My brother and I were running up the mountain. It was steep. We both struggled. We were panting and sweating. But I had a smile on my face. I was athletic. And I liked to run. He complained a lot. He was always lagging a little behind me. Red faced. And dragging his feet. In a way, his attitude made more sense. Running is unpleasant. There is a lot to complain about. But whatever I was born with made me like it. And genetics. And years of doing it had made me good at it.
From time to time, he would stop. Out of breath. I would double back. And we would take a short break together. We would drink some water. And tell each other stories. About trivial things. Dreams. Aches. And the faces of different rocks. These interludes were my favorite parts of the day. They made the return to running bearable. Even sweet. Because I had something interesting to think about. But I think they only intensified my brother’s hatred of running. Because they emphasized its difficulty by contrast. Again, quite a reasonable feeling. But detrimental to his progress. He said several times that life would be better if he could just sit around forever. I saw where he was coming from. But I protested. Our bodies would wither away without exercise. Running was fun, and the top of the mountain beckoned with its mysterious allure. Plus. (And I recognize that this reason did not apply to him, but I confess:) I wanted to keep running, because I was good at it. And it helped push me farther. To keep him around.
We were good companions. One day, I twisted my ankle after stepping on it wrong. My brother slung my arm around his shoulder and supported me until I was back in running shape.
He passed out one day from exhaustion. I carried him up a steep slope just so he wouldn’t fall behind. It seemed like there was nothing that we couldn’t overcome together.
I much preferred running with my brother to my sister. When we were younger, she used to disrupt our climb with flights of fancy. I would suddenly find myself all alone and double back to find her swinging from a tree. Or making piles out of rocks. She was a talented athlete. But so easily distracted. In certain moods she would rather do anything but run. I loved her. But I started to get more and more annoyed with this trait as she got older. One day I looked over my shoulder to see her tip off the side of a cliff. And fall. I don’t know how far down. 10,000. Maybe 20,000 feet. It would have taken years to travel back down the mountain and find her again. If we ever could have. I wiped my tears. And kept running. Now with just my brother.
My brother and I ran for years together. As a great team. Up the mountain. His complaining and his slow pace were annoying. And though I did try to ignore it, he was given to occasional flights of fancy too. Like our sister. But he was a wonderful companion. One day I found myself alone, and doubled back to see him. Stopped. Standing perfectly still at the edge of a cliff. Gazing off at the clouds, far away.
What are you looking at. I said.
See that little dot up there. He said.
What dot. I squinted.
That dot. Right between those two fluffy clouds. See. It’s just floating in place. It’s not drifting in the wind like the other clouds. Why do you think that is.
Probably just. A tiny cloud. I still couldn’t see what he was pointing at. Who cares. Let’s pick up the pace.
I wish that I could get closer to it. He stared at the sky.
All the more reason to get to the top. I said.
The top was a source of some speculation in our family. Both my brother and my sister had expressed skepticism that it really existed. But I didn’t worry about that. If there was no peak, then where was this trail headed. Even if I never reached the top, picturing it helped me enjoy the run. My belief in the top of the mountain was just another technique I used to succeed at running, which my brother and sister should have copied from me. If they had any sense. It was like keeping my knees up.
I want to stop. My brother said one day while we were taking a break.
What do you mean. I said. We are stopped.
I mean that I don’t want to run anymore. He said.
I rolled my eyes. That’s what we do. I said. We run.
That’s simply what we’ve been doing. He said.
So what else would you do. I mean. What else is there to do.
I don’t know.
We’d had versions of this conversation before. My sister used to invent strange ideas. Alternatives. Running in place. Seeing how high we could build towers made of rocks. Running back and forth along one strip of trail. All this, because she didn’t believe in the top. The thing is, these activities were all so boring. Running takes you somewhere new. For example: potentially the top. I shuddered to think of spending my life doing activities with no forward momentum. Dark.
It’s still there. Said my brother. Looking back up into the sky. I didn’t even try to see where he was pointing.
You must have much better eyesight than me. I said. Or you’re imagining things. The only things in the sky are clouds. And clouds all look the same.
Maybe. Said my brother.
A few days later, he threw himself into a thorn bush. I saw him do it. It was. Intentional. His whole body was covered in cuts. And scrapes from the thorns. He cried and said. He was in a lot of pain. Gently, I untangled him from the bush. And carried him back to the trail.
Why did you do that. I said.
I don’t know. He said. I just wanted to do something other than run, for a change.
You hurt yourself.
He didn’t say anything.
This made me mad. He just wanted to get out of running. This was different from when he fainted, and I carried him. I couldn’t run with a companion who didn’t want to run with me. Who would intentionally sabotage our collective progress.
I’m leaving you here.
What.
I explained.
This was just a hiccup. He said. I’m not like our sister. I’m going to keep up.
But I didn’t believe him. This was exactly how our sister had been, at first. This flight of fancy was out of her playbook. I set him down gently on the ground. No point doing more damage to him than he had already done. And left him.
Now I ran. At a natural pace. And I didn’t turn around. Every once in a while. To make sure he was still following me. I figured that if he still wanted to run with me. He could catch up. He could improve. Until he could catch up. If he wanted to. To my natural speed. Otherwise. He was now free to go now at his own pace.
I will admit. The rest of my life was lonely after that. My brother never caught up to me. In my mind, he was still on that ridge where I left him. Looking at the sky. Wondering what was there. Happy.
I found out, (because I got up so high that I found myself in the clouds,) that my brother was right. The little white dot wasn’t a cloud. It was a sort of white balloon. With a silver eye in its center. Now it was close to me. It floated above my head, always, no matter how fast I ran. It must have been watching us before. It must like to watch.
Now the balloon is my companion. We don’t talk. But we enjoy each other’s company. I think.