My Own Mountain Of Madness

21 12 2011

I found THE book. I hiked to the peaks of Twofoot mountain, deep in the heart of Backwanda Yardusticus. (A harsh land somewhere in upstate New York.) The journey was treacherous.  We established our base camp at thirteen inches, on the flattest ground we could find. After a brief incursion from the native population of fearsome polar-dog-beasts, our food supply was in shambles. One of them made off with my slipper and the youngest of our group had an eye chewed out. Fortunately it was on a stuffed otter. The beasts were unable to differentiate between living and plush flesh. A fact that  probably saved our lives.

We managed to regroup and press on. It was late in the fourteenth day of our quest that we arrived at the top. The Twofoot peak was magnificent. We basked in the warm sun as it greeted our faces, so hidden those past few days by unforgiving clouds and the angry biting of the mountain winds.

We had set off on this journey driven by the promise of a manuscript locked away in a vault within a temple at the very top of the mountain. The pages were rumored to be untouched. The ink was reportedly crafted of diatomaceous earth and the sweat of angels. Virgin words never before looked upon, not even by the author himself, a blind man from the small village of Pleasant Park in the Barony’s of New Jersey.

We arrived just past sundown on the forty-seventh day. We found the temple, an old Mongolian design likely brought over on the backs of war-jaguars turned into beasts of burden after the Franco-Mongol war of 1812. The front door was bashed to pieces and the chest was easy to find, its ancient hiding place having been smashed to bits long ago. Remnants of a great battle lay strewn about the room. Dead men now nothing but frozen bone, pieces of wood covering nearly every inch of the floor. Broken weapons, burned altars. Whatever happened there so long ago…was madness.

I knelt, my companions at my side – the Vixen with a silken cloth unrolled beside her, ready to place the precious parchments upon.

I removed the lid. And there it was.

The paper was yellow and stained with what could only be the Java based holy water the monks who resided here were rumored to drink. The nectar of the great Stag who carried down from the heavens one day, a mighty bean. From it, the Black Ambrosia, The Juice of Divinity was brewed. The preparatory drink altar remained in tact nearby. Marble cylinders marked with strange words.



Sweet And Lo.


I moved with haste. I grabbed the scrolls and handed them to the Vixen. She wrapped them with quickly and secured them safely into her pack. We rounded up the last two members of our party and we fled from that place. We ran down the mountain side. We didn’t stop until morning.

When finally we arrived to safety at our first camp near the base of the mountain, (Thirteen inches below base) we unraveled the silk and flattened the pages out. Tears filled our eyes, pain our bodies and a mix of indigestion and saliva wallowed up in our throats. We realized why it still remained in the temple. The text was illegible. Entirely unreadable. The Vixen turned to me in tears and said.

“Blind men don’t know how to write.”

So I went to Amazon and bought Ringworld by Larry Niven. I was feeling in the mood for Sci Fi. Oh and, it’s a lot better than that blind guys rubbish.

Thanks all.




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