Travel Fellowship of the Peacock, by Saba Kirer

Posted on December 10, 2019

. He climbed a high mountain that day. It was getting colder as he was climbing up. A sweater that his girlfriend knitted for him. A garter stitch, with knitting needles no. 9. He dressed warmly. Yet, he was still cold. He felt warmer as he was climbing up. But it was colder in the heights. Eagles were waiting for him at the top of the mountain. The eagles were foodless because of the cold weather.

. He left the coldest highlands behind, and arrived at a plain land, Little Peak as the mountaineers call it. It was warm there, his hands and feet got warmer. He got some rest. But he couldn’t find any water. “I believe there is water up there,” he said. He thought that there was some water at higher parts. Little ponds. With fresh water.

. He climbed up. It got colder as he was climbing. It was getting so colder. He climbed up. The wind got stronger as he was climbing. The wind was getting stronger. He climbed up. AS he was climbing up howling of the white rocks, chasms, distant valleys pierced through his ears. AS he was climbing up grey clouds were descending. As he was climbing up, tufty clouds were flowing away under his feet like a swollen, foaming river.

. As he was climbing up, he did not know if he stepped on a side of the mountain, a bump on the rocks or edge of the cliff. AS he was climbing up, he was going further from his home, his mother. And up. . . But there was still too much way to the water.

. Then, it’s time, and darkness descends! The peacock spread his wings wide upon seeing him. He opened wide his train full of ocelli. He drew a big circle. And he stood in front of this circle. All the birds on the ground, behind the mountain, over the sea, and in the sky flew away scared of his wrath. He puffed up with vanity. He puffed, and puffed. He dressed a thousand colors with every quake. The peacocks were all showy. Then, all of a sudden, they all disappeared! And “I feel that my mother is now by the window, under the moonlight,” he said. “Behind the blinds, she may be resting her face on her hand, with a bowed head. I think she imagines the worst. Oh, my dear mother!” Before he crested, he decided to return home.

. As soon as he arrived home, he painted the top of the mountain black, which he once painted white like flaky snow. “No matter how keen the eagles’ eyes are, now they cannot take anybody’s life away,” he thought, when the painting dried.

. Then he was relieved. He leaned back, extended his legs, spreading on the wing chair.

*Miletus*
International Literature Magazine
Fall 2019