The Silent Echo

Our story begins, as most are often prone to do, in an obscure region, with the most unlikely of people. It was, of course, a long time ago, as so many of our stories often are. This particular telling, however, reaches back farther than even the wisest of the elders can remember, back when the mountains were still young, and the wind had only just begun to wade through the newly grown pines. This was shortly after the dawn of man, and throughout the world, there was but seven villages needed to house them, for man was small in number. But while the mountains and trees were young, man himself was but an infant, ignorant in his ways. He knew little of the fantastic ways of the flowing earth, even as it spread itself before him.

It was during this time that our story takes place, In the time of the Shifting Earth, among the seven villages of man. These villages, as is well known by most, were arranged according to the various creations they were built upon, from the angry and wild passions of the village of Fire, from which war was first raised, to the calm and strange village of Sea, from which curiosity was first sparked. These villages were separated greatly, isolated by the reaching mountain ranges, and the climbing rivers. Each village knew little of the ways of the others that lie beyond their walls. And it was because of this, along with the nature of man, as is too often the case, that the people of the various villages sometimes doubted that any other of their kind, aside from themselves, actually existed. This was especially true of the fourth village, which grew among the rocks and peaks of the Old Mountains. It was this doubt that plagued them like no other, as they were solid and unmoving, much as the Old Mountains themselves. They were an ignorant people, who assumed that all they could not feel, or lay eyes on, was myth. And in this ignorance lie their greatest weakness, and, ultimately, their greatest pain. For, despite their warnings, it was only through this pain that they would realize the truth.

The wind swept through the overhanging branches of the tall pines, whispering the unspoken dreams of a cloudless night. A sea of stars hung in the sky above, glistening like so many shimmering jewels, as they filled the night sky with their purest light. The moon, as always, was full and bright, for this was a time before she had reason to hide her brilliant face. Silver moonlight cascaded down from the heavens into the valley below, pooling at the base of the valley walls, casting darkened shadows through the canopy of trees that shaded the woods below. And yet the peaceful beauty of the night was left unadmired by the eyes of man, save a young boy that sat on the soft forest floor, leaning against the trunk of a resting willow.

He had no name to speak of, for the people in the valley were of numbers so small, they had no need of names to distinguish them. He came here, as he so often did, for the moments of joy the silence and peacefulness of the woods were able to provide. And so he sat, as he did most nights, gazing up through a slight opening in the trees, at the skies above. He watched as the stars so lazily dipped below the horizon that the valley walls provided, forever chasing the sun. His thoughts drifted like a leaf in wind, constantly swaying from one point to the next, before being blown to someplace ever more distant. During these times, he usually found his thoughts, inevitably, wandering the mountains that loomed above. The elders from the village had all warned him of the dangers that lie beyond, as it was surely the end of the world, and if one were to reach the top, they would fall into the eternal nothingness that lie beyond. They had warned all the people in the valley, and forbid any from even leaning against the mountain walls, for if they did, then the walls might collapse, and the village would fall into the nothingness.

And yet, the young boy could not help but wonder what lay beyond the walls. What did the nothingness look like? Perhaps, if he could just peek over, and glimpse past the walls, then he could satisfy his curiosity. And yet, he knew, if he did so, then he would be dragged into the nothing, and perhaps the village along with him. And so, every night, he would sit, leaning against the same willow, safely inside the valley, wondering about the world outside. This night, however, was different in some way, though he could not imagine why. He had done this every night, for as long as he could remember, so he could not see why anything would be amiss. And yet, even so, he could definitely feel that something was different. It was as if the night were anxious, waiting for something to happen, though what he knew not. It was then that he heard a voice.

It came pealing off the mountain walls around him, racing down the steep slopes, and into the valley floor below. The voice was startlingly loud, and seemed to be shouting as loud as possible, and yet, it was strangely quiet. It not only seemed to fall from above, but also to rise from the earth below. Yes, indeed, it seemed to come from everywhere, and yet nowhere at all, all at once. He could tell the voice was speaking, and speaking in his language, yet it was in a frantic, almost manic manner, with only a few disjointed words disconcernable. He heard what seemed like “...Past walls.”, “...Falling”, and, after a short burst of incoherent shouting, “...Hurry!”, Most of the words ran together, to fast for him to be able to determine, but he heard what seemed to him the most important. And in an instant, the voice was gone, as quickly as it had came. The boy wasted no time returning back to the village, crying out for help as he ran.

He tore past limbs and underbrush, racing through the valley. He reached the village just as all the torches within were lit, and the confused shouting of the villagers filled the air. When the boy arrived, he was met by the oldest elder, shortly followed by the other two which he led. Upon seeing them, the boy cried out, telling them of the voice as fast as he could force out his words. He was silenced by a single upward hand from the leading elder. A short moment of silence passed, the crackling of torch fires the only sound in the night. At last the leader spoke, “Tell us what happened, boy”, lowering his hand. After he took a moment to collect his thoughts, the boy answered.

He told the leaders, and the frightened villagers that crowded behind him, about the voice he had heard in the wood, and how it seemed to come from every direction at once. After the boy had finished speaking, the elder again raised his hand for silence which soon followed. He began to stroke his long, grey beard in thought, as a look of intense concentration played across his face. He then turned and consulted the other elders, whispering in a calm and thoughtful air. When, at last, he seemed satisfied, once more, he turned to the boy, and spoke. “We hear no such voice. If what you have spoken has been in truth, then surely you were misled.” he then turned to the villagers before proceeding. “You must all sleep, there is no voice in the wood, nor anywhere else. This boy has spoke in err”, and, with a final dismissive wave of the hand the villagers returned to their homes, talking amongst themselves.

The following night, the boy went back to the same spot in the woods, confident that he had been merely dreaming. After all, it was dark, was it not probable he had simply fallen asleep? And yet, when he arrived, the same booming voice returned, with the same message, still too fast to understand its full meaning. And again, the young boy returned, and again, was dismissed, if not more hastily. This same pattern occurred the next night as well, and the next, continuing night after night. The boy heard the voice, ran back to his village, sure they must have heard it along with him, and found that the village had heard nothing, and still did not believe him. And every night, the villagers grew increasingly angry. They refused his offers to visit the spot with him, and did not believe him when he told of the voice. He was forbidden from leaving the village, but could not resist the call to once more listen to the voice. Something was dreadfully wrong, and he could not simply ignore it, as the villagers had. And so this continued, every night, despite all warnings and anger from the villagers and the elders, for eleven days, and eleven nights. On the twelfth night, a meeting was held in the village, and it was decided that the boy must leave the valley.

On the next day, the boy was served a handsome meal, and led to a cave on the far side of the valley. It was said that the cave led away from the valley, and into the world beyond. Hot tears streamed down the boy’s face as he was brought to the mouth of the cave. Many of the villagers hung their heads in sympathy, but there was nothing to be done. The elders had passed judgement on the boy, and they alone knew of the ways of the world. And so, with a slight nod by the elders, the boy was led into the cave by two men, who, after a moment of grim and anxious silence, came back alone.

The cave was dark, and the boy was forced to feel his way through. He continued like this for what seemed to be hours, sometimes walking, sometimes crawling. The cave seemed to stretch on for miles, uneven and ridged, and always dark. He was unsure of how long he had walked like this, but eventually his fear began to be replaced with curiosity. What was behind the walls? What did the nothingness look like? For as long as he could remember, he had asked these questions, and despite the circumstance, he was somewhat relieved, for he was finally to receive answers. When he finally neared the end, a wave of bright light flooded the opening of the cave. Blinded, he stepped forward, into a sea of lights.

The nothing was not like he had imagined it to be. What he had been told of a dark blackness was nothing like what he had found. A vast field of yellow grain stretched out before him, as far as he could see, lit by a sun not hidden by the mountains of the valley. Rolling hills curved gently downwards ahead of him, dotted with crystal lakes and streams. Animals he had never before seen bounded across the hills, eating from the seeds of grain. The boy called out with joy, gazing across the foreign but wonderful landscape. He began to call, as before, to the people of his village, still behind the great wall of mountains. Yet, when he turned, he saw the mountains rumble and crack, falling in on themselves. His excited yell died on his lips, replaced by a frantic cry of warning. He screamed out as loud as he could, his words running together as he tried desperately to tear them from his throat, “Go to the cave, past the walls! The mountains are falling! You have to run! Hurry!”, he screamed with as much power as his small form possessed, his voice frantically scaling the mountain walls.

But before it could it could be heard, the voice was broken by the numerous peaks of the mountains, and scattered throughout the valley, seeming to come from everywhere and yet nowhere at once. But this is not what the villagers heard, for when it reached them, they heard only the words, “...Past walls”, “...Falling”, and, finally, “...Hurry!”. And as the mountains broke away, the voice of the boy was scattered in every direction, as if a thousand voices shouted the words at once.

The village was, indeed, destroyed, with only the story of the last of its people remaining. The boy was able to survive, and even earn a name in the world he found beyond the walls, and lived for many years. And even as the valley was destroyed, the voice of the child that tried to save it still rings clear to this day, you only have to call out to the mountains, and you will hear his voice as he calls back, shouting the echo will never again fall silent.