Kthaahthikha

IX - 2000

I approached the young man the next day, in the hopes of securing him as a guide. By this time I had little in the way of money, but the pople of this area were - comparitively - not especially affluent, and I was confident that I might sway him without over-extending myself to greatly.

The young man, however, seemed to be a child born of deepest superstition, and refused on all counts to help me once he discovered where I intended to go. Despite several renewed attempts, he maintained this position, and in the end I was forced to ask if he knew of anyone who might be less hostile to the idea.

Unfortunately, though they continued to treat me pleasantly enough, the attitude of the town shifted after word got around of my conversation with the young man. It seemed that, whilst more than happy to fill me with the absolute knowledge available, the villagers were in no way enthusiastic towards my actually attempting to uncover the source of the myths. I did not believe then, and nor do I now, that they were purposefully hiding details from me, but nontheless a most certain sense of unenthusiasm - indeed, near-antipathy - suffused the entire relations.

I was left, then, wondering what to do, and slowly the number of options available to me was winnowed down until only two clear courses of action presented themselves. The one was that I return to England, but I dismissed this after careful consideration as entirely unsatisfactory. I had not come this far to be dismissed by superstitious peasantry.

The second option was that I climb into the mountains myself, and attempt to find some clear indication of the facts behind these unusual legends. This seemed a far more inviting idea, although not something entirely within the scope of my prior experience. I was not, nor do I believe myself to be, a particularly-able mountaineer. That said, I was confident that I might make my way well enough, and perhaps my evident persitence might convince a number of the villagers to help me out of pity, where imploring had failed.

I aquired supplies and equipment from the townsfolk, and received many heartfelt goodbyes but no offer of assistance. The nearest thing that transpired was that Serik, out of the a concern that ill might befall me, gave me lend of the poorer of his two rifles. It was an old-fashioned powder-and-ball affair, but I accept it with open thanks along with the small horn and shot. In my travels I had become acquainted with the basic operation of such an engine, and I hunted about for something to give to Serik as a token of appreciation. The only item that seemed at all appropriate was a small shaving mirror that I had amongst my things, that was of silver and emblazoned with a gilt crest. Serik was delighted with it, and insisted that I keep the musket.

I refused, and, with my pack full, my wallet empty and a warm coat ready against turns in the weather, I set-off into the forests to follow the instructions of the young man.

It was early Autumn by this time, and the weather, though cool, was not unpleasant. I followed the strem that ran into the lake, a swift watercourse that made its way out of the mountains and wended between hills and along the bellies of narrow gullies. The hills were gradual about here, and I had no great difficulty in following the bank. With the sun on my back and the pine needles crushing softly beneath my feet, it felt less that I was hunting some ancient legend than that I was making my way back through the parklands at my uncle's country home.

The stream led up through several cuts in the rock, and the mountains grew over head as I climbed the hills. The branches were quite thickly interwoven, and it was through them that I saw the peaks slowly approaching overhead.

I turned away from the stream a little past two, my waterbottles full. I walked for several hours along through the hills, hoping to catch sight of the game trail that the young man had spoken of. As yet nothing presented itself, but I continued anyway, and camped that evening on a rise that overlooked the rolling forests below. I could see the faint whisps of smoke from the village, until darkness overtook all, and the moon rose gibbous above it all. It seemed less real, than an image from a story-book, the vivid purple of the sky and that silver crescent surrounded by endless stretching fields of twinkling stars. Across the landscape drifted the faint cry of a wolf, and I lay by my fire waiting patiently for sleep.

The diminishing nature of these hour-segments is growing slightly irksome. But it's surprisingly-difficult to come-up with stuff to type, and type it all out, without jumping ahead and finishing at 4 in the morning or going to slow and winding-up one third of the way through a Karenina-esque epic when I reach zero-hour.