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A young man was walking down a narrow path inside a deep, dark cave. Water was running from the walls and collecting at the bottom where the man walked, soaking his feet. His steps were sure but slow, his legs trembling not with fear or uncertainty, but in pain. He was young. Deeper and deeper he walked, and colder and colder became the air and the thin mirror of water at his feet. He wrapped his long cloak tighter around himself and continued. His breath came out as a fine white mist, but he could hardly see it, for he carried no light. The cave was long and straight, a vein to the heart of the mountain. But there was no lifeblood pumping inside, only a young man walking.
He came to a place where suddenly the walls, floor and ceiling of the cave dropped away, widening into an enormous cavern, but he couldn't see. Only the path continued straight ahead, and the sound his bare feet made against the surface of the shallow water echoed into the hollow space. He continued on. Still it became colder the longer he went, until the water beneath his feet was not water but a thin layer of smooth, deadly ice. The narrow path with nothing but air around and below it was slick as a winter lake, and one false step would have the young man falling to unknown depths and certain death. He did not falter. Still with trembling legs, he stepped onto the ice with the same will and certainty as he walked on stone or in water. The ice would not trick his feet, for they knew the slick and the slide as well as they knew dirt roads, cobbled streets and wooden floors.
Then came light. Only a pinprick of it, in the distance ahead, but slowly growing closer as the young man approached. The light was faint, but in the endless dark of the cave it seemed like a beacon, a brilliant silver star to his sun-starved eyes. As he came near he saw the light was not a star but a man. He was sitting in the center of the path with his back hunched and his head bowed, and the faint light emitted from the fine silver hair that hid his face. He was old. The young man came to a stop in front of him.
"Um," said the young man. The old man did not raise his head. The young one shuddered. "H- hello," he said, "I seek the wisdom of the old man in the heart of the mountain."
The old man smiled behind his hair. His voice was low, smooth and thin like the ice underneath them as he spoke. "You call me old."
The young man paused, puzzled. He looked at the man sitting hunched on the dark, glass-like ice reflecting his silver glow like a lake drowns the moon. His face hidden and his body covered by a cloak or a shawl, not much could be seen of him but his hair, which looked wispy and silvery-white like that of the most wizened elders in the village back home.
"Are you not old?" he asked, then said, "I was told to follow this cave to the heart of the mountain, for there lives an old man who can cure any illness and bad fortune. If this is not you I apologise, I won't disturb you any longer - " and as he was just starting to turn away, the old man lifted his face. He was beautiful.
"It is me," he said. "You are here." His lips curved up into a faint smile, but his clear blue eyes were weighed down with sadness. His skin was pale and grooved with deep shadows in the dim, cold light, but not crumpled and furrowed with age. Still, he looked ancient. As if he had been here for as long as the mountain, created as part of it. The lone beating heart.
The young man realized he had been staring. "Oh," he said, "good." There was silence once more.
"… Did you wish to ask something of me," said the old one after some time, his smile lifting a small degree in amusement.
"Oh! Yes, yes. Um." The young man closed his eyes and shook his head slightly before continuing, "I come seeking your help in lifting a curse. It's my legs, you see," and with this he parted his cloak at the knee to reveal his lower legs. The old man leaned closer, his sad eyes widening. The young man's bare calves and shins were covered in shining metal needles, hundreds of them, each one sticking out about an inch from where it was embedded in his skin.
"I woke up one morning and there was a needle in my leg. I tried to pull it out, but it stuck. Even using heavy tools I couldn't pull it out. It was only one needle, so I let it be. But the next morning there were two new needles. Each morning there were more needles, and each day it got harder for me to do… well, anything of use. I was never of much use to begin with, but now the needles made me too slow to work, too distracted to study, and too restless to sleep. I became a burden and a shadow on my family who wanted to help, but couldn't. Tired of everyone looking at my weakness with pity, I set out to find a cure, and swore I wouldn't return until I could bring them pride rather than shame. The roads I followed and the advice given to me by strangers on the way led me here."
The old man was quiet for some time before he spoke. "And it hurts?"
"Very much," said the young one, tensing his body against another tremble of pain.
"Sit down with me." And the young man with needles in his legs sat down on the ice.
"I have been here in this cave for a very long time," said the old man. "Longer than I can remember. But there has never come anyone to me seeking wisdom, or healing, or magical spells. You are the first. If others have been here, they must have turned back in fear or fallen to their deaths in bravery when they reached the ice. I do not recall. If there is a legend that I grant wishes and work miracles, I am sorry. I am not a wizard or an oracle. But I can talk to you. I have been alone for so long."
The young man looked downcast. He thought for a time and then he asked, "Why do you not leave?"
Sad blue eyes stared at him. "Leave?"
"Yes. If you don't want to be alone, why not just go?"
"I cannot."
"Why?"
The old man gestured at his own legs. The young man looked down and saw now that the old man was not kneeling on the surface of the ice, but frozen within it.
"I'm sorry," said the young man. He meant it.
"I am too. Do you wish to leave?"
"… No."
"Tell me something," said the old man.
"What do you want to hear?"
"Anything. Tell me about yourself." For a moment, the young man looked more tense than he did crossing a narrow bridge of ice across a bottomless cavern. Then he looked into the sad eyes and the grateful smile across from him, and started talking.
"I come from a small fishing village far away to the south of here. There is a mountain there as well, but smaller. There is an ocean. That's where the fish come from, and the seagulls, and the wind. My family has an inn a little ways up the mountain. There are hot springs, and people come to bathe in them. My mother and father serve them food and make their beds. My sister helps. I… I don't do anything for them. Anyway, it is a nice little town. The people are nice." He whinced slightly and adjusted his legs, which were crossed so as not to press the needles against the ground.
"Tell me about them," said the old man.
"Um. Well, there's my parents and my sister as I mentioned, and my two friends and their children, and then there's my teacher."
"Oh, what do they teach you?" The old man's eyes lit up in curiousity.
"Uh. Um. Well, uh." The young man scratched at his leg. "Dancing. She teaches me dancing."
"Dancing! What a great skill to study," said the old man, smiling warmly, dazzling the young man for a second.
"Um. Well, maybe, but not a useful skill. Dancing won't do my family any good, or repay all the work they've done for me. The only thing I'm good at, and it's worthless." He shifted his legs again. "Was good at," he corrected himself. The old man frowned, sadness taking over his face again.
Ashamed to have upset him, the young man hurried to change the subject, "What - what about you, where do you come from?"
The old man looked off to the side and answered after some time, "I hardly remember. There was an ocean there as well. With seagulls, and wind. I liked the seagulls."
"… What about people?" the young man asked tentatively.
"I remember… a man, an older man. A teacher as well, or a father, maybe. I think… he wanted the best for me." His eyes were distant, searching for memories outside the thick barrier of darkness and stone.
"That's nice. That he cared for you, I mean," said the young man.
"Yes. It was." The old man's eyes dropped to the dark mirror below.
"… May I ask… I'm sorry if I'm overstepping, but… Did something happen to him?"
"No. No, I don't think. I don't know, I've been away for so long." Again he looked around him, as if the answers were hidden beyond the walls of wet, black rock.
"Did something happen to you?"
"No, not really. No… Maybe. It's hard to tell."
"Well, how did you end up here? Can you tell me?" It was now the young man leaning forward, his weight pushing his legs against the ice, not noticing.
"I walked." The old man paused for a second as if the simplicity of his own answer surprised him. "I walked, like you did. Far away from home and the people there, from their care and their expectations. That's the thing about care, you know, when people care about you, they expect things from you. People expected so much from me." As he talked, the memories seemed to come easier to him, travelling across shorter distance. "I gave of myself until I was empty of self to give. So I ran away."
"… And you came here."
"Yes. I travelled over land and sea until I came to the mountain. I entered the cave seeking shelter at first, but when I saw that it continued deeper on, I thought it as good a place as any for seeking answers instead. I came in from another side than you, from the path that goes on behind me. I walked down the path and I got tired and sat down, and froze. And that's it, until you came. I didn't even know the path went on ahead of me until you came walking along it." He made a low noise much like laughter.
"I'm sorry, again." The young man knew nothing else to say.
"No need. I brought myself here. Tell me more, friend. Tell me about you."
"I already told you."
"No, you told me about your town. Tell me about you."
"Oh." The young man scratched at his legs again. "I, uh."
"How about you tell me your name?" His tone was both helpful and teasing. The young man flushed, horrified at his own impoliteness.
"Forgive me, I didn't even…! It's Yuri, my name is Yuri." His cheeks burned with embarrassment.
"Nice to meet you, Yuri. I'm Victor." Victor offered his hand and a kind smile.
"Victor. Hello." Yuri's voice came out like he had been running, or holding his breath. He took Victor's hand. It was warm. Somehow he had expected him to be cold, embedded in ice as he were.
"Hello," said Victor.
"Hello," said Yuri again, and flushed again. Victor laughed, a real laughter this time.
"Anyway, um. There's not much to tell. I live at the inn, I eat my mother's food, I dance. I don't do anything of value to anyone." Yuri's legs twitched. Victor's eyes followed.
"What about yourself? What do you value?" Victor now looked Yuri in the eye with a strange intensity. Yuri felt caught in his gaze, like he couldn't look away if he tried.
"Me? I… I like dancing. When the lake further up the mountain freezes over, I put on ice skates and dance on the ice. It makes me feel free."
"You go there alone?"
"Yes. I used to, when I was little, me and my friends would… But no, I go alone. I prefer it when people aren't looking at me."
"Why? You must look beautiful."
Yuri stared at Victor, dumbfounded.
Victor stared back. "I mean it. It's a shame that noone gets to see you."
"But… I'm not anything special to look at." Yuri's legs shook. Victor pointed to them.
"Look. See what you're doing to yourself." Yuri looked at his legs. There were at least half a dozen new pins sticking out of them.
"I don't understand," he said.
"Every time you speak poorly of yourself, new needles appear. You implement your own curse. I can't lift it for you, but I can tell you how to end it. Please stop, Yuri. Please." Victor put his hand on Yuri's calf. It didn't hurt, even though it should. They looked into each other's eyes. Yuri opened his mouth, waiting for the perfect counterargument to land on his lips, but nothing came. Victor's hand was warm against his skin. It still didn't hurt.
"Maybe you are a wizard after all," Yuri said.
"What?" Victor blinked.
"You had the solution to my problem. You are a wise man in the heart of the mountain. But you're not old."
Victor was silent.
"I don't believe you're empty, either. You gave me light to see by in this cave. You've given me your help. And I think I can help you, too." As he said this, a handful of needles fell from Yuri's leg and clattered against the ice. He started to stand. "Come on."
"How?"
"With me. Give me your hand." More needles fell. Victor took his hand. Eyes never leaving Yuri's, he stood, the ice releasing him like water.
"There you go. You're free." Yuri's eyes were as warm as the sun, and Victor started to laugh in wonder.
"Thank you. I… Thank you." He quieted, staring at Yuri in amazement.
"You can go anywhere, now."
"Can I come with you?"
Yuri paused, taken aback. "Do you… want to?"
"I do. More than anything. I want to see you dance on the mountain lake. I want to dance there with you, Yuri. Can I?"
"I… suppose you can," said Yuri, smiling brighter and brighter until the cave seemed not quite so dark and endless.
"I'm happy," said Victor, and held Yuri's hand to his lips. They were warm.
"Me too," said Yuri, and laughed.
And then the two young men walked hand in hand across the ice like it was solid ground, through the long narrow vein of darkness, and out into bright, golden sunlight.