Tom began walking home, his footsteps slow and thoughtful as the evening deepened around him. The cool air of the village wrapped gently around his shoulders, and a soft glow from the uniquely crafted streetlights lit his path in warm tones. As he made his way through the center of the village, he passed by the great statue that stood proudly in the town square — a tribute to his great-grandfather, the legendary miner who had once brought great fame and honor to their village.
The statue, made from solid, polished stone, depicted his great-grandfather in his later years — a stern, noble figure clad in traditional garments. In one weathered hand, the statue held a large stick, tall and straight, with a sharp point at its end. That stick, Tom knew, wasn't just a part of the sculpture. The real one still existed and had been passed down through generations. It now belonged to Mr. Bloom
The artists who had sculpted the statue had done a remarkable job. Every detail — from the worn folds of the miner's coat to the exact texture of the stick's wooden grain — had been carved with precision and reverence. Even the fine tip of the stick had been replicated exactly, giving the entire statue a lifelike aura. Tom had always thought the statue was a little too lifelike, especially that stick. When he was a child, he was always afraid of that stick
Just as that old childhood memory came back to him, something strange pulled him out of his thoughts.
"Eh?"
Tom stopped in his tracks. His eyes narrowed. There, balanced impossibly on the sharp stone point of the sculpted stick, stood a man — still as a statue himself — tall, thin, and cloaked in a dark, unfamiliar garment that shimmered faintly in the moonlight.
It was the same strange man Tom had seen once before, the one who had warned him not to go near the crystal ball.
He wasn't moving. He stood on the very tip of the statue's stick, defying gravity, his back perfectly straight, his arms held behind him, and his gaze fixed straight up at the sky. His expression was unreadable from this distance, but the intensity in his stance was unmistakable. He looked as though he were listening to something beyond the clouds — waiting, watching.
Tom didn't want to miss his chance to speak with the mysterious figure, so he mustered his courage and called out as clearly as he could, "Mr. Mountain Man, what exactly are you doing up there?"
The man remained perfectly still, his gaze fixed skyward, and he didn't even spare Tom a glance. After a long moment, he answered in a calm, matter-of-fact tone, "I'm looking up," as though the reason for his presence atop the statue's pointed stick needed no further explanation.
Tom watched him for a few more seconds, trying to make sense of the simple reply. Because the stranger's eyes were turned toward the heavens, his hood had slipped back just enough for Tom to see the full outline of his face. In the soft glow of the village lanterns, the man's features appeared surprisingly youthful—Tom guessed he must be in his twenties.
He stood there holding what appeared to be a sword. The blade and hilt were unlike any sword Tom had ever seen; the shape was unfamiliar and hinted at craftsmanship from far beyond their village. Slung at the man's side was another small tool, sheathed and hidden. The leather covering was so snug that Tom couldn't make out its shape or purpose.
"What exactly are you looking at?" Tom asked, peering up into the sky. "It looks perfectly normal tonight—nothing unusual up there."
The man remained unmoved, his gaze fixed intently on a single point in the darkness overhead. He didn't even glance toward Tom as he studied the sky. After a few more tense seconds, he spoke again, his voice low and measured: "They're back to fighting. The peace talks didn't work."
Tom frowned, taken aback by the statement. "What are you talking about?" he asked, his voice betraying a hint of worry. He couldn't help but wonder if the man had somehow lost touch with reality.
Without breaking his stare, the young man responded, "You won't be able to see it with your eyes alone." He paused, as though searching for the right words. "But there's a fierce battle happening up there—up among the stars. And… it's not really up there in the way you think. There isn't a single direction to point to, exactly."
Tom stood silently for a moment, absorbing the strange reply. The man's certainty was so absolute that Tom began to doubt his own senses. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, unsure of what to say next, as the stranger continued to watch the sky in perfect stillness.
"I don't know exactly what you're looking for," Tom said, keeping his eyes fixed on the dark expanse above them. "But wouldn't it be better to watch from the mountain? You'd be physically closer to the heavens there."
"Just because the mountain is high doesn't mean visibility is any better," the man replied without taking his gaze from the sky.
Tom shivered as he suddenly realized how near the stranger stood. He hadn't noticed the man's footsteps at all. "When did you—?" he began, startled.
"What does it matter?" the stranger interrupted coolly. Before Tom could even finish the question, the man reappeared atop the statue as if carried there by the wind. Tom blinked in disbelief, unable to comprehend how the man had moved so swiftly and silently.
The stranger leaned forward slightly and called down: "Boy, you're more than welcome to visit the mountain—just don't bring anyone else." And just like that, he vanished into the night air, leaving no trace behind.
Tom stood alone beneath the statue for several heartbeats, his breath coming in quick, shallow gasps. Though shaken, a spark of determination grew in his chest. He resolved that, as soon as he had the chance, he would make the climb and see for himself what mysteries the mountain held. Steadying himself, he lifted his head one final time to study the sky, half convinced the gods were indeed locked in battle among the stars. Then, with one last glance at the silent statue, he turned and continued on his way home.
"Tom," his father called as he stepped through the doorway, "tomorrow morning we're going to Mr. Bloom's. Since you don't have a partner this year, Mr. Bloom will take you on as his assistant and teach you the practical work."
"That's good," Tom said politely, then paused as the memory of the strange encounter came rushing back. "I saw that mountain man earlier."
"Oh, really?" his father's eyes lit up with genuine interest. "Did he tell you anything useful?"
Tom hesitated, unwilling to reveal the man's impossible appearances and disappearances. "Not much," he admitted finally. "He just told me I was more than welcome to visit the mountain." Tom offered a small shrug and, with that, let the matter rest.
"That's great!" his father exclaimed, practically sprinting off to get dressed. He moved so quickly that Tom barely had time to follow his progress from the doorway.
"Where are you running to?" Tom called after him, but his father was already darting around the bedroom, yanking shirts and trousers from the closet in a furious scramble. His shoes weren't even tied as he shoved them onto his feet.
"He's running because what the mountain man told you was a general invitation to visit the mountain," his mother explained kindly from the hallway. She folded her arms, watching his frantic activity. "Our village hasn't had any contact with the mountain people for over a decade. It's their custom that, once in a while, one of them comes down to extend an open invitation to everyone here. Then, traditionally, the assistant head miner and the village head make the journey up to speak with the mountain leaders."
Tom, feeling the weight of the late hour and the prospect of a long day ahead, didn't have the energy to listen to more explanations. He simply nodded, turned on his heel, and trudged up to his room. There, he promptly collapsed onto his bed and fell asleep almost instantly.
---
The next morning, Tom descended to the dining room to find it bathed in soft, golden light. His mother had risen before dawn and prepared a sumptuous meal: steaming bowls of porridge, fresh bread still warm from the oven, and a platter of assorted preserves. Tom settled into his chair and began to eat at a leisurely pace, savoring each bite.
His father, however, sat across the table in a sleepy haze. He picked at his food in a near-robotic fashion, eyes half-closed as though he might nod off at any moment. Tom took a final sip of his milk and—unable to suppress it—let out one enormous burp. At that, his father blinked rapidly, as if awakening from a deep trance.
"Let's go," his father finally said, shaking himself fully awake. He rose from the table with renewed energy and motioned for Tom to follow.
Outside, they strolled toward the metal tracks that bordered the village. The morning air was crisp, and the faint scent of wildflowers lingered along the path. After a brief wait, the distant whistle of the train reached their ears, and soon the vehicle rumbled into view, its wheels clattering rhythmically on the rails.
As they climbed aboard, the young conductor leaned out of the cabin window and greeted them by name. "Where to this time, Mr. K?" he called warmly.
"We'll get off at the mine offices," Tom's father replied, settling into his seat.
"Okay," the conductor said, quickly jotting down a note on his clipboard. Tom watched as he scribbled a reminder to stop later at Mr. Bloom and Jacques's shabby cabin.
---
Roughly half an hour later, the train slowed and came to a gentle halt beside a small wooden structure by the tracks. Tom stepped onto the platform and took in the familiar sight of Jacques's cabin. He realized that, given the length of Tim's previous tenure as assistant, he himself might remain in this role for many years to come—perhaps even until Mr. Bloom finally stepped down.
Pushing open the cabin door, Tom and his father entered to find Jacques seated behind a rickety desk, buried beneath a mountain of paperwork. The sun filtered in through a dusty window, illuminating the stacks of ledgers and forms that covered nearly every surface. Jacques looked up from his work, summoned them both with a weary wave, and resumed his place amid the paperwork that never seemed to end.
"Who's tougher," Jacques asked Tom without missing a beat, leaning back in his creaky wooden chair, "Mr. Bloom or—or," he paused thoughtfully as he tapped a pen against the desk, "the village headman?"
Tom studied Jacques's expectant gaze for a moment before answering. He knew Jacques enjoyed poking at people's reactions. "Mr. Bloom," he said at last, steadying his voice.
Jacques's lips curled into a crooked grin. "Tell me," he said, lowering his voice conspiratorially, "are you out of your mind? The village headman could tear Mr. Bloom to pieces if he wanted."
A low, strange chuckle escaped Jacques, echoing off the dusty shelves. Then he sat forward again and fixed Tom with a piercing look. "You know, Simon is a piece of shit."
Tom glanced over at his father, who was browsing through a stack of ledgers with feigned indifference. Seeing no sign of offense on his father's face, Tom realized Jacques was merely using his usual brash language. He turned back to Jacques. "Why do you say that?" he asked, curiosity overcoming any discomfort.
"Yesterday I went to him," Jacques began, folding his arms and leaning back once more. "I asked him about a certain state of matter—something I thought he'd know. Do you know what he told me?"
Tom shook his head. "No," he replied quietly.
Jacques threw his head back and burst out laughing, the sound startling in the quiet cabin. "He told me to look in the library," Jacques gasped between laughs. "A piece of shit is what it is." His laughter faded as quickly as it had begun, and he grew serious again. "But that's not how you do things. You have to help other people, not just send them off to look for answers on their own."
Tom nodded thoughtfully, considering Jacques's words, and they continued their conversation, voices low as the late-morning light filtered through the dusty windowpanes.
Just then, the door swung open and Mr. Bloom entered, his presence commanding the cramped space. "How are you, Jacques?" he asked, folding his arms behind his back.
"I'm fine," Jacques replied, shifting to sit more attentively. "Everything's fine. Would you care for some coffee?"
Mr. Bloom offered a small smile but shook his head. "No, thank you. I'll have some after I talk with young Tom for a bit." He turned his gaze to Tom, and the cabin settled into a respectful hush as father and mentor prepared for their private discussion.
Tom and his father stepped into Mr. Bloom's office. This time Tom took a moment to look around. A large, sturdy table dominated the center of the room—big enough to seat at least six people for a meeting. The walls were lined with shelves holding strange, leather-bound books and all manner of curiosities that Mr. Bloom had undoubtedly collected over the years.
"The village head and I have spoken," Mr. Bloom began, producing a pouch of smoking material from his desk drawer. "We've agreed to make the journey up the mountain in the near future." He offered a pinch of tobacco to Mr. Kay.
"No, thank you," Tom's father replied politely. "My grandfather always taught me never to smoke with strangers."
Mr. Bloom nodded respectfully and continued, "Anyway, Tom, you are going to come with us there because you are my assistant from today."
Tom's heart leapt with excitement, but his father's expression grew more serious. "Don't worry, Mr. Kay," Mr. Bloom said as he lit his long pipe. "I've already obtained special permission from the village head. I'm certain you wouldn't want to send your son alone to such a dangerous place."