Love Letters to the Secretly Admired: To The Mountain Man

Transcript

To the gentle shepherd of the mountain fog. Since long before I arrived in this place, voices have echoed here. This sea-bound town sees visitors from all corners of the earth.

A constant stream of storytellers flows in and out, seeking their fortunes by trading in the sights and sensibilities of the world. Some with voices pitched high and clear as Gabriel's horn, and still others that seem to rumble the very earth on which they stand. Each is a welcome but brief distraction from the mundanities of daily life.

My unfortunate mind has a habit of becoming bored and complacent, drifting from place to place in a half-hearted attempt to stir my soul and capture my fantasies. When I first arrived here, I settled in a little side street, content to spend my days hanging over a windowsill, observing the goings-on, and my nights in an exhausting, suffocating, cloud-like haze of twisted, sweat-damp sheets, voyeuristically musing on the days and nights of these traveling storytellers, mapping their words across my skin, over and over, until my brain is too much of soup to take in anything but the words already carved into me. It's fitting, then, that when I first truly heard your call, the sun was high, the sky was clear, and my windows happened to be open.

I was making a valiant effort to clear dust and cobwebs from the beautiful, high-arched ceilings of my home, muttering to myself about something or other. I'd been spinning a single record for days and days, but it picked the exact moment you began your story to skip right from the turntable. I could clearly hear a new voice move through the echoing silence like a knife through butter.

I must admit, if only to you, that I stopped in my tracks. Abandoning all thoughts of my previous task, I sidled up against the curtains and peeked around the window's edge to listen to your tale. Your audience pressed in and around you so tightly, you were completely invisible to me from the fringes, but the day passed easily as I stood by that window, eyes closed, hands squeezed tight around my broomstick, as I took in your every word, feeling as though I could scarcely let out a breath until night fell and the air became quiet.

I suppose, since I'm writing you this letter anyway, that I should be transparent. That night, I tossed and turned in my bed, plagued by thoughts of how it must feel to stand at your innermost circle of admirers, to have your undivided attention, your complete adoration, even to hear your stories whispered breathlessly under cover of night. My skin seemed to constantly smolder, even as I felt a cold, thrilling shiver caress my spine every time I reminisced over thoughts of a terrible and persistent evil creeping in the dark.

I marveled at myself, afraid of the ever-encroaching sensation that the world, or at least my part of it, had tilted on its axis purely at your behest. I saw myself differently, previously been so sure of my own fortitude, my own ability to take control of anything in my path, just as I'd done too many times to count. And yet, it had been the moment in which you exerted this all-encompassing, thunderous power, seemed to reach out and wrap velvet fingers around my throat, and propelled my sneaky, sinful orgasms.

Simply imagining your roughly whispered demands filling my ears was enough to bring each wave pulsing out of my body like a flood, the entire world devoid of sound except the crashing of the sea and my hushed, prayerful begging, please, please, I need it. I found my imagination buoyed by tales of determined and capable pirates broadening and breaching untouchable horizons that felt for a moment like I might be able to reach into the sky and graze them with my fingers. As it was, all I could do was move within my place in the world, full to bursting with consideration.

What did it mean that I was thrilled to my very soul at your whispers of wanton cruelty? Why might your penchant for rich, intense, all-consuming romance cause my heart to thump erratically, my fingers to shake, my cheeks to ripen red? Perhaps most importantly to me, which of those men are you, really? Sorry, I'm rambling.

Anyway, I kept an ear out every day, listening intently to the other storytellers as they meandered in and out of the town's attention. Each evening I hid in the dark corners of my balcony, reminiscing and retelling as often as I could stand to pass the time. In the days right before you returned, I'd begun to wonder if perhaps you'd made your way permanently elsewhere, and this town and its fountain were just rapidly fading memories.

When next I heard your voice, it almost didn't feel real. The sun was high and the air was hazy, thick with heat and the constant hum of people just milling around, talking to each other. I'd ventured out of my home that day, circling the central bazaar like an irritable vulture, desperate for something, anything, to break through the impressively weighty and yet understimulating atmosphere.

I was three-quarters of the way through my return circle, shuffling under my hood between people and conversations, when I noticed silence descend and many heads turn in the direction of the fountain. As the murmurs swelled and drilled against my ears, I could hear that same rumbling, rolling timber that occupied my dreams on so many moonlit nights. Before I even thought about it, I felt myself turn and migrate.

Just this once, I crept in close to lean gently against the outermost of your captivated audience, craning to get closer to this enchanting, charming man who could play holy host to stories of distant planets, dark and terrifying strangers, and even creatures from ancient myth. I stood there for hours, my hands pressed together in front of me so tightly they were cramping, afraid I'd reach for you without being able to stop myself otherwise. And there you were, standing with your hair piled high on your head and a steaming cup set against the edge as you stood knee-deep in that fountain, letting the splashing, rolling water play accompaniment to one of your coiling, complicated tales of love, a personal guilty pleasure.

This time, though, as they're reading straight into my thoughts, these characters were smoky and raw, utterly blind to the world and their focus on each other. Every word felt almost real as they conversed and moved with each other, and I felt some obscure anticipation burn like venom under my skin as I listened to the spirit of the land itself declare eternal devotion I'd come to crave in my dreams. Your eyes were heavy and focused, sweeping across our faces as you let that devilish, knowing smile play across your lips.

You had us, all of us, in your grasp, and you knew it. And that had happened as I feared. Without warning, I was released from my suspension and my feet began tapping nimbly through the small gaps in the craft until I stood breathless just off to one side of your main stage.

You finished your tale, and with a gravely sigh, you turned. As your eyes met mine, you smiled, mischievous and genuine, self-satisfied at a job well done, but nonetheless slightly worn with the effort. I remember feeling as though that look between us lasted minutes or even hours, though it couldn't have been more than a second or two.

Just as nimbly as it came, the moment broke, and I became aware of how unearthly still the entire town seemed. The tightness in my chest came back unbearably, and I slithered back through the crowd as quickly as I could to watch with rapt attention from my usual perch as you waved goodbye to the masses and promised your return. Whether you remember that moment or thought about it ever again, I can't say.

I imagine that you, much like the people with whom I share this place, could hardly be bothered to notice such a trivial, predictable moment. I heard you're coming back again, though, from some distant place where they say humans really can reach the furthest stars. What a thrill it is to think that maybe I'll even build the courage to stand with the usual crowd under the sun again, with a booming heart in the balcony, bloody scabs.