The Mountain Listener

This post was inspired by a writing prompt in the Scholar and Scribe community - Literary Games #1: Writing Challenge – ‘Whispers Before the Flood’.

Enjoy !

Image by 🌼Christel🌼 from Pixabay

It was the seismic monitors that picked it up first. An event somewhere in the Himalayas that make the needles jump and skitter on seismometers halfway around the world.

Experts sprang into action, telephoning each other and exchanging theories about what had happened within minutes of the event.

Then reports started coming in from Northern India and Nepal of a surge in the Gandak River. A wall of water six feet high swamping nearby fields and heading for the Ganges.

Soon, satellites were focused on the area and the scientists knew what had happened. There was a glacier high in the mountains which had crossed the end of a valley, blocking it off and allowing a large meltwater lake to form. The lake had been building and growing for years, quietly filling up and attracting occasional tourists who went to take selfies next to it's crystal clear waters.

A slight tremor had been enough. One of thousands that happen every year. But it had cracked the glacier. The lake was released in a single moment, bursting through the crack and flooding down the valley.

In a sleepy office in Kathmandu, the telephone rang. Doctor Sellers picked it up. "Hello ? UN Nepal Mountain Rescue...."

"Hello Sellers. There's been a glacier breach. We've got evacuation alarms going downriver, that's under control. But our maps show a number of isolated mountain villages upriver that would have been in the path of the flood and not had any warning. They're going to need emergency relief, and may have been totally swept away. Get up there in your helicopter, find out if there are any survivors and what emergency support they need."

Sellers made frantic notes as the voice from head office spoke. "Sir, even if I get up there, we've got three staff and a budget of five hundred dollars a month. We've got no relief supplies, just one battered old ex-Afghan Army Mil-8. We won't be able to help them."

"It doesn't matter. We'll be seen to do something, relief helicopters always look good in the news media."

Sellers put the phone down with a sigh. He went out to the outer office. "Pointless helicopter flight time, Gurung. Got to please the press and fly up the mountains to get a photo opportunity at a bunch of washed away villages."

His assistant nodded wearily, the frustration obvious on his face. This was his people being used to make the agency look good without actually being helped.

Six hours later, the Mil was flying over the disaster area. Sure enough, there was wreckage everywhere. Tumbled down houses, broken fences, debris scattered around. But they could see people down there collecting it up. Survivors where they hadn't expected to see any life.

Sellers signalled for Gurung to land. It got him a look; standing orders were to fly over but not land. But he complied, finding a patch of flat scree to bring the helicopter down on.

Jumping out, Sellers saw villagers staring at him with curiosity, taking a break from picking up sodden blankets and bedsheets. He approached the nearest of them, glad he'd taken the time to learn the language. So few of the international staff bothered to do that.

"Hello !" he called, "I'm from the UN, come to find out what you need. How many people survived, how many did you lose ?"

An old woman stomped up to him, a twisted grin on her toothless mouth. "We lost nobody. We need nothing. Well, maybe a case of beer."

The obvious look of disbelief on Sellers' face made the gathering circle of villagers chuckle. "But how... the flood ... you wouldn't have had any warning..."

The old woman cackled. "No warning ? Hah, you don't know old Sherpa Gansing. He was old when I was a little girl. Come here, Gansing. Tell the man."

The man who stepped out of the crowd looked literally as old as the mountains. A tiny, wizened, bow-legged thing, brown skin like old leather, dressed in grey homespun cloth. He had a huge grin on his face. When he spoke, his voice was sing-song, unnatural, the way a mountain sprit would sound.

"Sherpas have lived here since time began. The mountains talk to us, and we talk to them. I walked my path, and went to the lake where the lowlanders go. It's nice to see them. I put my hand on the ice and listened. It creaked, and it groaned, and it whispered to me. Told me that in two days, the morning sun would warm the ice and free the water. So I came down and told my people. Everyone climbed the ridge to watch the water pass by. Now we put everything back together again, just like we always do. Don't forget the beer."

Sellers looked at the little mountain man in amazement. Headquarters would never believe that this was all routine to these people, and that all they needed was a case of beer.