The Calling

Shabby, dirty, wretched, tabby creature won’t let me be.

It had been following me since before dark morphed into dawn. I caught its creepy white eyes glowing from behind a tree, its wild dusty fur ruffled like a weedy lawn, as I ran past it with my head torch on. Now it is bounding and weaving a few meters ahead, down through the open grasses, and juniper shrubs. It stops, turns every few minutes to make sure I’m still behind. We were on the path not long ago. Like a spell it led me off the beaten track. How? And more to the point why? My legs don’t belong to me anymore, they’re doing their own thing. The majestic fly of runner’s high kicked in about ten minutes ago, since Shabby waved its magic paw, since it flashed those sparkly eyes.

The sun rises over the easterly peaks. On the other side of the valley, snow shimmers pink on their tips. A promise or a warning? A delight or a bad omen? We meander downwards to the deserted valley path, traverse a make-shift rickety wooden bridge over turbulent and frothy waters, and criss-cross our way up the other side. Shabby climbs up as I continue to be pulled by its magnetic force. Climbing up. And up. Clambering over huge rocks. Lichen covered boulders. Almost too tired… to notice the vibrant gentians quivering in between them near a stream that springs from underground. I bend over, cup my hands, quench myself with the pure glistening mountain water.

Shabby is still there, ears twitching, watching, waiting. I get to my feet, hop across the stream, and follow, up. Up and up. Until reaching vertigo’s landslide of jagged pebbles and fine rubble. Feet sinking and slipping. On all fours. Fingers and toes grasping at dust, dragging my heavy body against gravity. Out of breath. Pain in my chest. Pain in my stomach. Head spinning. The creature stops….

I lean into the landslide, digging in the sides of my feet and double over hugging my stitch, gasping for air. Too high up here for my weak deoxygenated physique.

“Meow!”

“What the hell do you want?!”

“I’m taking you to see the master.”

“What!!? Who said that?!” I attempt to stand up, look around. Survey my surroundings. Nothing. No one. Just these vast desolate mountains and Shabby, its rumbling purr purr noise cutting through the biting wind, through the faint sound of the tumbling water way down below. Can’t believe the dam thing is purring! And looking down at me, trying to stun me with its bright yellow eyes and its overbearing presence. Creeping me out.

“Look… you little thing. Tiny weeny insignificant thing. I’m off. Goodbye. OK? See ya!” Shabby lowers itself, claws curling into the ground, micro-wiggling its backside, ready to pounce. I shake my head. Slap my cheeks. Come to my senses.

“I’m off! OK? I’m a grown man and there’s absolutely nothing, nothing those putrid eyes are going to do to STOP ME! ... Stop me! … stop me! … stop me!” A loud crashing. Shabby’s eyes widen, gripped with fear, body ridged with terror. The echo of my scream brings forth rocks from above. They start bouncing down the mountain. I fall on my side, arms over my head to protect… A loud crack. I Look up. A big sharp stone hit Shabby directly on the skull. It makes a tiny whimper before keeling over, and rolling towards me... Rocks cease.

I catch Shabby’s soft floppy body, hold it to my chest. I press its little head firmly against me, hoping somehow that I can stop the bleeding. Warm blood trickles through my fingers. Sad pang in my heart. It is dead… How so quickly can a creature go? Here now gone. Just like that! I was angry with it, no, pathetically scared of it, and within minutes I’m cradling its fragile limp carcass with deep regret. Why didn’t I just follow it? If I hadn’t screamed like a coward instead, it would still be alive.

I place it gently on the dust.

“Stupid tourist!” I was supposed to take a day’s rest from the trek, walk some altitude to acclimatise. A little run before breakfast would do me good, so I thought. Felt a calling. Eyes suddenly woke awake at 3.33 am. Some dream… presently faded. Now this. Pathetic!

“This is as good a place as any to bury you… I hope no one will miss you.”

With one leg outstretched and pressed firmly into the earth and the other bent, I scoop out a hole, place Shabby’s body in and cover it with dust. I find a stray twig which I insert into the ground next to its head, then cut a piece of my white t-shirt and tie it around the twig as a kind of peace flag, a makeshift headstone. I mutter a few words of sincere apologies, feigning my best prayer that it will be in peace wherever its soul resides.

Upon completely the task, I decide to go back down from where I came from, back to the guesthouse, where I can try to make sense of this traumatic experience. But, as I go to stand up, something catches my eye. This time I am clearly hallucinating! From the burial mound a tiny orbed rainbow light appears. I rub my eyes, open them, blink. The rainbow orb floats over the landslide up a few meters, and disappears from view... I follow.

***

Not far from the burial spot, above the landslide, I am met with a balcony footpath, trailing left to the south, trailing right to the north and high above it, gigantic boulders the size of houses, sit perched at the top of steep grassy slopes. I look about, for the rainbow orb, but it is no where to be seen. The path looks enticing, as it is well worn, and the thought that I might bump into someone who can tell me where the next village is, find some food to eat, very appealing. Forgetting the little orb, I decide to follow my internal compass, which, against any rationality tells me it’s promising to go northwards; venturing further from where I left the guesthouse this morning. An eagle, circling in the periwinkle-blue skies above, confirms my instinct; as I set off towards the moon desert mountains, it also starts flying north. Maybe a sign? Like Shabby, it waits to make sure I’m close behind on the trail. It swoops, soars, then hovers on the wind until I catch up and am directly below, before flying on.

On the balcony, I meet no one and no one meets me. The valley opens, opens wider and wider, the paysage less green and the rugged mountains towering on both sides are veined with varying shades of ochre, massive white diamonds their backdrop. Cotton wool clouds as if being pulled by invisible strings cast shifting shadows, bring a surreal feeling of being completely at one with this place. Completely absorbed into the mountains, into the rocks, the snow, the sky, the river. Suspended in bliss.

I continue to walk for I don’t know how long, being pulled by a force unbeknownst to me. This animal guide, being at a safe distance is not felt as a threat. What a joke! Was Shabby a threat? No, I’m not going there. The subtle grief and guilt I experience is too raw for this tainted mind.

I see a big rock by the footpath, carved like a seat, and use it to take a rest, bathe in the soothing sunlight, drink a little water.

“Hello!” An elderly lady coming from behind approaches carrying a load about twice her size.

“Excuse me, can you help?” I ask.

She sits on the rock-seat beside me, leans back and slips the band from her forehead and gently lets down the bales of hay.

“What are you doing here?” she asks curiously.

“I’m following…”

“Are you lost?”

“I don’t know. I’m looking for the next village, for food.”

“There are no guesthouses up here. You need to go back down the valley.”

She must have seen my disappointment. “Stupid boy!” she laughs. “Come, come! Come to my home!”

And with that she re-straps her load, gets up and continues her way.

Following the elderly lady, who despite being over twice my age - I assume, though it’s hard to tell – and carrying what she does, walks so fast; I almost have to break into a light jog to keep up.

The path takes a long gradual decent, and opening into a plateau, sweeps effortlessly down to meet the river. From the mountains, a stream bubbles through the middle of the plateau, giving opportunity for lush green plants, and some trees to thrive. Nearby, small stone houses are dotted about, with their own gardens and low stone-wall enclosures. We circle the plateau, to find, tucked furthest away, a few yaks and cows grazing on a large piece of land surrounding a small familiar looking stone home, enclosed like the other houses by a wall. The lady lets me through a wooden gate and up an uneven flagstone path. Before the entrance to the home, is a small shed and in front of that a basin with a water tap. To the left, facing the home is a greenhouse made of bamboo poles and clear plastic sheeting and behind that is a small habitation for animals.

She leaves the bales of hay by the front door and takes me inside. A scraggly brown dog from nowhere limping on three legs, follows us. I duck under the door frame, into a hallway, and at the end on the left she ushers me into a tiny kitchen, bright with sunlight. Inside it is a clay wood-burning hearth in the corner, a small carpeted-bench with a cushion, just under the window. In front is a small table and a stall, three-legged, just like the dog! On the crowded kitchen shelves are many large thermoses, pots and pans, jars filled with various herbs, powdered milk. The aquamarine walls look as though they were painted not so long ago, except for the place above the hearth; already turning black with soot.

She beckons for me to sit down, puts three mugs on the table and serves tea from one of the thermoses, then takes one of the mugs and leaves the kitchen. The dog sniffs about, hesitantly wagging its tail. “Hello you!” It snaps at my hand as I go to pet it and when I raise my fist in defence, it whines with fright and cowers under the table. I go to take the cushion next to me but am surprised to see that it is a small basket and inside it, are four silver coloured kittens, still blind, no more than a few days old.

“Hungry… they are hungry,” the lady says as she comes back into the kitchen. “Their mother has gone. We haven’t seen her since this morning. My husband thinks she’s not coming back,” she says seriously, “I think she’s dead.”

“What did she look like?”

“The father was a silver cat, the mother was another other colour, tinted like a sandy rock.”

“Did she have yellow eyes?”

“Yes.”

“I may have seen her,” I say, trying to hide my guilt.

“Where?”

“On the landslide.”

“What was she doing?”

“I don’t know… a rock hit her on the head, and she died instantly. I buried her there.”

The lady falls silent and after a long moment, replies, “Very very sad... and what will the kittens eat now?”

“You have powered milk I see…”

She tuts and shakes her head. “You’re not thinking. They won’t live long without their mother… but don’t worry,” she adds seeing my distress, “maybe it’s OK. We’ll see. The neighbour has a mum cat.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Why? You didn’t kill it, why are you sorry? Sad, yes. It is very sad, but that is how life is… but I’m sure the cat is in a good place, because she helped creatures and people. Her next life will be a good life. But this cat, was a special cat. This cat knows.”

“Knows what? What did she know?”

“This cat was a helping cat. You can hear many stories up here. Stories of healing and helping, especially strange people like you!” And with that she bursts out laughing so loudly that the dog comes out from under the table and starts barking.

“I have to go,” I say abruptly, getting up.

“Don’t be scared of the dog. He’s a good dog, but sometimes a little scared. See?” She takes my hand and puts it on the dog’s head. It wags its tail furiously, lays its head on my lap.

“See!”

“What happened to its leg?”

“We found him in the nearest town, a few days walk down the valley. His leg was broken, not working. The wounds would not heal, so we had him fixed and brought him here. The people in our village say the dog belonged to a drunk and was badly beaten many times.”

“Poor thing.”

“Yes... before he was a poor thing. Now he’s a very happy dog! A very smiley dog. Sometimes a little afraid, but now he’s OK. Don’t worry!”

“But it only has three legs.”

“So? The dog can still walk, the dog eats, sleeps, it shits! It’s a happy dog. A loving dog.”

“I really should go,” I say again.

“Where?”

“Somewhere, I don’t know.”

“Strange boy! First, please eat!”

She serves up a tasty soup with noodles and fresh vegetables from the garden, home-made flat bread with delicious creamy butter from her cows, and too many chillis. We are joined by her husband; a quiet, yet friendly man with deep eyes that tell a thousand stories.

I pick up one of the kittens, place it on my lap and stroke its fluffy silvery-streaked fur, its delicate mini lion’s head, its tiny-padded paws. I hold it up to my ear, its soft purring vibrates against my face.

“She likes you,” says the husband...

“About your special cat,” I say, ready to make my confession, “I wasn't quite honest… She started following me very early this morning. Then I was following her, she was taking me somewhere. On the landslide I wanted to go back and so I screamed at her, and rocks came pouring down. And that’s how she died.”

“So, you think you killed her?” says the husband.

“Well… yes,” I say, hanging my head with deep remorse.

“Do not think this is your fault. It is very very sad, but it must have been her time to go.”

“There’s another thing... before I tried to leave, I heard a voice, I’m taking you to see the master... Do you know what this means? ”

“You have been searching since you left home. You have been looking for your master, to show you the way, but the master has been inside you all along… he is you. You are him. You can find the master everywhere. In every person you meet, every creature you see, in every plant that grows. Sometimes we just need to meet the right person to help us to see it,” he says with a glint in his eye...

THE BEGINNING