The Short Man on the Tall Mountain 

By isabelle_bl

South-East France 2018.

The fountain is in the town centre and the edge is wide enough for us to sit and eat our lunch. Me and mum are having lunch - ham and cheese sandwiches. The park is nearby and the local newsagent grumpily adjusts his postcard stand after tourists have put postcards in the wrong place. His wife sits on a chair greeting passerbys but also making sure no one steals the souvenirs she's put on the table. Chimney sweep dolls, snow globes, bottle openers, thimbles, spoon rests surround objects depicting the short man on a tall mountain. The tall mountain is in front of us. As if guarding the town. My mum is staring at it and I'm staring at my mum. The pigeons are staring at us eager to gobble the tiniest of breadcrumbs.

I now turn to the grey giant and ask mum to tell me the story of the short man on the tall mountain. When I was little, she used to answer my whys with, when you're older. Well, I'm older. Ten. She hesitates, sighs, takes the last bite of her sandwich. A grey pigeon now standing next to her hopes she gives her last bit of bread away. She doesn't but he stays as if waiting to hear the story too. The grey pigeon has the same colours as the mountain.

A long time ago there lived a man who worked as a shoe repairer. He was plump and short. Locals called him a stuttering pig. Stuttering because he couldn't talk properly. Had trouble finishing his sentences and pig because of his size. Children used to throw stones at his shop window and at him. There were other shoe repairers in town and the competition hurt the ridiculed shoe repairer. People stayed away from him because they weren't patient. He took a long time to finish a sentence and a long time to repair a shoe but the few shoes he did repair were always done with great care. Locals much preferred the svelte and swift shoe repairer who made compliments to his lady customers, joked with the men in the local pub and played games with the children. And, sadly, joined the children in their taunts toward the short man.

One day, three boys waited for him to close shop. The short man stopped at the bakers to buy a cream bun. His second for the day. One in the morning before work and one after. The boys hid around the corner like a group of stacking cups. The tallest boy crouched on the cobbled street corner, the medium size boy in the middle hands on the tallest boy's shoulders and the shorter of the three in the same position sticking his head out to the side. One, two, three Boo! They scared the startled short man who dropped the cream bun. The short man wasn't one to defend himself. Others in the town walked toward him, making a small circle. The other shoe repairer came out enjoying the show. No one came to his defence. The short man looked like he wanted to cry. Tears half way there. A bit like climbing a ladder to the highest diving board but unable to jump into the pool of water below.

You're too weak, stand up for yourself. Said the other shoemaker.

I..I

Speak, fool!

Speak, speak speak, shouted the boys.

Speak speak speak speak, cried the crowd of locals.

Splash. The dive into that pool of water happened and he started crying.

Cry baby! cry baby!

Show us you're not weak! Said the tallest boy.

Climb that tall mountain! Said the medium size boy.

If you climb to the top, we'll stop! Said the shorter of the three.

Watch for the three bears...Coward...Ha! Ha! Ha!

The short man understood the risks. The mountain was tall and steep. No one had ever been able to reach the top. One attempted and fell to his death. Another, didn't even go half-way, too frightened.

I...I_ will d...d...do it.

Roars of laughter and surprise. No one expected him to say yes to the dare.

Like a pilgrimage to a sacred site led by the popular shoe maker, followed by the short man who was followed by the town. Few were unaware of the story behind this short man, the teasing that started in his childhood, the teasing that continued well into his adult life.+

Having reached the foot of the mountain, the short man looked up and turned to look at the crowd as if wanting to make eye contact with something or someone. People laughed, pointed, gasped but the short man climbed. Halfway up no one was laughing, pointing, gasping anymore. Silence became the noise beating the whistling wind, rustling leaves and the bird's tweets, caws, hoots and shrieks. Even night-time birds, it was said, came out to watch this.

Necks started to hurt but people kept watching. Something of a spiritual nature surrounded the mountain. Some said it was like a halo, an aura of light. Soon the man disappeared from view. Necks back in usual position, human noise began again and people wondered where he could have gone. They walked back to see the peak.

Two black boots stood on the peak of that tall mountain. The aura around the mountain had gone but now focused on the short man on a tall mountain like the spotlight that follows the actor on a stage floor during his monologue. This was no monologue though but it was an extraordinary solo performance.

He did it, said the tallest boy.

Wow! Said the medium one.

He really did it, said the shorter of the three.

Left hands joined right hands to make a deafening clapping sound. Everyone but three clapped: The popular shoe maker who was jealous and upset probably because he would no longer be popular, a woman and her daughter. They were silent and angry. Everything that goes up must come down. He was alive but they wanted their husband and father back. Angry that this man they loved had to prove himself. He proved himself to be strong in mind and body.

The tall mountain was angry too. People recall rocks tumbling down aimed at the onlookers. The sun wanted to go to sleep, hours had passed since the man climbed. People darted the rocks. They stopped waiting and went home. Wife and daughter. Anger gone, silence stubbornly stayed. Not one rock hit them as they stood still. Fearing nocturnal beasts, they left. They somehow knew their husband and father would never return.

The next morning the town made their way to the mountain. Some went to the short man's shop expecting to see him there fixing a shoe or two. The baker expected him to buy a cream bun. The cobbled streets had two less boots walking on it that morning.

The third morning people awoke to the sound of water. For the first time, water was trickling down the tall mountain. A horsetail waterfall had formed. Water attached to the face of a mountain like tears that stubbornly stay on your face. Mist formed, soft rock became hard rock and so over time the horsetail waterfall became a plunge fall. Many people say they see the short man at the top and the cascade are his tears. Pouring out of his eyes, down the tall mountain. Over time the locals had to leave. The entire town flooded. Many moved nearby carrying their belongings and the memory of the short man on the tall mountain.

"Why was this story kept from me for so long?" I asked mother who was staring at the tall mountain.

"Because that is the story of my grandfather, your great- grandfather as told by my mother who was the little girl who grew up without a father. Men went to war and death was understood. But to die like this because people couldn't accept him the way he was? It makes no sense. It made no sense to mother and it doesn't make no sense now. It's sad to see people dying from constant bullying today. He was short and strong, the mountain was his friend. The waterfall, my mother believed, washed away people's cruel ways at least for a while. Each one of them thought twice before teasing, lessons were learnt. The ornaments in his honour are a way for the town to remember what happened and learn from the past." 4

Back home now. I sit by the window where I can see the tall mountain. I see a face carved into the mountain smiling at me. I take out my writing pad and start writing,

Dear Anne,

Sorry I have been teasing you...