Cosmo Short Stories: "Prologue"

“At the time that Hima walks out of town, all the world is stilled. It is finished, they think. The skies silenced, the roads cleansed, the houses un-warmed, the whirr of machinery rumbling gently to a stop. They keep walking; here, cars and buses stopped plying decades ago, and the road lies un-mended. It ribbons on and on, and Hima must travel almost two hours to get to the village. They glance at the sky; daylight should last until then, but it might be wise to hurry. Some say the bears have made a reappearance in these parts, leopards some insist, others dacoits, and Hima wouldn’t like to play a part in proving them right. Or wrong.  Their footsteps echo in that certain way that enhances quietness. Goats on the slopes turn curiously. Large golden eagles swoop and circle overhead. All the pine trees, like everywhere else, are gone, and Hima is struck by a memory of their tall, towering shadows falling across roads, across grass in strange geometric arrangements. When they try to picture them though, they’re gone. The wind hums over the slopes, over knobbly boulders jutting out like knuckles from the earth, and dips unhindered over the edge.

Hima doesn’t tire easily, now that they haven’t lived in a city for so long, their lungs have cleared, their blood thickened, and their eyes sharpened, attuned to looking further, over longer distances, at clouds, storms, lightening. When they turn the corner, they come to an abrupt halt. They glance around. There’s no one. They bend to pick it up, the thing that’s lying on the road, shining in the late afternoon sun. Fallen out of a sack, a bag dangling over someone’s shoulder, rare and precious in this season—is it October or later?

Hima isn’t certain anymore.  

The village they are going to is secret, it cannot be seen from the road, built as it is on a ridge that overhangs the mountain. To get there one must cross to the other side of the slope. Hima steps off the path though, the one that would take them to the main street running through the village. Instead, they begin climbing. Small rocks come loose beneath their shoes, and at one point Hima must hold their hands out for balance.

The walk is short yet steep, and they are dizzyingly out of breath. At the top, they stop, and for a moment lean over. They stand, their eyes stung to sudden tears by the wind.

They find a spot between two rocks that feels like a seat; it must be comfortable for who knows how long they might stay. They place their backpack beside them; they have made it here with time to spare. The shadows are at their longest now, and the sun has only just begun to set. Before them, the Himalaya stretches from as far east as they can see to furthest west. It is only here, this little forgotten village in the lower slopes, which offers this view. They settle in, take a sip of water, and draw out the shining thing they’d plucked from the road: an orange. They peel it and the air is fresh with yellow citrus, their tongue tingles with a flavour that’s old, and new. The sun slides without moving behind the pale snowy peaks. Above them, the stars will soon burst. The fruit is finished. They dig out a woollen shawl to spread over their knees and shoulders. It will be cold this night. They look into the sky, and wait.”