A distant place, elevated. A remote, craggy area of the Lesotho highlands. Summer is drawing to an end, and the first chill winds of early autumn are beginning to be felt.
It is late evening. From the green, impossibly wild peaks, which appear as if titans have ploughed furrows into them, it seems as though an artist with otherworldly power has slashed great furrows of red across the sky. The dying sun, it's power waning, refracts through the clouds. The legacy it leaves will not be lost, though it appears as though no human for leagues around has seen it - but this is not true.
Two eyes; a delicate hue of cyan, have seen.
They feel the last outpouring of beauty from this retreating sentinel with a pang so intense - of something their owner cannot name - that tears come to both of them.
There is no one around her - none who could understand or explain; but no understanding is yet required.
It has been a year since she came to this place; seeking within it's tranquil serenity relief from something - intensity? Fury of passion? - that she cannot quite name. For these twelve months, she has permitted herself no thought of what enchanted her so when she first laid eyes upon it.
It has been easy, so far, for her to forget herself in nature's languid embrace. But every evening for the last forty days she has climbed this peak an hour before sunset, watching the bringer of life die anew in it's eternal cycle.
And as the blood-red hue tinges the ether, for all the world like bottles of crimson poured into the air, her head bows, and she begins to cry for something she has felt once before, and cannot for the life of her give a name.
Nothing shares this remote, isolated peak with her, except the greenness of wild grass - and an object so innocuously strange that anyone who saw it here would stare at it - but never question it's existence for fear of recieving no answer.
A roughly turned gum pole, treated with creosote, rising from the ground a few metres from where the woman first ascended to find the plateau of the hill she stands on.
For forty days she has stared at it every evening as if coercing it to reveal the secret of who planted it here, and why. It has stared back at her, ever mute, an accusing witness. She knows that whoever brought it here, and for whatever reason, endured much trouble doing so. There is only one path up the peak that does not negotiate a sheer drop of formidable distance, and it is difficult going for one person, even lightly loaded.
The woman looks at the pole once more, then back at the dusk sky. The sun is below the horizon now, and the ether is shades of Prussian blue.
Looking at her at leisure, one could say she was a handsome woman indeed. A natural brunette, her short hair betrays her nature in other times with the jauntiness of it's spikiness and riotous array of colours; strawberry blonde mixes with shades of turquoise and violet to give the impression of a madcap young goddess, or a fun-loving wood sprite.
But now, she surrenders to her loneliness, feeling it's depth pierce her. However, the sunset is not to be ignored; it challenges her isolation with beauty of it's own; demanding attention with complete indifference. The woman knows then that faith in life's justice is not a hopeless notion; she knows that existence producing something so beautiful may yet give her what she craves so desperately - in time.
She is buffeted by the slight wind that blows across the plateaus; her head has been bowed for some time. As she raises it, she realises with a tinge of unease that light has fled. It has been nearly dark for some time. Her first instinct is to retreat to safety - to the base of the hill - but she knows now that she cannot take the risk. She cannot be so bold as to negotiate the treacherous path in the dark.
Involuntarily, she glances back at the gum pole. There is something about the sight of it; something else she cannot name; something beyond the ordinary. She would be compelled to investigate it further, but feels oddly, irrationally hesitant to touch it, or even to go near it. As she gazes, it assumes, in the near-darkness, a mantle increasingly unsettling.
Turning, she sinks down to the ground and hugs her knees. It is not cold; not yet. But the highlands are an unforgiving place and turn on those who take liberties within them. This the young woman knows.
A calm, masculine voice.
"Yes, you realise".
She is so deep in her mood, that at first, it does not penetrate. But the instant lightness of head and compulsive shock of adrenalin are all. She gives a brief scream, scrambling unproductively around in a small circle, as if she has lost her bearings. Turning her head wildly, she doesn't see at first. Then, it begins to register.
The silhouette stands a mere few metres away from her; a darker shade of black against the surrounding depths of starry blue-black that make up the Lesotho night sky. As her eyes strain wildly to focus, she sees that it's attitude is unhurried and calm; it's arms are akimbo. A tall man, she knows, but that is all.
Under threat, she cannot run, she cannot conceal herself, she cannot rise to present a threat of her own. Eyes wild, she moves backward very slowly, never taking her gaze off the silhouette.
For what seems like a long time, it does not move.
Then, it slowly folds it's arms, walking to the gumpole, which it leans against. The outline the woman can see is one of unhurried insolence, as if whatever it is had all the time in the world. But there is something else she can feel radiating from it, almost through the pores of her skin.
Mischief. Merriment. She cannot see it's face, though she knows without knowing that it is smiling, perhaps a guileful grin.
"Why are you here?"
She jumps in fright again. The voice is the personification of calm. It is low; musical. She hears a tone almost of jest, almost of light tease. But she can hear no tone of curiosity, and that unnerves her. In that instant, she knows the question is rhetorical.
"Who - who are you? What are you going to do? And why did you sneak up on me?"
The presence shrugs laconically. "Irrelevant questions, all. I, on the other hand, asked one that has implications for both of us." It falls silent for perhaps a minute.
"Why are you here?"
An irrational mental flurry of confused resentment strikes the young woman. Who is this, she thinks, talking as if he can see straight into my head? He's not a rapist, or he would have moved by now. What does he want?
The presence speaks softly, levelly, evenly. "Very well. A fair exchange is what's needed; I can see that." It straightens up, takes steps towards her. Then it squats down on it's haunches. "For the moment, I seek only to know why you are here. There: the answer to your question." It's gaze sear her, though she cannot see it's eyes. "Now. Will you answer mine?"
For a moment, she is lost for words, feeling like her mind has been coldly and faultlessly read. She had seen the presence move toward her, and was staggered by it's grace and seeming power. It had moved like a wraith; a sceptre carried towards her by the breeze. She had seen it's footsteps, but had not heard it's tread upon the ground.
They face off for a long while; the presence squatting, looking at her. She, supine except for steadying herself on her hands as if ready to flee backwards. She cannot see it's face.
The presence gets to it's feet, abruptly turning and walking towards the gumpole. Slowly and unhurriedly, it bends down, and begins to gather something up from the ground. She hears the sounds of thatch grass and loose twigs. Listening hard, she can hear it's tread upon the earth. I though it was a ghost, she thinks. Am I crazy? What the hell is going on here, and who or what is that?
The presence speaks again, a slightly harder note signalling it's impatience.
"I have told you that that question is irrelevant. Who I am is not important. Why I am here is important, and it has bearing on the question I have already asked you."
She is utterly confused, and frightened. I can't keep secrets from it, she thinks wildly. A phrase burns briefly across her mind: 'a dark night for miracles.' She can't remember if it is something she has heard before.
And yet, the question is strangely compelling. She realises that it is something she has been asking herself for a long time - but has squashed the answer.
It's something she is afraid of.
The presence comes back to where she sits warily. It deposits the large bundle of vegetation it carries near her feet. Without speaking, it begins to build a tall cone. She watches, fascinated at it's graceful movements. Something is beginning to stir within her.
There is a sound of 'scritch', and a tiny flame twinkles at the base of the cone. It spreads slowly, engulfing the cone, until the light of the fire radiates, illuminating the top of their hill.
But since the flame began to spread, she has had eyes for nothing but what she thinks of as the presence - whom she can now see clearly.
He is tall; at least six feet. In the firelight, his eyes - an indeterminate colour - sparkle with ferocious light like a hawk's. He is slender but muscular, clad from the base of the neck down in a garment unlike any she has ever seen before - a body suit of soft, supple black leather. He wears gloves of the same material, extending to just below his elbows. His boots are of the same leather, ending below his knees, and have no heels. His eyebrows are dark, yet all the skin she sees is clean-shaven; even his head.
She cannot quite believe the outlandish sight before her; yet she feels no desire to look away. He looks, to her mind, like a vengeful young god, intent on punishing the mortal intruder who has dared set foot on Mount Olympus.
He looks sideways at her, with what she could swear is a very small smile on his face.
Remembering what happened before, she blushes and turns away.
With the kindling burning, he reaches into a crevasse she had not seen before, bringing out several small chunks of hardwood. He heaps them upon the flames. Finally appearing satisfied with the result, he walks slowly to where she sits, her arms cradling her knees. He looks down at her, his calm expression betraying no malevolence at all. For a long time, she does not take the bait. Then, as if by irresistible compulsion, she slowly raises her eyes to meet his.
"Why?"
His tone is gentle enough that she realises he will not allow her to evade the question. Attractive as he is - and she pushes the realisation out of her mind, appalled at herself - he is determined in seeking the answer.
She struggles within for a time before she speaks. She avoids his gaze.
"I... I was bored with life. I came here because I wanted to find something..."
His voice is grave; softly compelling. "What were you hoping to find?"
She looks at him; at a loss for words. "There was someone... something I wanted; but I can't have it." She shakes her head softly. "If I were to want something like that..." She gives a soft shudder; "so I came here."
"You were running away from something you wanted?"
"Yes..."
"What, exactly, were you running away from?"
She looks at him, frowning. "And what will you do if I don't tell you? I don't have to, you know. I don't even know who you are!"
He looks at her. His gaze tells her that he is not angry; that he knows such pain, that he will not rebuke or heap up recriminations. His spirit is too old for that, his gaze says, and it would be foolishness.
