Path of the Maru

“Cloaked in death

Far they venture.

In hope they follow

The path of the Maru.”

*

The cold is greater than Mante ever imagined. Even swathed in the fur of the Great Maru, it bites even through his fear as he trudges ever further from the warmth.

He carries two poles, one with a bulbous top the size of his gloved fist and the other with a blood-red flag, tapering to a point, flapping in the wind. Hope and resignation respectively. It is the dream of every man and woman to be the first to discover a new fountain of warmth and steam among the desert of ice and black rock.

Ever present in his mind is the knowledge that accompanies every searcher, to fall before reaching another fountain means to drive the red flag into the ice. First, the cold will take him, leaching his warmth. Then the Maru will take him, dragging his body away to leave the flag and the fallen flare as the only reminder that Mante ever lived.

But Mante doesn’t stumble, not yet. He is yet young to be a searcher. Most hold out against the inevitable journey into the cold, but not he. His people are getting desperate, the five fountains are overcrowded.

The first flag, a gash of colour against the black rock and the ever-shifting ice dust is a stark reminder of his likely fate. It lies at a crooked angle, fabric frozen in place. He doesn’t stop, but when he passes it, it stands straight.

Mante tightens his grip on his burden. From one flows a desperate fear and from the other the warmth of satisfaction. When his father searched, there hadn’t been a glow for fifty years. It was an accepted fact that they’d reached the edge of the habitable world, but still, the tradition lived on, if not only for practical reasons.

Then one year ago, almost in response to the crisis of space, came the first burning glow. The next volunteers came quickly, and a second flare quickly followed suit. Hope returned to his people, hoping that they could further expand their community perhaps even beyond the next fountain, unlocking a whole new swathe of ice and rock.

Celebrations continued for days. They bathed together in the steaming pools and made treacherous journeys between fountains to spread the news. But despite their newfound hope, nobody ever returned.

Thirteen red glows were spotted, all in the same place. His people swallowed their hope back down as the months dragged on and the conditions got worse. And so Mante volunteered.

At 59, Mante was the first to volunteer to search long before he was required to. His mate, Assander clung to his arm as he took his first step onto the ice. But as he slung the cloak of death around his shoulders and took in his hands his hope and failure, he knew he was meant for this.

When he turned back to his mate, Assander’s eyes were already distant, lost. It broke Mante’s heart as the man turned away, disappearing among the crowd. They were now just memories of warmth and companionship that would accompany him to the end.

But he will return. He will succeed where others had failed, their age and health not permitting the return journey. He will be the bearer of their salvation, a new fountain of steam and hot water to live around.

But as the day wears on, and the ever-grey sky begins to dim, his hope flickers. That is when he sees the Great Maru for the first time. With white fur as long as his forearm that conceals all but its black eyes and nose, it’s almost invisible against the ice. Death is here to guide him on his final journey.

The flags become more frequent, every few shuffled steps, a stick and flag lie in the snow or against a jagged rock. Another blows past him on its journey through the landscape of ice and black rock.

There is no sign of their once-bearers, of which he is glad. Some curse the great Maru for removing their dead. He thanks them now. For bodies here are ghostly white, the soul forever trapped in frozen eyes.

He wonders as he starts up a gentle slope if the Maru mind that he wears the coat of one of his kin to survive in such harsh cold.

Mange slips, his spiked boots grinding against a rock. The flags peter out here, perhaps a sticking point for the old and frail. Only one stands in his way now, a splash of red flapping at the top of the rise.

The Maru moves now, shifting forward under its great coat like some ghostly beast. He doesn’t fear it, not like he fears the cold. It will not chase him, and although he could outrun it for a while, soon it will catch him when he stumbled. No, these creatures know to wait until his shivering stops and his legs give way beneath him. Until after he plants that flag in the ground and signals to Death to retrieve his body.

But Mante is not here to die. He will find the fountain and live to make the return journey. And even if he doesn’t make it back, he will confirm its existence with a flare of hope. For Assander and the others to follow.

Mante can see why Death takes this hulking form in the scriptures, climbing from the ice to accompany him on his last journey. There is a finality about its cold company.

Yet as firm as his resolve holds, his legs are trembling and the cold seems to be lessening. Something within him is giving up, even as his mind struggles to remain in control. He feels the urge to pull off his coat and lie on the ice. He clasps his gloved hands tighter around the two poles and keeps moving.

Moments later he realises he’s crouching among the jagged rocks, face burning. He cries out and pushes himself back to his feet. He will not let the cold take him yet!

The slope evens out slightly before climbing ever higher. A second cluster of flags stands here, hidden from below and even a pole, its flag ripped away by the wind. But as it passes between him and the Maru, he recognises the black scorch marks of a flare.

He swings his head around, a sudden rush of excitement passing over him, just to be swept away when he sees nothing but ice and black rock. The cold could do that to someone, just as it could make them strip themselves of all their clothes.

The beast has overtaken him now, trudging up the slope. This is it, whatever is over that rise will be his last sight. He wonders if everyone comes to that sobering conclusion as they take their last steps. He’s unsure on which of the last few steps he lost hope, the hope that he might return, it’s just gone.

He’s halfway up when the shivering stops and with it, his legs. He stumbles and falls to the ground. Cold. So very cold. It soaks into him from his knees, from his hands as he grasps the two dropped poles, barely able to feel them.

He looks up from where he crouches, wheezing. Yet the two poles are in his grasp. Success and failure in their very essence, however he defines it. The Maru watches him, looking over its shoulder. For Assanda, he would do this. For his people, he would do this.

He tucks the flare under his arm and grasps the flag pole with two hands and instead of sticking it into the ice, he pushes himself back to his feet.

Two steps later and he’s back on his knees. He repeats this process, each time a little bit slower. He can now see scorched poles poking up from the crest of the hill. His heart leaps as more begin to peak from the ice and rock. There are flags as well, some shredded from age but he ignores those. Hope blossoms like a fire inside him as more and more poles with charred tops come into view.

He’s almost made it. There will be heat in the fountain. Warmth… He crests the hill and the landscape falls away in front of him. A haze of steam and foliage marks the edge of the fountain, the black rock exposed for a dozen paces around it. Tears of joy leak from his eyes as he basks in its heat. A haze of steam and foliage marks the edge of the fountain, the black rock exposed for a dozen paces around it.

He’s done it! And yet it is still a hundred paces away, tucked into the hollow of the hill. And lying there he realises that he can’t feel his legs any more, he can barely move his arms. He swallows but his throat is dry, freezing.

Even as heat washes over his face, he can hardly breathe. He turns and squints up at the Maru, watching it, completely oblivious to the wealth of heat and salvation that the new fountain offers. It doesn’t acknowledge that there is anything beyond the cold but then again, this is its home.

Mante opens his mouth to cry for help but no sound escapes. He closes it slowly. There will be no help from Death on this final journey, just guidance. Nobody returned from their search, at least not in a very long time, since the last of the known fountains was discovered.

He’s sorry. He’s sorry for Assanda, and the others he’s shared warmth with. But this isn’t for nothing. Maybe his mate will be the first to venture out after him. That thought comforts him slightly but he knows, deep down that it will not make his death any easier.

A renewed sense of vigour comes over him and he pushes himself to his knees and grabs the flare. With great effort, he wedges it between two black rocks.

He reaches up with another rock in his gloved hand and strikes against the shell, again and again. Nothing happens. He lets out a final wordless scream and strikes it with all his strength.

It flares to life, bathing him in flickering light as flames roar to life despite the wind. Mante’s job is done. They will come, a search party, the first to take the dangerous quest to find the newest fountain. One with enough resources to get that bit further from the last fountain.

The Maru watches from a distance now, wary of the light as Mante lies his hooded head down to the ground and feels the cold sink in further.

A time later, he can’t tell how long, when the darkness is almost upon them and the flare is but a memory, he shifts. One last look at his people’s new hope and Death, the Maru can have him.

But as he squints into the fading light, only the cold gleam of ice and rock stretches as far as he can see. No… He pushes himself further, looking over the rise’s top. Past the fourteen blackened sticks and towards…

Only the sight of the darkening wilderness greets him as the cold seeps deeper into his body and his eyelids grow heavy. There is no salvation here, no new fountain, just ice and black rock that continues down to the next rise. On and on it goes. He cries out again to the great Maru but it just watches him in the fading light as it has watched thirteen celebrate a victory held only within their minds. And as Mante’s eyes droop, all he can think of are those that will venture out after him, to find that their saviour was a figment of the searchers’ imaginations.