The Young man was sweating profusely. For some time he had been climbing, and his bag was beginning to feel a little heavier. There had been considerable rain in the period before the climb had began and the moisture still sat heavy in the air. Freshly formed puddles lay everywhere, and were deep. Equally frequent tree roots were slippery, treacherous to those unsteady of foot, or lacking in attention.
At the start of the climb, one of the young man's shoes had failed him, and broken free from his foot. It was placed in his bag; he would see to it later. The trail was deserted. The recent downpour had seen to that: The young man neither passed anybody, nor was he passed by anybody else. Up and up he climbed. The trees and vegetation on either side of the path blocked his view, preventing any chance of perspective been placed upon his location. They also trapped the precipitation, making conditions even muggier. Sometimes, the path narrowed into the foliage and all things felt oppressive. There were many stones and rocks along the way, a seemingly increasing amount of which felt sharp and painful to his normally overprotected, and now, exposed foot.
Hours earlier, the young man had been in a house. It had been built at the bottom of the hill, in a clearing. Maybe it had been made from the very trees that had been cleared for it's creation. The house was not grandiose. However, it was very elegant in a colonial style, and had a certain charm. I guess you could say that it was beautiful. Maybe one had to have been inside it to understand where it's charm came from, and how it's beauty lay.
Walking through the corridors and rooms of the house gave you the feeling that the residents had just gone out, maybe for a walk down to the beach or up to the mountain. A sowing machine and walking stick sat idle, as if they had just been used. The house effused a warm and welcome feel to it's visitors, a feeling you get in some houses and not in others. It appeared to say: "I am more than a house, I am a home. I have been loved. I have made people happy."
Up and up he climbed, further and higher still. He thought that the views must be spectacular by now, if only he could see! He continued to sweat, and the stones continued to feel sharp. He took a rest, and then drank from his bottle. The water was cool and refreshing. He was glad of it, as his legs were of the rest. He sat and contemplated his destination. Days before, he had been unaware of it's existence, or, more precisely, it's actual location. He hadn't believed it could be so far away from its source. Now, the young man was as determined to see it as if he crossed the oceans solely for its visitation.
The Storyteller had been born into a wealthy family. He had suffered in his health, and a sickly child had, in turn, developed into a sickly man. In spite of, and because of, his illnesses he had determined that he would travel the world, looking for places that suited, and excited him. Illness affected his travels, but adventure was the central theme. For the storyteller was a true adventurer; not in the physical sense- illness had curtailed any possibility. However, such illness had sparked an inclination and opportunity for an ever increasing imagination, and a romanticism of what the great world had to offer.
He put his bottle back into his bag, picked himself up and continued on his way. His mind wandered to previous experiences on his travels: the cool sea breeze of a distant shore; of laying awake at night listening to the sounds of a jungle chorus; a craggy mountain path leading into the mist; the people he had come to know as friends. All of these things had taken place under a myriad of foreign skies and he was pleased to remember every one.
All these thoughts were quickly dispelled as he re-focused, once again, on the path ahead. He knew he could not be far away now. Soon he would be there. The young man wondered how many others had made such a pilgrimage. He also wondered about the route he had taken, one that was predetermined and offered no real opportunity for deviation. Coming out of a particularly tall thicket of trees, the path narrowed to its smallest width yet, before opening out into a clearing. The air felt fresher; light stole back the trees from shadow. A soft breeze blew through his hair. He had arrived.
Like many other European settlers, the storyteller had arrived in this strange land far away from home. He looked and behaved differently to the locals. He must have aroused quite a bit of curiosity, for he looked different to the other settlers as well. I dare say he also created a certain degree of suspicion amongst all of the island's inhabitants. Many native people were wary of European rule, of being controlled by foreign people, who had little understanding of the customs and sensitivities of those who had been here for many years. But, as you know, the storyteller was different, and the locals quickly came to realise this. He built his house far from other Europeans and quickly involved himself in native life. He thought like them, and fought for them, and many people grew to love him for it.
Making his way over to the small stone monument, in the centre of the opening, the young man considered what exactly the tribute would be. He walked up to the long white stone lying on the ground and traced his fingers over the stone's metallic plaque, reading to himself as his fingers move over each letter and word. Time had faded the colour of the stone and taken the gleam off the engraving, but this didn't matter.
108 years before, the storyteller had lost his delicate grip on life, in his 45th year. The night he died a group of locals had insisted on standing guard over him until daylight, thereafter carrying him up to his final resting place on top of the mountain. They carried their hero, friend and "Tusitala". He had championed their cause, and now, in death, they granted him his final wish. They buried him there on the 4th December 1894. He was dressed wearing his walking boots in case he should choose to, once more, walk in the nearby hills he so dearly loved.
The young man left the graveside and walked across to the far side of the opening, where it plunged over the side to the forest below. He saw a magnificent view of his surrounds. He looked off to the distance and saw a number of southern islands, and the vast ocean which encapsulated them all. As he gazed out to sea, he contemplated. He was saddened to think of those lives that are cut short when so much is still to be offered. Some time before, he had been told that a life is not to be measured by length, but rather by it's accomplishments and the people it has affected. These words gave him heart.
He looked upon life as one long adventure. Although he did not know his own future, he resolved to make the most of the time afforded to him; he hoped for the strength and grace to face the challenges that life would inevitably create. He knew that when life became difficult all things broken could be fixed, all things hurt could be healed, and all things lost could be found. He was pleased to be considering such things; he thought of them as important, and hoped that others thought similarly from time to time.
The young man moved back to the monument and re-read the inscription:
He thought the words perfect for the storyteller, and the location he now stood in. He knew he would remember these words.
The young man wished he could have met the storyteller on the mountain all those years ago. He knew not what he would have said to him, but hoped they could have spoken candidly, and at length. Maybe they would have walked down the mountain together, back to the house at the bottom of the hill, and the storyteller would have read one of his stories to the villagers, on the verandah, as the shadows lengthened.
After they brought the Storyteller to the mountaintop , the local people had emotionally cut the path from the side of the mountain. They had given it the name "Road of the Loving Hearts". He endeavoured to make the most of his walk back down it. Even though he had made the exact same walk recently, he would look on it as a new adventure, one where every step provided new possibility.
He leaned on the faded white stone, took off his good shoe, and placed it in the bag with his other one. As he set off to go back down, he was sure that the stones would not feel so sharp, the air would not feel so heavy, and the trees would not seem so oppressive.
At the start of the climb, one of the young man's shoes had failed him, and broken free from his foot. It was placed in his bag; he would see to it later. The trail was deserted. The recent downpour had seen to that: The young man neither passed anybody, nor was he passed by anybody else. Up and up he climbed. The trees and vegetation on either side of the path blocked his view, preventing any chance of perspective been placed upon his location. They also trapped the precipitation, making conditions even muggier. Sometimes, the path narrowed into the foliage and all things felt oppressive. There were many stones and rocks along the way, a seemingly increasing amount of which felt sharp and painful to his normally overprotected, and now, exposed foot.
Hours earlier, the young man had been in a house. It had been built at the bottom of the hill, in a clearing. Maybe it had been made from the very trees that had been cleared for it's creation. The house was not grandiose. However, it was very elegant in a colonial style, and had a certain charm. I guess you could say that it was beautiful. Maybe one had to have been inside it to understand where it's charm came from, and how it's beauty lay.
Walking through the corridors and rooms of the house gave you the feeling that the residents had just gone out, maybe for a walk down to the beach or up to the mountain. A sowing machine and walking stick sat idle, as if they had just been used. The house effused a warm and welcome feel to it's visitors, a feeling you get in some houses and not in others. It appeared to say: "I am more than a house, I am a home. I have been loved. I have made people happy."
Up and up he climbed, further and higher still. He thought that the views must be spectacular by now, if only he could see! He continued to sweat, and the stones continued to feel sharp. He took a rest, and then drank from his bottle. The water was cool and refreshing. He was glad of it, as his legs were of the rest. He sat and contemplated his destination. Days before, he had been unaware of it's existence, or, more precisely, it's actual location. He hadn't believed it could be so far away from its source. Now, the young man was as determined to see it as if he crossed the oceans solely for its visitation.
The Storyteller had been born into a wealthy family. He had suffered in his health, and a sickly child had, in turn, developed into a sickly man. In spite of, and because of, his illnesses he had determined that he would travel the world, looking for places that suited, and excited him. Illness affected his travels, but adventure was the central theme. For the storyteller was a true adventurer; not in the physical sense- illness had curtailed any possibility. However, such illness had sparked an inclination and opportunity for an ever increasing imagination, and a romanticism of what the great world had to offer.
He put his bottle back into his bag, picked himself up and continued on his way. His mind wandered to previous experiences on his travels: the cool sea breeze of a distant shore; of laying awake at night listening to the sounds of a jungle chorus; a craggy mountain path leading into the mist; the people he had come to know as friends. All of these things had taken place under a myriad of foreign skies and he was pleased to remember every one.
All these thoughts were quickly dispelled as he re-focused, once again, on the path ahead. He knew he could not be far away now. Soon he would be there. The young man wondered how many others had made such a pilgrimage. He also wondered about the route he had taken, one that was predetermined and offered no real opportunity for deviation. Coming out of a particularly tall thicket of trees, the path narrowed to its smallest width yet, before opening out into a clearing. The air felt fresher; light stole back the trees from shadow. A soft breeze blew through his hair. He had arrived.
Like many other European settlers, the storyteller had arrived in this strange land far away from home. He looked and behaved differently to the locals. He must have aroused quite a bit of curiosity, for he looked different to the other settlers as well. I dare say he also created a certain degree of suspicion amongst all of the island's inhabitants. Many native people were wary of European rule, of being controlled by foreign people, who had little understanding of the customs and sensitivities of those who had been here for many years. But, as you know, the storyteller was different, and the locals quickly came to realise this. He built his house far from other Europeans and quickly involved himself in native life. He thought like them, and fought for them, and many people grew to love him for it.
Making his way over to the small stone monument, in the centre of the opening, the young man considered what exactly the tribute would be. He walked up to the long white stone lying on the ground and traced his fingers over the stone's metallic plaque, reading to himself as his fingers move over each letter and word. Time had faded the colour of the stone and taken the gleam off the engraving, but this didn't matter.
108 years before, the storyteller had lost his delicate grip on life, in his 45th year. The night he died a group of locals had insisted on standing guard over him until daylight, thereafter carrying him up to his final resting place on top of the mountain. They carried their hero, friend and "Tusitala". He had championed their cause, and now, in death, they granted him his final wish. They buried him there on the 4th December 1894. He was dressed wearing his walking boots in case he should choose to, once more, walk in the nearby hills he so dearly loved.
The young man left the graveside and walked across to the far side of the opening, where it plunged over the side to the forest below. He saw a magnificent view of his surrounds. He looked off to the distance and saw a number of southern islands, and the vast ocean which encapsulated them all. As he gazed out to sea, he contemplated. He was saddened to think of those lives that are cut short when so much is still to be offered. Some time before, he had been told that a life is not to be measured by length, but rather by it's accomplishments and the people it has affected. These words gave him heart.
He looked upon life as one long adventure. Although he did not know his own future, he resolved to make the most of the time afforded to him; he hoped for the strength and grace to face the challenges that life would inevitably create. He knew that when life became difficult all things broken could be fixed, all things hurt could be healed, and all things lost could be found. He was pleased to be considering such things; he thought of them as important, and hoped that others thought similarly from time to time.
The young man moved back to the monument and re-read the inscription:
Under the wide and starry sky,Dig the grave and let me lie.
Glad did I live and gladly die,
And I laid me down with a will.
This be the verse you grave for me:
Here he lies where he longed to be;
Home is the sailor, home from sea,
And the hunter home from the hill.
He thought the words perfect for the storyteller, and the location he now stood in. He knew he would remember these words.
The young man wished he could have met the storyteller on the mountain all those years ago. He knew not what he would have said to him, but hoped they could have spoken candidly, and at length. Maybe they would have walked down the mountain together, back to the house at the bottom of the hill, and the storyteller would have read one of his stories to the villagers, on the verandah, as the shadows lengthened.
After they brought the Storyteller to the mountaintop , the local people had emotionally cut the path from the side of the mountain. They had given it the name "Road of the Loving Hearts". He endeavoured to make the most of his walk back down it. Even though he had made the exact same walk recently, he would look on it as a new adventure, one where every step provided new possibility.
He leaned on the faded white stone, took off his good shoe, and placed it in the bag with his other one. As he set off to go back down, he was sure that the stones would not feel so sharp, the air would not feel so heavy, and the trees would not seem so oppressive.
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