The Sun is already high in the sky as I get out of bed. It was a late night in the domes, chasing down the creations of God. My mind is still swirling with the wonders. The sound of the gears as I slewed the telescope from one side of the cosmos to the other continue to vibrate my soul.
Last night I watched God’s work from afar.
Today, I climb to join it.
I slowly walk up the mountain. The path is not far, perhaps maybe just a few hundred feet. At the beginning of the path there is gravel, buildings, signs that humans infest this place.
I come to a landing carved into the side of the mountain. All around me are metal domes atop white stone buildings. Inside these man-made monuments are dragons of scientific discovery. One is ran by the computer, and moves around at the order of 1’s and 0’s. The other is more mechanical in nature. It takes it orders from a paddle connect to it’s core. A human, a trainer, spends the night ordering it around it’s cage. The third, the smallest, is my dragon.
The only mechanical pieces are small gears. There are no paddles. There are no computers. I must push, pull, beg and plead for my dragon to go where I wish. I bribe it with the promise of wonders beyond it’s dreams. I have no digital map and no compass. My dragon and I must find our way around the cosmos unassisted.
We trainers ride our dragons for the public. They come to see what we can show them.
And we show the the wonders of the cosmos.
Rising up from the landing, past the cages where our dragon’s sleep, is a small dirt path.
It is an ascension only few are blessed to make. So many of the visitors to this mountain coming in the darkest of night, to watch as magicians bring the work of God to man. The path to the very top of the mountain is hidden in the veil of night. Only those who sleep with the dragons, who wake up in the midst of their power, are shown the way.
With great responsibility, comes great power.
It’s not an easy walk to the top of Olympus when the theories of astronomy and physics are weighing you down. As a teenage girl of only seventeen, I feel the pressure of science. The Elders have taken me in and attempt to teach me.
The path rises quickly, and my thighs begin to burn under the effort. The dirt scar in front of me has been etched by humans for decades. It is the mountain’s way of reminding me that the path before was blazed by those who came before.
The dirt scar taunts me. You are not worthy.
As I rise to met the scar’s challenge I leave behind all the work of man. The cement, the gravel, the buildings, it all fades away in the fog of heat. All that is left is dirt, rocks and some sagebrush. The scar winds through this desert landscape to the top of the mountain.
To the top of my mountain.
To the top of God’s mountain.
At the peak is an organized pile of rocks holding up a board. I have been told that a boy scout group came up and made this natural bench. I prefer to believe it magically appeared, a token of good will.
Come, sit, says the mountain. I have a place just for you.
But, today I am not alone. As I come to the top of the mountain I see a boy, about my age. A Saxophone is hanging from his neck, cradled by his hands. He was about to blow hot air into this instrument and fill the desert with music.
At first I am startled, how can anyone else be up here?
Then I am irritated. This is no place for the work of man. I am momentarily blinded by the Sun’s reflection off the brass hanging around his neck.
You can barely see a glimmer of light from the domes below. We are at the very tip of a mountain in the middle of a desert. It is a 360 degree view of an ancient lake below us, which has now be turned into sand. If I was an egotistical teenager, I would reach my hands up and touch the sky.
Instead, I give in to the heat of the Sun and wrap my light hoodie around my waist. My black tank top now feels thin, and I feel exposed with a tiny section of my teenage cleavage showing.
The boy says he knew I was coming. I feel the chill of fate wrapping around me with the warm desert breeze. My hair begins to flow with the wind. He had heard this was my favorite place to be after a night gallivanting the universe.
He gave me a knowing smile and brought the saxophone to his lips.
Day two of Writing 101. Today’s Prompt:
Today, choose a place to which you’d like to be transported if you could — and tell us the backstory. How does this specific location affect you? Is it somewhere you’ve been, luring you with the power of nostalgia, or a place you’re aching to explore for the first time?