A mossy-brown fawn edged along the river and was greeted by a centipede. The insect was long and black. He crept over the soil in a steady, hovering rhythm on his hundred legs. The fawn was startled and recoiled.

“You don’t have to worry.” Advised the insect. “I know I might be strange, with my many legs under me, but I’m harmless. I am looking for the Mountain.”

‘Sorry.’ Answered the fawn. He was disquieted.

“How should I address you?” Continued the insect. He coiled his body, and he lifted his head like a serpent. This was his conversational stance. “This is cause for introduction.”

“I am a fawn. My mother and father call me son. My siblings call me brother.”

The centipede, although his eyes and mouth were indistinguishable, was covertly pleased. “Then I will call you fawn. And you shall address me as Holiness — I am a practicing monk.”

The fawn, after a while, became attuned to the insect’s unsettling, undulating motion. He asked His Holiness, “Who is the Mountain?”

“I can’t say. I’ve been scrutinizing the area. I can’t get a clear viewing position.” He paused, and a thoughtful twitch ran through his body. “We could be on it.”

“Then the Mountain is under us?”

“Or above us. I am travelling upstream, by the river.”

“And will the Mountain talk with you there?”

“It might, might not. It has been quiet so far.”

The fawn settled, and after some discussion he was puzzled. They agreed that the arthropod would climb up his tail and rest on his back. They would continue upward, and given the opportunity would interrogate the Mountain. Day turned to twilight, and in a bed of yellow sour-grass and nettle they came upon a hedgehog.

The hedgehog looked up from a deceased worm he was inspecting. “What an unsettling duo.”

“Good day hedgehog! We’re looking for the Mountain. We assume this way?” The bug called, lifting a single leg.

“The Mountain? You’re asking too many questions. The Mountain, and I know it personally, won’t be pleased.”

The centipede looked thoughtful, despite his indiscernible features.

“Would you tell the Mountain we have business with it? We have questions, forms to be filled out.”

The Urchin scoffed and spat on the ground.

“She gives, she takes. She rises and falls. She directs wind and water. She doesn’t have time for your silly questions! What forms? What on earth is paperwork? I warn you — don’t answer me. I’m busy.” The hedgehog, spikes now erect, spat again as he turned on his heels and disappeared into the undergrowth.

“Perhaps we’ll never know.” Considered the fawn, sadly. With his eyes he traced their path to where grey, jagged rock met silver cloud.

“Perhaps not.” Said His Holiness. Although his eyebrows were quite invisible, he must surely have raised one. They climbed a distance to the peak, where the rock became bare, and no grass or yellow flowers grew.

“Ahem.” The centipede cleared his throat, as though to catch the attention of someone unsuspecting.

“Your Holiness. There’s no-one here.” The fawn remarked, breaking a moment of patient silence. He had expected something to materialize out of the pale blue sky, where early stars had taken light. Or maybe, like a stick-insect in sudden motion, a figure would reveal itself across the stony terrain, from clever grey camouflage. This would be the mountain.

“I wonder,” said His Holiness, after a while. There is no way of telling, but he looked particularly contemplative.

His Holiness curled into a ball, closed his eyes and slept. The fawn sat on thick grass and watched the light fade. A patch of cloud rolled across the darkness; it looked like a hole in the half-lit sky. He tracked it across a cluster of stars and before he knew where it meant to go, he was asleep.

For a time, it was dark. Then the sun, in pink and gold, painted the underbelly of the sky. His Holiness was first to unfurl, quietly forming a stance from where he could review his surroundings.

“Good morning.” A stranger spoke.

The insect started. He focused on the newcomer. A snail, black like a polished stone. It extended two antennae and radiated an air of impatience.

“This mammal is in my way.”

The fawn, soundly asleep, paid no attention. He continued his rhythmic cycle of breath.

Centipede, sympathetic to his young friend, put forward a case to the Gastropod.

“Good snail, can you make your way around the mammal? You see, we had a long day previous.”

“Can I go around the mammal?” The creature bayed, indignant.

His Holiness sat on his hundred legs. “Am I to assume you cannot?”

“Are you to assume?! Drat, have you no eyes? Do you see who you’re talking to?”

“You are a snail, sir.”

“Madame.” Announced the gastropod.

“I do apologize.”

“We snails have no excess of time.”

The arthropod knew too well about the exacting schedules to which snails subject themselves. If the fawn was not awakened, there would be an array of gastropods here by next week demanding answers. By that late hour no-one would be around to offer recompense. From this only further scheduling drama could ensue — it was necessary to act.

“Young fawn.” Began the insect, “Get up.”

The fawn did not stir.

“Mammal!” Cried the snail.

The fawn remained asleep.

“Dear fawn!” His Holiness entreated, approaching his ear. “This passing gastropod tells of a disastrous chain of events. You must move, or snails everywhere will come out of sync.”

The fawn stirred. He opened his marble brown eyes to look at the snail.

“If you’ll excuse me.” Gesticulated the snail, waving thin antennae. He shook off his sleep and stood up

“Great mire above, they’ll have me salted. I’m ten paces behind schedule. Do you know how rare it is? A snail does not arrive late, and arriving early is in bad taste! Eagerness begets incaution.”

The fawn, uncertain, apologized. “Can I carry you?”

“Surely he can rectify the schedule.” Agreed the insect, perched in a spiral.

“Surely? You’ve obstructed me! You must.”

“Obstru…?” The fawn looked with wide, childish eyes at the centipede. His Holiness raised an imperceptible eyebrow. The insect crawled up the fawn’s tail. The gastropod followed.

“Hold it!” She swayed back and forth as he walked. “You’re going to toss me off! Marauding thing!”

“Do you think she’s looking for the mountain?” The fawn spoke to the insect, ignoring her.

The snail quit herself, withdrawing her antennae. She looked as one looks upon having a sudden realization. “So, you’re the two out asking questions?”

“Questions that need answering.” Replied the bug, raising his intangible eyebrow. In turn, the gastropod afforded him a knowing glance. Her whiskers vibrated, and her tone became delicate and suggestive.

“I often wonder. I might have heard a whisper here.. or there.” She motioned, with a thin tentacle, to a path just ten paces back.

His Holiness cursed his own ignorance. Beavers are known to purvey answers, and at the end of the path lay a dam.

The young mammal set the snail back on course and the two were at peace. Alone again, the duo looked over the valley. They surveyed the coils of a rocky stream as it spilt into the blue-gray sea.

“She was late.” Said the mammal. He looked over the water, where the morning sun cast a glinting silver reflection. “Will we find the mountain today?”

“Snails are meticulous creatures. Expert charters. One cog out of place and the whole machine goes into free-fall.” His Holiness explained. “We will go to the dam and consult the beavers.”

They followed the beaten trail and passed a thicket of green brambles. The fawn ate ripe blackberries, while His Holiness made breakfast of a dead moth. They came into a green-glowing forest of oak, where birds sang the morning song and bluebells frosted the undergrowth.

The fawn froze. He caught sight of a tall and frightening bear. His claws were like knives, his fur coat thick and brown.

“Who is that?” He whispered. “Your Holiness, I feel afraid.”

“That’s a bear. Remain calm, don’t be a slave to instinct.”

“What is instinct?” The poor fawn shuddered.

His Holiness pondered the question as they moved forward. The bear, heedless, was carefully examining the undergrowth. It lifted a nut to inspect.

“Instinct, child, helps us make decisions by way of good and bad feeling.”

“Instinct is a friend?”

“Instinct means well but can be wrong, like anyone.”

“Should we hide?”

“We can proceed with caution. You’re quick – you’re a deer after all.”

The bear sighted them and quit his forage. He enlivened, raising a hand to block the light and scrutinize the duo. The bug curled up his hundred legs. He prepared, if necessary, to outwit the beast. The fawn stood trembling, even as the bear raised a friendly hand. He stopped and inclined against a nearby tree.

“Good morn’ to ye both good travelling companions. And a curious pair ye’ are.”

“Good morning! Or have we come to the noon?”

“I haven’t time well-kept today, good insect. Much to be found in and around the trees, good heaven and bounty.”

“You’ll forgive us, gentle bear, if we mistook you for a predator.”

The bear laughed, and with his paw clapped the tree. “Me’ days as an eater of your like have passed, good insect.”

He came closer. He looked at the arthropod. “You’re a long sort of thing, and I would have had a feed of ye’ in my former years, if you’ll take no offense. I went off your kind when I made the friendship of a caterpillar.” He paused in sudden contemplation, looking into the forest. “Then a mole took me’ dear caterpillar away.”

“Will you eat me?” Bid the fawn, still shivering.

The Ursine, now visibly emotional on recalling his dear caterpillar, gathered himself. “Calm your wee head. If I had blood-lust, I don’t no-more. Your good insect comes from a family of frightening fu..” He stopped himself from swearing. “With no offence. He and I put away blood-lust, would’ seem.”

“You, Holiness?” Inquired the fawn.

“My kind are a predatory stock, but I’ve taken my vows. I wouldn’t harm a fly. I take nourishment of the sun and such creatures already dead.” Expounded the bug.

The bear straightened himself, realizing the arthropod was a monk.

“Your Holiness.” He stuttered, timorously. “Awful good a’ ye to take a student of this young fella.”

The bug cast a covert smile. The bear was at ease.

“We’re heading down to the dam, friendly bear. We have questions for the beavers.”

“And what questions are they? Only I’ve heard tales of a strange duo out we’ questions.”

“Word travels fast.” 

His Holiness looked bemused, although you couldn’t tell. He recalled the angry hedgehog they had encountered the evening last. Hedgehogs are not known for being co-operative, but they are certainly known for hearsay and gossip. 

“And meanin’ no offense, Holiness.” The bear cleared his throat. “Only we’ve all asked ourselves, here and there, where the Mountain might be. And myself? I’m huntin’ nuts.”

“You mean you couldn’t find the mountain?” Inquired the fawn.

“I’ve heard, without asking mind ye’, not to look hard or far. All I’m sayin’ young fella.”

The arthropod looked, as he often does, very secretly amused. He could sense truth in the simple bear’s wisdom. They were of a kindred spirit, if they had little in common by looks.

The bear suggested a detour to his den for afternoon tea. In the bushes he had built a comfortable grove of sticks and leaves. Above, sunlight sank through the canopy and dyed the whereabouts green. The air was clear, and the birds performed an afternoon number. He set himself down carefully in the grotto. He produced three shells sufficient for tea. From among rusty pots, fabrics and dried flowers he pulled two grey stones. He struck them over dry leaves in a fire pit.

Soon there was a fire. A metal teapot was hung from a chain, and in went such assortments of dried flower, herb and powder. When the fawn’s tea was carefully ladled, he was excited by the aroma. Flowery, spicy or earthy. His Holiness tasted the mixture. He had long heard about the intricate potions of these foragers. Long heard but never partaken, because in some circles he was a part of the recipe.

“I hab burm, my tum.” Slurred the fawn with his tongue loose. He looked to his companions. Steam wafted from the tea below him.

“We should have let the tea stand for one to two minutes before serving. As is the industry recommendation.” Announced the centipede.

Flustered and uncertain, the dear bear feigned agreement, presenting the fawn with a shell of cold water, who dipped his tongue and was relieved.

“Delicious.” Complimented the bug. He lowered his invisible lips into the shell and drank inaudibly.

“Ye’ flatter me Holiness.”

The fawn waited for his tea to cool before he lapped it. A few minutes of conversation spun between his companions, and he felt a lightness come over him — a health of spirit. His Holiness noted the same, so he inquired as to the nature of the tea.

“Mushrooms, good insect. What thon’ beaver might tell ye’, this tea a’ mine tells twenty times more.”

“My dear Bear. Non-consensual intoxication is in bad form.” Scolded the bug.

“Have yer’ wits on ye’, good insect! Intoxi..? Oni’ happy wisdom.”

“I feel great.” The fawn observed. He looked around the scene, his previous anxieties regarding the mountain, the beaver, the bear — they all seemed so small.

“Young fella.” Began the bear, who was on his second or third shell, and whose eyes had swollen into great black dics. “It’s a touch a’ magic.”

The wise arthropod, before he could combat the intoxicant, had been alleviated of his worries. There were, of course, not many after years of studious meditation. He looked around at his dear fawn, then at the friendly bear. He smiled, this time somewhat perceptibly. After watching for a moment, he curled into a meditative stance and went about reciting his mantras.

“O’ thou — who give sustenance… From which all things… To which all things… A disk of golden… The true, spiritual…”

The bear listened attentively. He felt himself the bugs’ congregant. He pondered the cryptic utterings, and lulled himself into an afternoon nap.

When the air slipped past the fawns’ nose, he could taste it. His legs, when he stood to walk through the undergrowth, held no sensation. He slipped into a dream-world. A frog jumped, and behind it lit a trail of arched white light, like a moon-ray in the corner of his eye.

A bug chirped on a tree. He came to inspect it. The air around the creature reverberated and rippled. He felt the sound wash across his fur, like a tongue almost, somewhere in distant memory. The sun above, still obscure, winked like an eye. He was unsteady, he staggered and fell. On the ground, a bluebell turned to greet him. Its’ azure petals twirled like sycamore seeds. They lifted into the air and spun around his head. Far above, birds in the throes of an afternoon symphony echoed and rang in strange new swells.

From there, a vast and black expanse opened like a mouth and took him. There was his mother, as she had towered in far, fond memories. He hung through the black toward her, and again felt the long-forgotten glide of a tongue across his fur. There were sounds of howling in the night, there were soft white worms for breakfast. The water from the river was so cold back then – it stung his little teeth. He turned to her, but she was gone, and in her place was the Mountain.

“Where has my mother gone?”

“She’s safe at home. You’ve stayed out longer than usual! You should send word to her with a bird.”

“When can I go back to my friends?” The fawn was afraid. This was not the normal world.

“Maybe you’ll stay here forever.”

“But why?” His fear grew sharper. 

“I’m only joking.”

The Mountain looked at the fawn with a hundred unblinking eyes and then with none. It scratched his ears like the branch of a tree, and then blew around him like a gust of air. It fought with him playfully like another fawn and then showered his fur with cold, fresh rain.

“You haven’t found me yet, you know. You’re on your way to see… Remind me?”

“The beavers. At the dam.”

“Then you’d better get a move on.”

The void beneath him sloshed like a dark sea. He was sucked away by unseen currents. The salt stung his eyes, and the cold stunned his skin. He seen shoals of glowing fish. Then giant shadows with huge fins and sharp teeth. Long tailed lily pads with eyes. Ghostly mushrooms, hovering above two-hundred tails.

When he opened his eyes, he was by the fire. The afternoon now approached evening, and His Holiness chanted in slow, metered locution. The bear listened on. The centipede stopped his recital. 

“Dear Fawn.” 

“Good waken’ son. And how was yer’ journey?”

“I met my mother. Then I think I met the Mountain.”

The bear laughed, and the arthropod listened. His Holiness pressed him further. 

“And what did it look like, child? Can the beast be sexed? Was it corporeal?” 

“The Mountain got me wet and tossed me around. It licked my fur and told me that I’d better get a move on.’” 

“To get a move on?” The bug was bewildered. 

Afterward, they resolved to set off at once. The friendly Ursine, having been scolded for beguiling them into a visionary state, was apologetic. 

“I had to set the young fella’ straight, wise and lengthy insect.” 

“He’s my student, is he not?” 

“We’re all students, meanin’ no disrespect of course yer’ Holiness.” 

The centipede felt a clandestine wellness after this reflection. He had not regarded spectral entities or observed mystical sensations. A simple presence of mind was all he encountered. A presence which, in the long pursuit of lofty theory and theology, he had mistakenly lost sight of. His Holiness conceded that he would return to the bear’s den another time and triple his dosage. 

The journey continued. A gate stood before a wooden bridge to the beaver’s dam when they reached the mouth of the pond. On the roof of the bridge stood an imposing lady-beaver. She was armed with a long sword, in sheath. She wore a gold-plated steel helmet and a wide chest plate. She did not move as the fawn approached, but looked at him intently. 

“Good knight of the dam!” Cried the centipede, who perched on the fawns back. 

The knight studied the fawn. She did not notice His Holiness. She addressed the Cervine in a hoarse and commanding voice. 

“You sound, youngster, like a bug. Now how can that be?” 

“What? My friend is on my back, he is a bug.” Retorted the fawn. 

The beaver knelt and examined the fawn closer. She spotted His Holiness, and she stood to attention. Clearly horrified.

“Bringing one of those forsaken legged’ snakes down here to poison us! Hellfire wouldn’t do it justice, and you carry the monster on your back like a babe!” 

“You’ve misjudged me!” Called the insect. “I come here in peace, and in want of learning!” 

“When I met him, I was afraid. But he’s good. We’re looking for the Mountain.” Asserted the fawn, who had taken offense to the knights prejudices. 

“Alright, alright.” She clambered down to the water-level and opened the gate. “Come, strange pair.” 

“All forgiven.” Consoled the bug. “My kind do have a history of senseless murder, I grant you. A drop of my poison can kill a bull; but I am fond of bulls. As a culture, we arthropods have been undergoing reforms.” 

“You’re an anomaly, insect.” Said the beaver sternly. “You’ll allow me to announce your arrival inside before we continue.” 

“You can introduce us as His Holiness the Centipede, and his student The Dear Fawn.” 

“Holiness?” The knight exclaimed. “You are full of surprises. When last I met a crawling snake with legs I was robbed. Perhaps I was drunk, but I tell you that cheating serpent rigged the fucking dice.” 

The dam was a meticulous structure characterized by tall, ribbed ceilings and pointed arches. Inside, a crowd of curious spectators had gathered to welcome the new arrivals. Beavers in strange, archaic costumes hunched over tables in the dimly lit hall. They sat on pews and studied weary paper scrolls. They etched strange symbols on large wooden tablets. 

“His Holiness, the Centipede, and his student Dear Fawn.” Announced the knight. Her introduction was met with grunts and low chatter. A lady wrapped in tightly woven twig and flower stepped forward, and raised a magnifying spectacle to her eye. 

“Holiness! So many legs!” 

“The pleasure is all mine. Where legs are concerned, I’ve been generously afforded.” 

“Very many legs.” Agreed the fawn, sincerely. This amused the company.

“We have come to find out about the Mountain.” 

The flowered beaver, whose small black eyes regarded all carefully, invited them to sit. She had long whiskers and a fat brown tail. His Holiness curled up on a pew by a tall window. The glass was stained in colour by scenes of logging and construction. Fires burned on sticks hung above.

“Isn’t everyone looking for the Mountain? What do you know so far?” 

His Holiness contemplated her question. He looked at his student. The fawn recollected clues.

“It may be below us; it may be above us. It controls the wind and the water. It doesn’t have time for our silly questions. It came to me in a vision, it licked me and told me to get a move on.” 

“You’ve come to the right place. The Mountain will need to know what you’re about before I can arrange anything.”

“How clear it all becomes!” Laughed the insect, quite imperceptibly. “We were meaning to ask the Mountain the very same thing.”

“We want to know what it’s up to.” Continued the fawn.

The beaver paused.

“It’s as I feared. We’ve come to a paradox.” 

“A paradox? What does it mean?” 

The beaver smiled a coy smile. She smacked her tail on the wood with amusement. 

His Holiness raised an invisible eyebrow. “Our paradox, if I understand you, good warden, is that the Mountain wants to know our business — and our business concerns the Mountain’s business. In turn, we’ve come to ascertain the Mountain’s business, but his business, as things currently stand, concerns primarily; our business.” 

“Precisely.” Said the beaver.

“Stop this.” Whispered the fawn. 

“It is a strange and wonderful world.” Said the centipede. “I feel a weight off my shoulders.” 

“Which set of shoulders?” She smacked her tail again.

The beavers studied. There were little fires around them, where soup and stew boiled in cauldrons. Like the bear’s tea it was served in shells. The soup was thick, red and salty. The stew was hot, with soft vegetables and tender cubes of something orange. His Holiness was brought a platter of dead things which met his ethical requirements. The fawn was given a shell filled with milk for dessert. 

“What about the mountain, Holiness?” 

“The mountain is looking for itself.” 

“We should bring the mountain a mirror.” 

“You out-do yourself. Don’t you understand? The mountains’ business is our business. And maybe everyone else’s too.”  

The fawn decided to stop caring. He thought forward to breakfast. 

After food and drink in the dam they rested well. The fawn woke before sunrise. He stepped out to the bridge, where he looked across the landscape under moonlight. The coast was black, white and grey. It advanced as far as he could see. Through trees, the sea looked ruffled in lilac. The sky was clear, and the morning number was beginning. He saw a blackbird perched on a branch nearby. 

“Bird!” 

“Yes?” 

“Would you carry a message?” 

“To whom?” 

“My family. Have you seen deer? 

“I’ll know someone who has.” 

“Can you tell them not to worry? I’ll come home soon.” 

The blackbird hopped over to the bridge. It inspected the spots on the fawns back for reference. Birds are known for their photographic memory.

“I’ll pass it on. They’ll hear by tonight I’m sure.” 

The fawn looked behind, past the Dam and up the path they’d trekked down. He saw the Mountain, then, which held the fog around it almost lovingly.