The City of the Gods
Snowcapped peaks rose gradually over the horizon as the forested hills of the old valley fell away at our sides. Our destination was finally – thank the Gods, finally – in sight. None of us said anything aloud at the spectacle of those glistening mountains came into view. Not even the insufferably talkative Spaniard who’d hardly shut his lips when he slept. We made the trip in silence, eyes transfixed, pulled forward by some ethereal attraction. There had not been a single songbird on our journey – locusts, buzzing, the shrill cries of insects and the whining of crickets – but I swear, when we descended from the valley and made our way north, the air was filled with an orchestra of songbirds. Nature herself seemed to be beckoning us, soothing our aches and scratches, easing our worries away.
“It’s a utopia,” they’d said “And not like in those old novels where everything perfect came at a price, where the lesson was that a perfect place was impossible, where all the promises fell short and where grim reality washed it all away. It’s real,” they’d said, “You won’t believe it until you see it. But it’s more real than anything else in this world,” they’d said.
Listening to this birds that morning, watching those peaks get closer and closer, feeling the warm morning sun on my back – I was starting to believe it.
The Spaniard whistled at me. “What’s the first thing you’re going to do when we get to the city, cabrón? What’s a man like you going to do when he gets a taste of la Ciudad de los Dioses, huh?”
I didn’t take my eyes off the horizon. “Getting as far away from you as possible would be a start.” I owed him; that’s what I told myself. The debt was the only reason we traveled together. One week prior he’d found me on the trail; freezing, half-starved and beset with a vomiting sickness wrought from bad water I lay at Death’s door. Taking from his own meager supply the Spaniard had given me fire, clean water and food which settled my gut. He stayed with me until I felt well enough to travel and finally insisted on travelling with me.
The Spaniard laughed from his belly and launched into a list of deeds undone which he planned to correct. It appeared the spectacle of the mountain before us had worn off since he resumed his babbling. I tuned him out. It was a skill I’d honed of the past few days. Despite the cacophonous persistence of birds and insects to drown him out, the constant cadence of The Spaniards voice was always buzzing in the background.
For all the talking he did, the man never told me his name. Nor did he ever ask where I was travelling or reveal his own destination. Instead he jabbered incessantly in a language I only half understood, hurling insults and abuse and testing me at every turn; all of it with a wide grin upon his face. I came to accept him as yet another trial of my journey; a hair-shirt for my patience. He treated it as yet another joke, but in all seriousness I wanted to be free of his presence nearly as much as I yearned to find la Ciudad de los Dioses, as he called it. The City of the Gods.
The sun was low when we reached the foot of the mountain. We stared upwards at what was surely our final climb. The trail ahead was steep and laden with loose stone and precarious switchbacks. It was not the kind of path to navigate by night. Surely it was in our best interest to make camp and wait until morning, but far up the ridge I could see where natural stone patterns gave way to man-made constructs; the occasional stair or small bridge spanning an impassible gap. The sight carried me forward despite the danger. My legs burned from the hike and my chest ached from lack of breath, I sensed the Spaniard must be feeling similar pangs as the sound of his voice had finally relented. Higher still we climbed into the clouds and the valley below disappeared into the dense fog while the starry sky opened above us.
There in the moonlight I first set eyes upon the City of the Gods. We stood upon a ridge, the Spaniard and I, surrounding a hidden basin on the mountainside. The interior slopes were stepped and cultivated. The lights of small homes dotted the outskirts of the sprawling city below us. Lights shown and music danced its way to our ears high up on the ridge, exotic smells of spiced meats and sweet fruits wound their way up the slope and pulled at my nostrils, and voices echoed out of the bowl like a stage play in a grand amphitheater. Homes and buildings of wood and stone stood two and three stories tall surrounded by streets winding outward from a city center marketplace from whence the voices and music poured forth.
The Spaniard clapped me on the back, “Come, friend,” he said, “The gods await.” and he set out toward the city. It was the first time since meeting he had addressed me without pejoratives.
I hiked my pack up onto my shoulders and tightened the straps. Giving little thought to the pain in my legs nor the ache in my lungs, I followed in The Spaniards footsteps, descending almost effortlessly into the bustling township below.
I did not know what to expect from the City, but I hadn’t envisioned anything so quaint. There were no massive statues, no grand fortress or castles nor delicate glass towers reaching for the sky. There was no grand temple at which the citizenry would worship or blossoming fountains of gold and wine. Even those few buildings with the audacity to stand taller than those surrounding them bore an air of pragmatism rather than décor; square and functional constructed of humble stucco and stone. A comforting breeze lifted woolen draperies colored with modest dyes in the open windows and doorways revealing the warm glow of fires within.
The people were of similar countenance. Those few out on the streets so late in the night, moved about with an easy deliberation; gliding from place to place without the stress and frenzy of the cities I was used to. Rustic and beautiful, their sun-kissed bodies clad in woolen shifts and robes, they neither welcomed nor ignored our presence. My stares were met with nods, smiles, or brief greetings and despite our foreign appearance; our hiking gear, modern tools, and unclean faces, it was as though we were expected to be among them, a part of the city, a foregone conclusion.
I looked at my hands, soiled and broken by the journey. I suddenly feared to touch anything lest my presence break the preternatural spell which sure blessed this pristine place. The Spaniard though, seemed more at home. He spotted a group of men and women washing laundry in a natural spring by the wayside. He approached without pretense and began to wash his hands in the crystal clear pool. Moments later he had removed his shirt and then his pants, wading into the pool as naked as the day he was born.
I stood dumbfounded as he proceeded to bathe, washing away the dirt and grime of the trail. He beckoned to me to join him and for a time I could not move, so paralyzed was I by this imposition. I waited in astonishment for the laborers by the pool to admonish him for his arrogance and immodesty; but no such objection came. Instead he finished bathing and was met by a young woman presenting him with fresh clothing and sandals.
The Spaniard was a man transformed. He stood before me wringing the wet from his long hair smiling. “Wash yourself,” he said, “be cleansed of your ordeal.”
I took a step toward the pool, unable to pull my eyes from him. Twice now he had addressed me without degrading me. I only now recounted how little the formerly talkative Spaniard had spoken since we arrived in the city. It occurred to me that our meeting on the trail was perhaps no mere happenstance.
I removed my clothing, gingerly. My joints ached and my muscles protested each and every movement. But slowly, I managed to strip myself bare and stepped into the spring. I waded in to the depth of my knees and was suddenly overcome by an existential weight that drove me beneath the surface. My body collapsed into the icy mountain pool and I felt my limbs growing numb beginning at my extremities and creeping inward to my heart.
My vision grew darker from the edges and in that darkness I saw my life; my job, my house, my bills and obligations. And the darkness consumed them. I saw my reckless youth, my anxious thirties, my unsettled, wandering middle-age; the darkness took them. My friends, family, wife, children, all those whom I’ve known and loved appeared before my sight momentarily. I reached out to them, called to them; but they, too, were washed in blackness. I saw hopes, dreams, memories and the darkest of nightmares dissolve before my eyes.
I felt a wash of panic as the cold consumed me and I sank; dying there in those cleansing waters. Then, just as the numbness reached my chest, there was light, heat. The warmth of bodies, of human contact, hands lifting me from the water; their life rushing into my freezing flesh.
My face broke the surface and my eyes opened on a trio of people, two men and woman, helping me to my feet. They smiled kind and welcoming smiles and I returned the gesture. I could feel their energy coursing through me. The aches and pains of my journey had fallen away, as had regrets and fears, hesitance and anxiety. My body was healed and my mind restored. I felt new and whole.
On the cobbled stone beyond the waters the Spaniard stood waiting patiently with a set of fresh, new clothing in his outstretched arms. I took the garments and put them on.
“How do you feel?” He asked.
“I…” I stuttered, “Wonderful. How did… I don’t understand.”
“Walk with me.”
I followed. My feet leaving warm, wet footprints on the stones behind us. “You knew I was coming.” I tested.
“No.” he stated frankly. His voice was cool and calm, his accent all but faded entirely, “But I was tasked to find you.”
“By whom?”
The Spaniard didn’t answer but carried on walking toward the city center. “It is up to you to find your place here. No one will tell you want to do, no one will ask of you any favors, nor demand any service.” He gestured to the market surrounding us.
I saw booths and wagons bearing loads of fruits, vegetables, breads, clothing, meats and sundries. There was lively, if not joyous conversation, but absent was the clanking of coin or the rustle of cash. Goods were traded for goods voluntarily. There were no complaints, no conflicts. I spotted one woman pointing out a hole in her frock. The cloth merchant offered her a new one and she disrobed on the spot; trading old for new. He thanked her.
“As long as you’ve something to give, you will never know want. For as long as you’re willing to contribute, you are absolved of need.” He turned to face me placing a hand on my shoulder, “You have earned this place. Allow it to embrace you.” The Spaniard released me and walked away, leaving me alone in the market surrounded by strangers.
I didn’t see The Spaniard again for a long time. I found a place for myself aiding with the livestock; goats which hopped about the steppes on the outskirts of the city. The herdsman housed me in his own small home for a time until together we constructed a one-room living space for my own. I ate, I drank, I made acquaintances and developed relationships.
I tried to count the days spent there in the City of the Gods, a city lacking any colloquial name, but in time they began to blur together. I found that no matter how hard I worked, my muscles never grew tired. My body never craved sleep or rest, relaxation became a recreation in its’ own right. I had no need of rest, and so could indulge entirely in the act of leisure for its’ own sake.
I did not question these boons. In fact, I rarely questioned anything. I found that when all needs were met, all things could be taken for granted. I did not yearn for more because I did not feel yearning.
For a time.
One day a kid broke loose from the herd. I set upon it, chasing it up the stepped slopes to the ridge-line before I finally took the young goat up in my grasp. I stood there on the ridge for a long while staring down through the clouds at the outside world; the world I had left behind so long ago. A foul sensation crept over me, I vaguely recognized it; curiosity.
I stared down the mountain. Far in the distance I could see a small town nestled in a clearing among the trees. Smoke rose among the buildings as ant-like dots rushed to and fro. A fire? Accidental? I began to contemplate the last time something accidental had occurred here in this pristine place; something disastrous, or even novel.
“Tell me your thoughts.” A voice came from behind me, startling me. I turned to see The Spaniard making his way up the slope.
“I used to live there.” I pointed down-slope toward the town where the fire burned, “That was my home.”
The Spaniard nodded but remained silent.
“I had a whole life there,” I said, as though it had just dawned on me. “I remember. When I washed in the spring I… I had a vision…” I shut my eyes tight trying to recall what I’d seen so very long ago.
“You are not the first to speak of such things. Go on.” The Spaniard prompted.
“I saw people… A woman… Children, a boy and girl…” I paused, struggling with a tightness in my throat, some long buried emotion rising to the surface. “Where are the children?” I blurted. My eyes shot open.
The Spaniard looked distraught, but didn’t answer.
“Where are the children?” I asked again, more forcefully. “Where are the toys? The laughter? The tears and joy? Where is the art? Where is the love, here?”
He smiled, “All around you. Are you not cradled and cared for? Is not your every need fulfilled? Does your fellow man not live for you as you live for him?”
“Well… Yes… This is different,” I struggled with the words, as though my mind was actively resisting my efforts to recall, “Passion! That’s it. Where is the passion? Where is the art? Where are the grand projects? Why do sleep alone in one room homes?”
I pointed again to the town below, “I have a wife there. Her name is Theresa. I have children; Anthony and Beth. They are down there. That fire could be my home! They could be in danger.”
The Spaniard was stone.
“I could bring them here. All of them. All of those people, they could be here, they could know plenty and goodness and a freedom from hardship. And they could bring you this… This… Fire, inside.” I clutched the front of my robe in my first pulling it toward him as though offering my heart.
His eyes closed slowly and his head sagged in disappointment, “This is not the place for those things, cabrón.”
I stood in silence, mouth agape. One word was all it had taken and the spell was broken. The Spaniard had returned. I was exhausted, my body ached but fury burned inside which kept me standing eye-to-eye with him. “Then this is not the place for me.”
I turned on a heel and began negotiating my way back down the mountain. There was no trail here, the stone was loose and craggy, but feared re-entering the basin to find the trail-head. Feared I would once again fall under its spell. So instead I climbed, down the rocky face, my legs and arms protesting every footfall, every hand hold. I felt an urgency I couldn’t explain and my speed increased; faster and faster I moved from grip to grip, down, down, down until I realized I was falling.
The clouds consumed me.
“Doctor?” the voice seemed far away but familiar. A woman’s voice… Theresa? I descended through a seemingly endless fog, thick and impenetrable. “Doctor, I think something’s wrong.”
“Nurse,” another voice, another woman, “Get me…”it trailed off.
I reached out in desperate hope to tough the rock face, to clutch the stone and break my fall. Something grabbed me. A hand. I clenched it reflexively.
“C’mon, Dad…” Anthony?
I tried to speak, but still I fell, further and further until finally… Pain tore through my torso, by body twisted and crushed upon the rocks. My spine snapped in a though places, my ribs shattered like glass. My eyes opened, staring upward into the light of the sun. My muscles relaxed, the thumping of blood in my ears subsided into a rhythmic beep of medical equipment. Forms before came into focus.
A young man, unfamiliar, stood over me; a pair of defibrillator paddles in his hands.
