image from Google Photo Frame
I was born and raised in the small village of Ukara. The medicine woman crone delivered me. My mother named me Cupra for the beautiful copper stones we found on the lake’s shore. When I asked where they came from, my father pointed to the mountain and said, “God gives us many gifts.”
When I was ten years old I began to want to go to the mountain and see for myself where the rocks came from. The crone warned, “Do not make God angry or the fish will go away and we will starve.”
At age sixteen, I was reckless enough in my youth to risk God’s wrath. I packed pemmican cakes and set out at dawn’s pink welcome and walked towards the peak of the mountain. It was farther away than it looked. By orange sunset I was exhausted. I lay at God’s feet, wrapped in my sheepskin blanket and slept the sleep of the dead.
I realized taking the winding goat path I found was a way to the top. I ate berries and snared a few rabbits along the way. In two days I reached the top and made camp just as night was falling.
The sky blazed with strange colored dancing lights that whistled the low tune I’d heard a hundred times in my dreams. The crone and my father are wrong. God is not the mountain.
Fandango is the host of Fandango’s Flash Fiction Challenge.