It’s been rather a long time since my last post. Sorry, no excuses and no promises.
Chapter 30: The Cabin
The slope up Mount Delfinor was gentle and easy at first, but after the angle of ascent along with the slippery gravel and the gnats spiraling into the damp orifices of Ellen’s body made the walking less easy and gentle. Now she had to use her hands and legs to spider-crawl up the jutting rocks. She worried that she might not be adequately equipped to climb Delfinor. Ropes, spikes, a contour map, and a good plan of attack might have been called for.
Just when she had begun to weigh the options of going on against going back, Ellen saw a fallen moss-covered tree trunk near the edge of the cliff and a grassy plateau stretching back between two stands of trees to a cabin, and realized she had arrived.
She walked along the grassy path between the trees towards the cabin. Maybe he wasn’t at home. He might have gone down the mountain, probably taking a gently sloping path behind the cabin and known only to him and to the locals to buy supplies. Maybe he was in the cabin, watching her come towards the cabin, but he would refuse to grant the interview to her. Ellen was sure she wasn’t the only ambitious young journalist requesting an interview with this exceptional man, this recluse of a man who had never granted anyone an interview. He had even written his ranting and railing in one of his books, as elegant and cryptic an explanation and brooking no interpretation as his poems and his stories. He had written that nobody besides him was qualified to interpret his writing, to say it in other words, because every word meant something and not something else, and to say it in other words was to engage in the devolution of an idea. At least Ellen thought that’s what he had written. She wanted to understand him, to understand the processes that had generated the unique writings in his books.
Ellen reached the cabin and knocked softly on the door, not wanting to startle the hermit but worried he might not hear her. The curtain rustled in the window. After some moments the door opened.
She was prepared for anything, except for what had actually happened.