Moving Mountains

by Elodie Foray

(written in response to a Writing Lesson Pictures prompt - pictures of mountains)

The rabbits had met that morning, early, when the mist still held tightly to the earth. They had met and agreed that the mountain has seemed in good spirits yesterday, so today would have to be the day.

When it came to electing who was to actually perform the task, no one had seemed particularly eager, until one little black rabbit had broken the reluctant silence by arriving late and then, as though it was no issue at all, electing himself. Before receiving an answer, he had then promptly bounded off again in the opposite direction to the mountain.

The mountain, of course, had heard everything, although not necessarily paid attention to all of it. Most of the creatures, especially those who slept during the night, assumed that was what the mountain did. But mountains never sleep. How can you, when there is always the noise of the foxes, always with so much to say, or the feeling of the beetles scuttling across your moss and earth and rocks? These were all things she oversaw, all things that it was her responsibility to take care of. A mother only sleeps when her children do, and the mountain’s children never sleep.

So, the mountain wasn’t surprised when a small voice called out to her. The little black rabbit had found a hill some miles away from the mountain. He has thought it would be easier and more polite to talk like this, facing the great mound in its entirety, from the top of a smaller, humbler hill.

“Good morning!” called the rabbit. The mountain said nothing. A reluctant mother, too ancient to care about the whims of every tiny creature (and to her, they were all tiny) that called her body home. The rabbit was not fazed – he was used to not being listened to. Other rabbits often ignored him; he was too eager, too excited and to talk to him was like trying to keep up with a babbling stream.             

“We’ve got something we’d like to ask you, if you wouldn’t mind listening? We had a meeting this morning, well actually, we’ve had a lot of meetings,” the rabbit began to tie himself in knots made of words, “but the one this morning, well, I don’t know how it started because I was late, I didn’t mean to be it’s just that – ”

“I know” interrupted the mountain, “I know that you are here to ask me to move. I know your kind have talked on this for a long time and I know you were late because you stumbled upon a  blackberry patch and became ensnared by its’ spiteful branches.”

The little black rabbit was in awe as well as utterly delighted. What a beautiful and powerful place to call home.

“Don’t be too angry with the brambles-” he began.

“I’m not,” answered the mountain, “it has every right to be frustrated with you – you ought to have asked before taking one of its berries.”

The rabbit looked a little downtrodden, “I know, I’m sorry. They just looked so delicious!”

"It is a rather lovely patch” conceded the mountain, softening as she heard the rabbit’s clover-sized heart beat faster and its small paws grip the earth tighter. He may have been standing on the hill, but she could sense her children for miles.

"You’re afraid” she said.

“I am.” he answered.

“Of me?” she asked. It was unusual for her to ask anything, but that was the one thing she could not know; what her children thought.

“No, not of you. You are home. But I am afraid. We’re all afraid of the dangers beyond you. The dangers we can see approaching; the choking plumes of black smoke, the screaming monsters that have ravaged your sisters, stripping her bare and killing her children. We are very afraid.”

The mountain’s own heart felt this fear. She had seen the destruction and had felt the fear, and not knowing what to do with such a novel and perplexing emotion had tried to bury it beneath her own bones.

“And you ask me to move? Why not just run yourselves?”

“You’re our mother” the rabbit simply replied.

For a moment, there was silence. The ants on the mountain listened with bated breath. Even the foxes stopped talking. The mountain was in deep thought, so deep within herself that she no longer felt the worms blindly grope across her earthy muscles, or the wind stroke her many-textured skin.

The little black rabbit waited patiently, unusually for him.

The mountain continued to sink to where there was only the silence of stone and faintly in the distance of herself, the feather-light quiver of the little rabbit’s heart. She imagined no longer hearing or seeing or feeling the creatures that called her home, that found comfort and shelter, made families, died, and were born again.

It was a very quiet life.

She thought of her sisters, and of especially of those who lived such quiet lives now.

Finally, the great mass groaned and the birds taking residence in her trees flew away in mild confusion.

“Very well.”

The rabbit’s eyes lit up. “Come on then!” he said, filled with excitement. This irked the mountain,

“This isn’t easy,” she grumbled.

“You’re just out of practice” encouraged the rabbit, bounding up and down, so light on his feet and impatient to leave. He had been very patient, after all.

“Perhaps you should try doing what I have done, perhaps you should try standing still for thousands of years. Not just standing still but reaching down. And then when asked to move, by a small black rabbit, see how out of practise with it you are.”

The rabbit laughed, which to ears that aren’t those of rabbit sounded quite unpleasant. But the mountain knew it to be a sound of joy. It knew all the sounds of its great mass. And it would protect every one of them, for as long as it could.