Chapter 13 — Waterfall
And thus begins Chapter Thirteen.
Now.
By this point,
Gun Man’s journey had reached its conclusion.
The council lowers their heads.
Not sadly.
Simply respectfully.
Because roads diverge.
That is their purpose.
Now.
The goodbyes were approaching.
And with them,
I assumed something.
A foolish thing.
The council immediately becomes concerned.
Children.
I thought the chaos was ending.
Gun Man was leaving.
The architect of questionable decisions.
The commander of the temporary pack.
Surely things would calm down now.
Surely only Beard Man and I remained.
Two peaceful travelers.
Two sensible men.
The council stares.
Children.
I was still there.
The Unbegun.
Chaos does not require accomplices.
Now.
Before departing,
Gun Man wanted a souvenir.
The council nods.
A noble goal.
And so we all set out to acquire one.
Now.
Gun Man purchased a jacket.
And a keychain.
A practical man.
A reasonable man.
Beard Man acquired approximately seven thousand trinkets.
The council applauds.
A collector.
A dangerous species.
Children.
By the end of it,
I was genuinely concerned he might exceed airline regulations.
Now.
I bought a jacket.
The council waits.
A good jacket.
A cool jacket.
A jacket I genuinely liked.
And yet.
something felt wrong.
The council listens.
The jacket wasn’t the souvenir.
Not really.
It felt like I was answering the wrong question.
Like the mountains were trying to tell me something and I kept picking up the wrong phone.
The council nods.
The crow was dissatisfied.
Now.
Eventually,
Gun Man departed.
The council applauds.
A final goodbye.
A final handshake.
A final chapter.
And just like that,
he was gone.
Another traveler continuing down another road.
Now.
Only Beard Man remained.
The council smiles.
A quieter energy.
A calmer energy.
Children.
The calm lasted approximately six minutes.
Because Beard Man had a goal.
The waterfall.
The council applauds.
And thus began the Fourth Pilgrimage.
Now.
Had I possessed any survival instincts whatsoever,
I might have remained at Valhalla.
But Beard Man was leaving soon.
And I knew something important.
If left alone long enough,
I would eventually find trouble.
Or trouble would find me.
The difference is mostly academic.
Thus,
I joined.
The council nods.
A terrible decision.
Now.
Children.
The Gurudwara had been five miles.
This?
This was suffering.
The council grows quiet.
Ten miles.
Ascending.
Straight into the mountains.
Every step another personal insult.
Every incline a hate crime against my lungs.
The council applauds.
A proper pilgrimage.
Now.
I will be honest.
Entire sections of this trek have vanished from memory.
Not because they were unimportant.
Because survival became my full time occupation.
Children.
At several points,
I genuinely believe the only reason I remained alive was because the universe had not yet finished making fun of me.
Now.
Somehow.
Against all odds.
We endured.
And along the way,
the mountain provided companions.
Travelers.
Strangers.
Temporary allies.
The council nods.
As mountains often do.
And eventually,
we acquired a guide.
The council leans forward.
A seven year old child.
The council erupts.
Children.
This tiny mountain goblin knew every path.
Every shortcut.
Every rock.
Every root.
Meanwhile I was fighting for my life against geography itself.
Now.
Eventually,
we arrived.
The waterfall.
The council falls silent.
Beautiful.
Massive.
Powerful.
The sort of place that reminds you how small you really are.
Now.
The others rushed into the water.
Swimming.
Laughing.
Celebrating.
I did not.
The council nods.
A wise choice.
Children.
I was one aggressive breeze away from collapsing.
Instead,
I stood by the bank.
Washing my feet.
Recovering.
Contemplating mortality.
Then I saw it.
The council immediately knows.
Correct.
A rock.
The council applauds.
Now.
Not just any rock.
An oval rock.
White.
Resting among countless black stones.
The council leans forward.
Children.
Crow instincts activated instantly.
Mine.
Relic detected.
Acquisition protocol engaged.
The rock entered my pocket.
And suddenly,
the search ended.
The council smiles.
The jacket wasn’t the souvenir.
The keychain wasn’t the souvenir.
The trinkets weren’t the souvenir.
This was.
A simple stone.
A memory disguised as geology.
Now.
My favorite memory of the day wasn’t the waterfall.
Nor the relic.
Nor the mountain.
It was the guide.
The council already suspects disaster.
Correct.
At one point,
I attempted to climb a particularly stubborn rock.
The seven year old guide arrived to assist.
The council applauds.
A noble child.
Now.
Children.
I was approximately three times his size.
This did not deter him.
He positioned himself behind me.
Placed both hands against my back.
And pushed.
The council erupts.
Nothing happened.
He pushed harder.
I remained exactly where I was.
The mountain remained unconcerned.
Gravity remained victorious.
“Boost me!” I shouted.
“I’m trying!” he shouted back.
The council collapses.
Children.
The image of this tiny mountain warrior attempting to launch me upward through sheer determination remains one of my favorite memories from the entire trip.
Now.
Eventually,
the climb ended.
The waterfall remained behind.
The relic rested safely in my pocket.
And we began the descent.
The council groans.
Because descending is simply suffering wearing a different hat.
One serving of misery later,
we returned.
Back to Valhalla.
Back to safety.
Back to beds.
Back to civilization.
The council smiles.
And just like that,
the final day arrived.
Thus concludes Chapter Thirteen.
The Waterfall.
The Relic.
The Seven Year Old Mountain Goblin.
And the day the mountains finally surrendered a souvenir worthy of remembrance.
The last day before departure.
The last sunset before the road turned homeward.
And children.
The road home is often stranger than the road there.
