Photo by Sven Scheuermeier on Unsplash
They said the Mountain called Joy was a place where one went to raise the divine sparks imprisoned in one’s self. To alleviate and liberate the things blocking you from happiness. Great explorers ventured up the Mountain for centuries but were unable to reach the summit. They wanted to ascend the Mountain and converse with Angels, who slept in the clouds circling the peak. It was said that when you reached the summit, an Angel might give you a word of advice wrapped in riddles.
One day, a man named Don—a singer who feared to sing in front of an audience— climbed to the mountain's summit and sung on the cliff. Even though he was tired from climbing, he sang a heart-wrenching song, changing the sky colors from blue to green. During that night a full moon rose behind the Mountain, giving the cooled layers of lava and ash a radiant emerald glow. An Angel appeared from out of the clouds, causing the sky to fill up in blue light. He was enchanted by his voice, a voice with a dash of silver that could be heard across the mountain.
The angel looked into Don’s soul and thought: he does not know who he really is or the talents he has.
“It is by Suffering that Human Beings Become Angels,” he told Don, who was awed at the sight of the Angel.
From that day on, he made the Mountain his home, accepting gifts from his special Angel to make life habitable.
“Why me? Why do you give so much? Others can do much better than I—I know this. Others are more adept than I.”
To this, the Angel replied, “Comparison to one’s self brings improvement; Comparison with others brings discontentment.”
A group of false prophets, masquerading as pilgrims, heard the bird calls and followed them to the Mountain of Joy. “Listen: Do you not hear what the birds say? It is from the mountain that is calling, and we must go,” said Fon, who was the wanderer’s commander, seeking to exploit the wonder of Joy.
“Somewhere between the base of the mountain and the summit is the answer to the mystery and gifts we—I, seek.” Along the five thousand-foot climbs to the mountaintop was a series of humped crystallized rocks. While climbing, small pebbles caused some of his followers to stumble.
“Not all will be able to reach the peak. Many will be left behind, which is proof they were unprepared to become an Angel. Come! Do not let the gravel slip beneath your feet, but look at what you will become,” Fon proclaimed. Many of his followers kept slipping on the pebbles, falling to their death. Fon went further up. He thought of escaping, feeling powerless, dependent. If he reached the peak, he would be treated like a King.
Upon reaching the peak, Fon and his exhausted travelers found Don. The patch of land Don lived on was leveled and flattened to make space for a small cabin and farm. Fon humbly told Don why they had come, for they were tired of being looked down on by the world. They sought a place where Angels would be able to glance at them from above and restore their faith in man and allow them to have joy. “I followed the bird’s tweet, heard them saying how human beings become Angels here. I heard it myself.”
Don did not correct Fon’s mishandling of the quote, for he was pleased that someone had heard his voice and come.
“After climbing up these hills, you will find that there are more mountains to climb before you achieve joy. This is what you seek? Joy? Is it not?”
“Yes.”
“Then, I welcome you. I have joy here, and soon shall you. The world I left could not give it to me. I have found it here, a place away from all man’s made-up isms.” Don led them to a spot where they would build, for Don enjoyed solitude and did not want his peace disrupted. He led them far away from his enclave and assured them he would be “an umbrella for you, when it rains,” and returned home.
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Months later, an army of engineers and architects flooded the Mountain. Fon configured his side of the Mountain like toys stacked by an industrious child. By devising and using tools, Fon’s skilled engineers made life habitable for the growing population. The land stretched even further between them and Don’s tiny sufficient enclave to the castle-like domes the nomads had built. On any pleasant day, one could spot someone walking a coyote on a leash through the bush. Along a paved walkway, wagons were driven, and plows were used to urbanize the Mountain, adding more things, leveling the road, and digging holes through the rock.
To welcome them even more, Don cultivated a garden with apple trees towering to the sky. Don was surprised at these migrants, who paid little care to the land or tree. He knew others who visited the Mountain before valued simplicity. They left to share their wonders with the world below, leaving Don with many tools, heartfelt gifts, and praises of thanks. But these migrants lived lavishly.
Nevertheless, Don was happy that people had come to experience the Mountain. He did notice how beaten down and disheveled they were: matted dreadlocks, overhanging nails, body odor that made animals run away. He saw himself as giving them a path to go over the things that blocked them from glory.
Some questioned Don’s generosity, wondering why he was so gracious and giving. Don told them, “See that cloud there? Every so often, I sing to an Angel that sleeps inside the mist. The Angel taught me many things. Such as when you have no enemies within yourself, there will be less around you,” (And when one person causes others pain, they are also giving wisdom).
“How does it look? The Angel?” Fon hissed.
“I have only seen him once. He has hair like a lamb, and his skin is sable. I will join him when my time here is done.”
Many months went by, and the travelers believed Don was just singing into thin air.
"Have you seen this? Look how beautiful it is,” a Pilgrim said, bouncing lightly, picking vegetables from her garden. “I just planted this here collard greens yesterday.
Even on days when the weather was cold and biting, Don tamed the wildness of winter when he sang, allowing them to not have to wear a coat. Yellow roses bloomed in the snow.
“How can we speak to an Angel?” Fon asked, swallowing frequently. Fon stepped close to Don, breathing heavily. Don moved back, lifting his head to look straight into Fons’ eyes.
“I have sung for an Angel for you, but they do not come. I wonder why they refuse. Hmm.”
“Fine, then I will get one myself,” Fon said, his jaw pained from clenching. After Fon and his cohorts left, Don saw how ungrateful they were. He then understood that not all who came would do not deserve to be on the mountain. If he stayed here and did not succumb to the mountain’s influence, Don would have them leave.
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Fon tried to think of ways he would be able to speak with the Angels like Don. First, he had his lambs carve and chisel a staircase leading up to the swirling clouds. Even in the rain, they continued to build, knowing that whenever one had fallen, others eagerly took their place. Fon ordered them to keep working, to prove their devotion to seeing the Angel.
When the staircase to Heaven was completed and secured, it took many days for people to climb to the clouds. Below, one saw a surface of farmland and magnificent castles – all those irrigated circles and squares, stretched out below them. They had tilled land, sowed, sprayed, guarded, and harvested the area, creating perfect, geometric shapes out of which tall miniature homes stood, resembling toy palaces. Fon led the way and stuck his head in the cloud and shouted into the mist. He cried for an Angel to come to him, saying his followers wanted one.
When Fon returned from looking into the cloud, all he saw were his lambs eagerly waiting to hear what they Angel said. Fon coughed, walking down the stairs, pushing people aside to get off the staircase. Later, Fon created a statue of gold and placed it as an offering for the Angel. He left other gifts of food in the town, hoping they would come and show themselves to his people. The clouds moved to Don’s side of the Mountain and parted to allow the sun to shine on his land.
The cloud never returned to Fon’s side.
An Angel awoken, saw what Fon had done, and spoke to Don while he sang at his home. “Let your conscience be a warning. You tell him what he should not do -- but it does not keep him from doing it. Develop your voice and inner conscience, for it will warn you when someone is not right.”
At seven o’clock one evening, a delicate sound crawled gently into the ears of the travelers: the soft timbre that rang in their ears nightly. Fon was not so impressed with Don’s voice anymore and compared his singing to a coyote’s howling. He secretly was jealous of Don because he was not born with any talents. Fon inspired people into action with fear, for the kindness he believed can make one unstable to follow orders. Fon feared he was lowered in his status hierarchy for not being able to speak to an Angel.
Despite Fon’s complaints of the singing, Don’s serenading caused the flowers and vegetables to blossom and ripen.
###
That evening, Fons’ lambs set off to find Don. “Don is more dangerous than a crocodile,” Fon said as he led his gang to Don’s territory. “Don pretends to be our friend. A crocodile would never.” When the mob arrived at Don’s home, they banged on the door until it fell off its hinges. “We of the Mountain of Joy accuse you of messing with the minds of our women,” Fon said. Hundreds of his followers stood behind him. They carried rocks, knives, and blazing torches wiggling in the dark.
Don had just finished his daily prayers. After the door was opened, he stepped outside in a robe and wooden slippers, trying to understand what they were talking about. “Nobody gives without wanting something,” said a hooded man wearing a white cloak. “What mask are you wearing today?”
“Mask? I wear no mask. Do you think I have something to hide, like you? What I do is from my heart. I swear I have done nothing.”
“We know what you are doing, messing around, and playing with the will of our women.”
“He probably has the power to make one jump off a cliff,” a woman chimed.
“You are ordered to remain in your home until prepared for your consequence.”
“What is your proof I have been messing with anyone’s heads?” Don asked, laughing. His followers paused and turned to their leader.
“The women have reported many of their belongings missing,” Fon said.
“Such as what?”
Fon ordered the men to enter Don’s cabin. Moments later, they came out holding various items and dropped them at Don's feet. Fon picked up a bra, a pair of women’s underwear and showed them to the nomads. Fon inwardly smiled, for he kept the respect and trust of his lambs.
###
Now when Don’s door opened, it was only for food and water. The grass and trees had aged in the days he stayed locked away. The sweet tweets of alpine birds or the gentle roar of mountain lions ceased. As for the women, they returned to the blind lambs that Fon had taken with him to the hills. The eyesight of the one old woman turned horrid with visions marinated in red.
On the day of his punishment, Don was dragged out of his home. The angry crowd attached a collar with a bell to Don’s neck and tied a leather strap over his mouth. The bell rang at the slightest movement he made. In fact, in his home, the ringing of the bell clanged all day, letting his guards know he was awake. Now that their’ plan was finished, they felt a sense of gratitude at what they could do next.
Don, although tired, gave a good fight before they subdued him and stripped him of his clothes. They whipped him with a belt to make him walk faster while his bell chimed. Fon’s imbeciles felt joy when they hit him with rocks, belts, hands, or ropes, to hear the metallic ring of the bell twinkle. On the occasions when they did not hit him, Don was joyful. He knew that his time had come, for the Angels above told him: “It is By Suffering that Human Beings Become Angels. You are being prepared to be a divine messenger.” But why like this? He asked himself, could there be no other way?
When Don arrived at the part of the hill where the ungrateful pioneers lived, they cheered, seeing him. It was dark, but they had built a massive fire that lit up the area. I will become someone they will never be, he thought to see them all. With this, he looked up at his tormentors and smiled. The crowd was split in half, creating a path for him to walk toward an apple tree he had planted. Folks cheered and applauded with joy. At the far end, Zina looked down at her shoes, wearing a blank look amongst a sea of smiling faces. She used her hair to cover her face and moved further away from Don as he came closer, pushing, shoving people to get away from the jubilance of the mob.
Don held his head high, walking with a full stride to an apple tree that had not birthed an apple for some time. The leaves were shriveled. The wood was soft and hollowed out and covered with mushroom conks. But the lambs of Fon made sure it was strong enough for what they planned. Don was escorted to the gallows built around the tree. Two masked men in black hoods led him up to the noose hanging from the tree branch. Don was brought up front, facing applauding fans.
One of the hooded guards stepped up to Don and asked him if he had any last words. He stared at the crowd and said, “It is by Suffering that Human Beings Become Angels.” Pause. Silence. He turned his lassoed neck upwards to face the sky. The floorboard slid away. The onlookers danced and sang underneath his mud-caked and bloody bare feet. Once the body hung lifeless, the cheerful audience stared up at the rotten apple on the branch.
The mountaineers pensively paced back and forth.
The sight filled them with an unexplained sensation of wonder. Cold waves of adrenaline tingled their cores and suspended their breaths. Rather than Don begging and praying, like they thought Don would, they were the ones gasping and screaming. Many began scrambling to their homes, but some collapsed before reaching their doors. Don's executioners put their hoods back on, for they could not bear to show their damp, fearful eyes.
"How did his arms get that way?" a Pilgrim asked Fon in a shaken, incredulous voice.
"It comes down' a'd fallen at his side eventually," Fon answered, mispronouncing words within a tremoring whisper.
He wondered if he had forever ruined all their chances of seeing an Angel. Don had stayed glued to his faith, while Fon knew that he would never have it. A desire to touch, hold, and take what Don had tormented him for a while. In the dark, Fon tried to shut his eyes and sleep but kept awake by visualizing Don’s last moment of breath. Fon crossed his arms and flared his nostrils, so angry he could not smell what he laid with. In clenched teeth, he stared at his ceiling, imagining other things he wanted to do to Don.
###
That same night, The Angel found a strange fruit hanging off the apple tree. More Angels surrounded the spectacle, then waking him up and lifting him into the air.
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Whenever an Angel receives their wings, the first thing they do is fly off to explore the world. This Angel flew to a Mountain called Joy, where a gray cloud hung. He stayed in the air, watching for weeks before he decided that they did not earn the joy the mountain could offer; they laughed and cheered and did not even remember the man who shared his land with them.
This Angel could see their future and saw the constant worry of fear, guilt, or the anguish they would forever live under. No Angel would be there to provide relief while they were dying or hear their cries of distress in life. Because this Angel could see this, he decided that allowing them to live would bring him the highest satisfaction; their worry of the hereafter changed their attitude. No longer would they be able to go on in life, as they once did before, for they would always have their necks turn to the sky, fearing something would fall on their heads. He thought with satisfaction that he would be waiting in the afterlife, turning them away from entering the paradise he now enjoyed.
In the air, The Angel sang, changing the gray sky to blue.
Shawn Frazier is an African American writer who teaches High School English located in New York City. He has honed his craft at numerous writing workshops and seeks to widen the Western Canon with Afrosurrealism.