The Whispering Mountain

Introduction

They hadn’t planned to meet in the dark, this unlikely gathering of backpackers, climbers, and adventurers, their packs heavy with more questions than supplies. Two young mountaineers. A quiet pair of botanists. A student carrying her grandmother’s compass.

None of them meant to find each other. But they did, lost on their paths, their trails erased by desert wind and fading light. Their journeys crossed at the foot of an ancient baobab, its silhouette rising like a wise old sentinel against the fading sky, with the dark shapes of distant mountains at the horizon.

They sat around a small crackling fire, arguing about how they had gotten lost, and whether it was wiser to turn back or press forward. Above them, the night bloomed with the breath of the Adansonia flower, the wild and fragrant blossom of the baobab tree, glowing faintly in the dark like a signal to those searching for direction.

When their arguments died down, a silence settled over the fire. In that hush, they heard a low hum rising from the earth itself. At first, they thought it was wind, or perhaps a memory. Or it could be just one of the desert’s strange tricks.

But the hum deepened. Rhythmic. Musical. And then it moved. A presence emerged from the dark.

It was Ambrosius.

His shape, hardly visible in the flickering firelight, seemed ancient and new. With the swelling of his hum came the scent of wild honey, thick and golden. His eyes shimmered like polished obsidian, and though he bore the shape of a bumblebee, he was something more. Not quite insect. Not quite human. Timeless.

His hum became his voice, deep, warm, and as old as the soil, rumbling like the earth preparing to speak.

Ambrosius had come to the tree for the night bloom of the Adansonia. Its nectar was a rare delicacy, meant only for those who knew how to wait and harvest with reverence. But what he found instead was a circle of lost wanderers stranded at the edge of something they could not name.

He stepped forward slowly.

“You’ve wandered far,” he said, his voice smooth and heavy with meaning. “And perhaps you’ve found each other for a reason. I overheard your talk, and I had to come down. There is a story I know, an old one, that may help you see what’s ahead.” He paused.

“It begins far from here but lives in every climb, in every step into shadow, every quiet voice that dares to speak against fear. Would you like me to share it with you?”

The fire cracked. Someone made space in the circle.

The wind held its breath.

“It is the story of the explorer named Arun… and his story of The Whispering Mountain,” said Ambrosius.

The Whispering Mountain

In a valley partially wrapped in mist and shadow, a grim and ancient mountain loomed, dark and jagged just outside the valley village. For the villagers its named is Schattenschwur, as they had forgotten its real name. Schattenschwur or “ the Oath of Shadow” was its nickname and a name whispered with fear. The villagers believed the Mountain was cursed, swallowing the unfortunate travellers who dared climb its slopes on their way to reach its magnificent peak above the clouded sky. Some said the forest on its flanks was alive, weaving endless paths to confuse travellers. Others told of howling winds that clawed at the mind, pulling the unwary to their doom.

To Arun, the young shepherd who lived at the valley’s edge, Schattenschwur was not just a mountain. It was his challenged companion that was always present when he travelled with his sheep. Most times it hemmed him in, casting its long shadow over his path, over his thoughts, over his dreams. Other times it whispered stories by night of long forgotten tails.

Arun was a wanderer, a dreamer and a traveller with his flock of sheep, Always looking out for new adventures and new paths to travel in a the narrow valley that almost felt like a trap to him. Although not every day was the same: waking at dawn, gathering his flock, leading them to graze, and returning to the small cottage that he had inherited from his parents, some days and especially some nights where different to Arun. These occasionally day’s where his lucky days and the nights outside his escape from dreams. The villagers said that Arun was a lucky one. “A fine house to come home to, patch of land and all the sheep in healthy condition. Old Marta, his nabour who has been there all his life often reminded him how lucky he was. But Arun seldom felt lucky, only when under the stars with his sheep, when he could hear the whispers of the mountain calling.

His heart burned with restless longing when he was at his house. At night, while the villagers slept peacefully, Arun would lie awake, staring through his small window at the dark outside, trying to find a glimpse of the stars or of Schattenschwur. He dreamed of what might lie beyond it: of distant lands, and vast skies, of golden cities where towers touched the stars, and roaring rivers that carried adventurers to the shores of the world.

But every morning, as the sheep bleated for their breakfast, Arun’s dreams felt farther away. The villagers didn’t understand him. “A shepherd’s place is with his flock in the valley,” they said. “The mountain or what lay beyond isn’t for us.” And Arun, with his sharp wit and sharper tongue, would reply, “It’s not like the sheep care where I am as long as they’re fed.”
His jokes hid his frustration. The truth was, the valley felt to small for Arun, its familiar rhythms through the Vally squeezing him tighter each day. The villagers’ fears of the Mountain fed their doubts and triggered Aron’s wanderlust. What if Schattenschwur was not cursed? What if I can explore its paths? Arun wanted to leave, to see what lay beyond, but the words of the other villages of the valley held him back. Until the night that everything changed.

That night was a cold, restless night, and the wind rattled Arun’s shutters as if trying to get in. He had finished tending the sheep and was sitting by his tiny fire, poking at the embers with his walking staff. Suddenly, a sound cut through the wind—a voice or rather a whisper, faint as a sigh.
“I am what you believe me to be,” it whispered.
Arun rembered these whispers, he heart the before while he hurtherd his sheep by night under the stars. His heart pounded as he glanced toward the window. The voice seemed to come from the Mountain itself. “Great,” he muttered, gripping his staff. “Now the rocks are really talking to me. What’s next, the sheep giving life advice?”

But the whisperes stayed with him, its words weaving into his thoughts. Arun sat long into the night, staring at the Mountain’s dark silhouette. “What if…” he whispered to himself, “…what if it’s not cursed? What if it’s just… a mountain?” What if I, Arun, can discover Schattenschwur step by step.
The idea lit a spark in him, a spark strong enough to push back the doubts of the valley villagers. Before dawn, Arun packed a small satchel with bread and cheese, grabbed his staff, and set off toward the Mountain trails.

The Mountain was no gentle giant. Its forest was dense, the air thick and still, as if it were holding its breath. Shadows danced between the trees, and Arun’s path crumbled beneath his feet. He laughed nervously. “Well, that’s rude,” he said aloud, steadying himself. “I’m not even halfway up, and you’re already trying to scare me off. You’re going to have to try harder than that.” I’m Arun, and I will discover you by every step”.

As he climbed higher, the shadows moved closer, stretching long fingers as sharp sheets toward him. Arun felt fear creeping in, whispering in his ear. What if the stories are true? What if I never find my way back?
He gripped his staff tightly and whispered, I’m Arun, and I will discover you by every step “You’re stories and cary ledges are only as strong as my fear is deep. I’ve faced scarier things, I’m Arun, and I will discover you by every step”.

After long hours climbing up whispering his words the shadows seemed to pull back, their edges fraying like torn fabric. Arun’s laughter grew bolder. “Is that all you’ve got?” he called to the Mountain. “Honestly, you’re less terrifying and more… dramatic.”

The higher Arun climbed, the more the Mountain revealed its secrets. He found hidden paths carved into the rock as if forgotten hands had built them long ago. Strange words were etched into the stone—Mutfels, one read. “Courage is found only when there’s no way back.”
“Well, that’s comforting,” Arun muttered, rolling his eyes. “No pressure or anything.”
But the words rang true as the path behind had crumbled and faded, leaving him no choice but to move forward. Arun’s words, his smile, clever jokes carried him onward, filling the silence and keeping fear at bay. “If I survive this,” he told a curious squirrel that watched him from a branch, “I’m naming a trail after you. The Squirrel Shortcut.”
The Mountain pushed back at every turn, but Arun kept going. He climbed for hours until, at last, the summit broke before him like the crest of a wave.

At the top, the world opened wide. The sun spilt across the valley below, turning the grey mist into a sea of gold. The shadows that had seemed so alive now looked small, their edges soft in the morning light.

Arun leaned on his staff, breathing hard, and let out a laugh that echoed across the peaks. “That’s it?” he said, grinning. “All that fuss, and you’re just a big pile of rocks.”
He stood there long, letting the wind brush against his face. The mountain was still grim and jagged but no longer frightened him. Arun realised something he hadn’t seen before: Schattenschwur had never been cursed. It wasn’t haunted and didn’t hold the souls of the lost. It had only ever reflected the fears of the villagers and the shadows inside him—his doubts and disbelief that the valley was all they deserved. “It’s not you,” he said softly, tapping the ground with his staff. “It’s me.”

As Arun stood at the summit, the wind tugged at his clothes and whispered through the jagged rocks. Below him stretched the valley, cradled by the shadows of the once-feared mountain. He felt weightless, as though the fears he’d carried on his climb had slipped away, leaving only clarity. Then, something caught his eye—a glint of green, faint but bright against the cold grey of the rocks.

Nestled in a crevice were clusters of plants he’d never seen before. Their delicate leaves shimmered, translucent and almost glowing as if the mountain had breathed life into them. Arun knelt and plucked a leaf, feeling its cool, waxy surface. When he crushed it between his fingers, a scent was clean, sharp, and vibrant, like a burst of spring air after the rain.
“What are you?” Arun murmured, tucking a few of the leaves into his pouch. He lingered a moment longer, letting the wind tug at his hair before turning to descend. The mountain had not only shown him its shadows but also its secrets.

When Arun returned to the valley, the villagers were waiting, their faces pale with equal parts dread and disbelief. No one spoke as he approached, his staff tapping against the cobblestones. It wasn’t until he stood in the village square that the whispers began.
“You climbed Schattenschwur?”
“Have you reached the summit?” What did you see?
“How was your way up, with trail did you follow? Is it true you’re in one piece, not injured?”

Arun let the questions wash over him. Then, with a grin that danced on the edge of mischief, he raised his staff and said, “Of course, I’m in one piece, and what I saw from the top was amazing. Schattenschwur isn’t haunted, just dramatic. A bit moody, if you ask me. But in the end, it’s just a moody mountain, but a mountain nonetheless.

Gasps rippled through the villagers, and then came more questions, which were louder this time. “But what about the shadows? What about cursed souls and the whispering? What did you find up there?”
Arun reached into his pouch and held up the strange leaves. “I found these near the summit. I don’t know what they are, but I feel they’re something special.”

The village healer, Marta, stepped forward, her sharp eyes narrowing as she inspected the leaves. Slowly, her expression softened into wonder. “These… Arun, do you know what you’ve found?” she asked, her voice trembling.
Arun shrugged. “I was hoping you could tell me.”
Marta’s hands trembled as she held the leaves to her nose. “These are kaltha leaves,” she whispered. “I’ve only ever read about them in the old texts. They’re said to cure fevers, heal wounds, and even bring strength back to the weak. They’re rarer than gold.”
A hushed silence fell over the crowd. Then, someone whispered, “The mountain isn’t cursed… it’s a treasure.”

In the days that followed, Arun’s story spread like wildfire, and Arun’s expedition was the talk of the town. Once bound by fear, the villagers began to see Schattenschwur in a new light. Where they once saw shadows, they now saw possibilities.

Arun led small groups up the mountain, teaching them the hidden paths he had discovered. At first, they trembled at every sound, their hands clutching their staffs as tightly as their fear. But with Arun leading the way, joking about the “melodramatic squirrel trail” or the “grumpy rock that tripped him,” their laughter began rising beyond fear and enjoyed their walks to the summit.

They began to understand when they reached the summit and saw the valley bathed in sunlight. The mountain had never been their enemy. It had simply mirrored their own doubts. Arun’s climb was more than a feat of courage—it was proof that the stories they had told themselves.

It wasn’t just Arun’s words that gave them courage. It was his actions and their steps all along the way. The fears that had held them captive were no match for the strength they carried them uphill. Arun had faced the very thing they feared most and returned, not broken but more vigorous, with a grin and treasures in his hands. His bravery showed them that fear is to be conquered by bravery and curiosity, and his discovery of the kaltha leaves proved that with every step you take, uphill rewards will await those who dared to look beyond their shadows.

The village began changing. Marta, the healer, tested the kaltha leaves and found that they were even more potent than the ancient textbooks described. They healed wounds in half the time and relieved those suffering from sickness. Arun and the villagers began harvesting the plants carefully, ensuring the flowers could bloom abundantly.

The good news of the miraculous leaves spread beyond the valley, bringing traders from distant lands. For the first time, the village, once isolated and fearful, became a bustling place of trade. The villagers who had once cowered in the shadows of Schattenschwur now stood tall, proud of their newfound connection to the mountain.

And Arun? He became more than just a shepherd. He became a guide, a teacher, and a leader. He taught others how to navigate the mountain and harvest and care for the renewal of leaves. Once his shield against the shadows, his laughter became his trade and beacon for others; that courage is not the absence of fear but the step moving forward despite it.

One day, as Arun stood once more at the summit, watching the sun spill golden light over the valley, he smiled. He grasped that the mountain hadn’t changed at all. It was still jagged, grim, moody and imposing. But it no longer nurtured fear for him or the villagers. Schattenschwur had become the symbol of the village and the prosperous presence in their lives. Arun tapped his staff against the ground and chuckled. “You’ve still got your shadows,” he said to the mountain, “but we’ve got our light. And we’re not afraid of you anymore.”

And in doing so, the village became vivid, known for its katha leaves, and prosperous for its villagers. Arun, the shepherd who had once bravely followed his adventurous imagination and walked past the shadows of fear, now lived from the lights of his discovery.

A borderless Story by Andric van Es