From halfway up the Red Mountain, I can see the sea shining like a mirror. I have to hold my hand up to shield my eyes or I will be blinded.
I do not want to be blind to all this beauty.
Behind me, the huge lake stretches out, sleeping but always ready to drown another village built of hubris on its banks.
All around me, the air holds the heavy scent of pine.
I don’t fear the wild boars in this moment. Nor do I fear the wild young men who trek up here in their jalopies and their loud motorbikes and perch at the roadside to drink beer and admire the view. And to be alone. To be free, like I am free here.
From here I can see all the places I wrap with the sweet warmth of the word home. I see the bustling town, where years ago I stepped off a bus with a toddler, two red suitcases, and a dream of a new and better life. I see the verdant hills, where the earth still offers up her vegetables to those who know how to find them. I see the vast, flat landscapes of agriculture: orchards rich with lemons, oranges, pomegranates; fields of corn and hay; sleek plastic greenhouses where tomatoes and strawberries grow fat and juicy. I see the village with its stone tombs chiseled into cliffsides, its sleepy river where sea turtles sometimes surface.
And connecting the town and the village, the straight gray stripe of road. And connecting the village and the sea, the serpentine river, its curves traced endlessly by slow-moving boats coming and going, going and coming.
This mountain, when I am not on it, is like an ever-present protector, a reminder that there is one place in this dangerous world where I can be safe. I can see it from the village, from the farms, from the far edge of the town. I can see it from the moving boats as it slips between the cliffs and the reeds.
But today I am on the mountain, walking along the red dirt road that runs like a scar, cutting the mountain in two. Above and below. Heaven and earth.
Walking on this road is like walking a labyrinth in a straight line.
Behind me, a sudden commotion breaks the spell of my concentration. A frenzy of motors, of male voices, of dust.
I glance over my shoulder once, then resume my walk.
Suddenly there is jeering. Whistling. Words I hesitate to put down here.
I ignore the voices, but they persist. One man follows me, calling out to me.
I turn around and face the man. I glare.
A snorting, a rumbling. Behind me now are new sounds, a new threat.
But not to me.
I step aside to let it pass, hugging the mountainside as it races past me and barrels toward my pursuer.
The man shouts, turns to run.
It’s too late. I watch as the enormous wild boar, easily four times the average size for its species, smashes its head into the terrified man. The momentum carries him over the edge. Only his helpless scream remains as he plummets down the steep slope.
The other men scramble onto their motorbikes and race back in the direction they came from.
The boar turns toward me. Its tiny black eyes glint in the late afternoon sun. It lets out one low grunt, seeming to almost bow its powerful head to me. Then it trots past me and disappears.
I don’t fear the wild boars on this mountain. Nor do I fear the wild young men.
The Red Mountain is my protector.
Important note: This piece describes a real location, but the events narrated in the second part of the story are purely fictional. I am fortunate enough never to have been harassed in this beautiful, sacred location. If you recognize the place from its description, please keep in mind that while the “wild young men” are real, they have never bothered me or done anything untoward, aside from perhaps littering.
This piece was written in response to a prompt from
:I want you to write a love letter to your favourite place. It can be a person, a place, a foodstuff, a narcotic. Anything you want.
Thank you as always to Anomie for the writing prompt!
Great writing . Thank you.
This reads like myth disguised as memory. The mountain isn’t just landscape — it’s character, guardian, witness, and judge. The sensory calm (pine, sea, orchards) makes the sudden shift into danger hit even harder, and the boar’s bow seals it as legend. A love letter that turns into folklore — breathtaking.