards the mountainside. An hour later, they were gathered at the foot of the incline, looking up into the cliffs. The merchant, his own eyes failing in his old age, squinted all the harder, hopeful for a sign of his only son. And so it was the merchant who saw his son before anyone else did. The messenger was right – Alexander was finally back. The villagers clambered up the mountain as best as they could, wanting to welcome home the brave one they thought was dead. When the villagers got closer, though, they all froze, terrified by the sight. A lady fainted. Young Alexander’s once-smooth face had turned hairy like ivy, the vines climbing up his cheeks. The man’s brilliant blond hair had been shocked whiter than ivory. Alexander was not dead – it was worse than death. The man trembled with hunger, almost seeming to wither away before their very eyes. The father rushed forward and grabbed his son before the adventurer collapsed into the rock. The crowd went silent as father cradled son. The merchant looked at Alexander’s face. Even though Alexander had fainted, his eyes were still wide open. Never, for the rest of his life, would those eyes ever shut again.
The villagers tried their best to nurse Alexander back to health, but the young man was too far gone in the mind, now staring blankly at the far wall of his room every day and every night. He was silent during the day, rocking from side to side as if moved by an unheard rhythm. At night, though, at night, he babbled a long string of words that nobody understood but him. Eventually, the villagers all gave up hope once more for the aspiring man, and they abandoned him in the home of his father, punished with the way that madmen live. Some nights, his father – feverish with fear for a son who looked older than his father – listened at the doorway. He listened to his son repeat words that made no sense at all. One night, though, the father could have sworn he recognized one word
“Silver, silver, silver, silver.”
This surprised the merchant, who was used to gold coins clinking together in his palm. The father liked to think of coins as being drops of sunlight, too hot to stay in one man’s hand for long. He wondered then if his son had not seen the gods after all – he couldn’t fathom the gods building their palace out of silver. Weren’t the gods alchemists? With that, the father discounted his son’s ramblings – he wanted to believe the mad man’s words, but silver seemed too common for an Olympian to use.
If only the father knew how right his son was.