Callia’s father whispered to her: “And on the peak of that old mountain just outside your window, there lives a wise monk.”

The grand mountain slept under purple wildflowers and evergreens. At night, masked in shadow, it seemed a secret ladder to the moon. When Callia heard rustling, her father assured her it was only the mountain shifting, trying to get comfortable. Come morning, he sometimes swore over bacon and orange juice that while she slept it disappeared all together just to remind itself it could.

Callia’s father had set his cigarette on her nightstand to tuck her in extra tight then picked it up and waved it like a wand. “The monk has lived so long no one knows how old he is.”

His words played in Callia’s mind even though she was now grown and without his scent of calming mint cologne to comfort her. Just a Newport cigarette burning in the ashtray. She didn’t smoke. The bluesy Jackson C. Frank vinyl circled under the needle. 

“But in a special cupboard,” her father would continue, eyes shining green. “The monk keeps small glass bottles. Corked inside each bottle is a key.” 

Living in her lonely downtown flat with a determined-to-die plant, overstuffed bookshelves, and a family sized orange chicken for one, she considered the story. Her early-twenties skepticism battled exotic childhood dreams. 

“A key to whatever you wish to know. Those dedicated to the journey are rewarded.”

She always found an excuse not to make the hike. With no Douglas, Callia let the accident excuse tucking her life into a hermit shell. She feared closing her eyes to see the giant swell would be her forever reality. His broken yellow board bobbing on the waves. Callia liked the waves she could never truly control, and he liked her.

For Callia’s twelfth birthday, her father gifted her a cowboy bedroll, so they could sleep under the stars and pretend it was the wild west. That and her large canvas bag had been sitting packed by the door for over a year. So much time passed, she had to eat the peanut butter energy bars and the Punch Crunch, only to replace them. That time was coming again.

Callia telephoned the record store, wedging the phone between her shoulder and ear, and pulling the rotary dial over each number. She left a message for her manager.

“Hey,” she said, in a low even tone. “Won’t be in for awhile. Don’t worry about me, now. Be back when I can. Peace to you, Keith.”

Keith harbored such a crush, Callia thought she stood a chance of having a job when she returned. She took the bus from the city wondering if her head would even feel unbroken. After paying the fare, after taking the first step, already she didn’t want to look back at the monotony of helping customers with more interest in her martial status than selecting the right vinyl. Music was sacred. She immediately disliked anyone who failed to recognize this.

Alone at the mountain’s base, it hovered like a green-gold swell. The colors warm, the earth dry, and as she came closer, there wasn’t the urgency of it all collapsing in on her. She imagined what she would do if it decided to disappear into the night with her riding its back. Where would they go?

A path meandered up. Creeks rushed across and down. She lightened her load by eating her snacks to the sound of songbirds. She made enough noise to scare snakes, but not enough to attract rogue mountain men—if there were any. Her aching feet refused to turn around. And when she reached the top after two full days of hiking, there was nothing.

There was no monk with a special cupboard. There was not even a fragile, crumbling structure of what once was. She knew the childhood stories that gave her so much peace were lies, but now it seemed hard to remember why she longed to face the ugly truth when lies were so lovely.

Callia unfurled her sleeping roll and plunked down, bone tired. Gazing into a sky of distant stars, feeling lonelier at the top than she had at the bottom, she tried finishing the story.

On the peak of that grassy mountain, the voyager found her golden pagoda, home to an ancient monk. He hobbled out with a crooked staff to greet the one who found her destination, but was still so lost.

“I’ve come with a question,” she would say.

“I know.” Taking her hands in his, the monk would lead her into his temple where fresh mountain air swept through open windows. They’d linger before a crystal cupboard.

“What is the secret to life?” Callia’s battered soul whispered. 

At the top of the world, or at least the valley, Callia sat up and opened her bag of Punch Crunch. She wallowed in fruit punch cereal proudly marketed as being fortified with iron. Life seemed a strange joke. One that made stars twinkle with giggles. Her mind spoke to her in her father’s voice.

The girl reached into the cupboard to uncork one of many clear bottles. She shook loose a rolled slip of paper. Fingers clumsy with something so delicate, she unfolded it with care.

It read: No one knows.

The other bottles glistened and she wondered if she grabbed the wrong one. The monk rested a wrinkled hand upon her shoulder. “Life could not be beautiful without the mysterious.”

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Juliana Amir is from Ohio. She has an MFA in fiction. She has a love for the stars and the spaces in-between.

Photo: Andrew Measham