With his tiny little feet, he stepped on tiny pebbles across the shores, that little boy Timothy, and he kept stomping on them and kicking them away one after the other. It was fun. Monkeying around on the sand and throwing pebbles into the blue and calm ocean. Wooop they went. He rejoiced every time he heard that sound.
This afternoon his father, the fisherman of the tribe for the first time this summer had allowed him to play in the sun, but with a caution: “Don’t go too far and come back before it gets dark. And Timothy, don’t climb up the mountains on the north end of the beach,” father had said.
“Okay dad, I will not.” He had replied, with a false promise overcoating his almost immediate admission.
The kite the little boy held with him fluttered in the wind, and the thread in his hands tightened themselves when he let them loose. He ran across the black sands with the kite chasing his back. It was usually windy on the Icebay island, but today the wind had a soothing voice that wooshed in Timothy’s ears.
The kite was soon up in the air and he let the thread loose from the kite spool and further up it went. The bridle wobbling the tail of the kite like a Cobra on drugs, except way up in the sky and remarkably prettier. The colors danced and cut through the sunrays, the breeze sang what sounded like soothing melodies of the island in his ears. And with every wave, the water cleansed his tiny feet. It was a spectacular sight to behold.
Timothy settled himself on the Sand and kept the spool on his side and gazed the tail end of the kite. That went north, disappearing somewhere between the mountain boulders, where the water fell on the giant rocks hundreds and hundreds of meters deep down. Timothy always looked at the misty foggy cloud from across the shore that looked perpetually green after water splashed the boulders. And he wondered why the colour was green? Yes, there were trees around the fall but they weren’t in abundance. And occasionally when the sun fell right on the falls, the rainbows that formed on their own, were intercepted by the sharp green of the water. His mind never knew what the green was and where it came from?
He pulled the thread towards the opposite direction. The wind was strong, the kite seemed a mile up in the sky and Timothy’s hands were tiny and powerless. The kite was too strong for him now and the further up it went the stronger it became.
After a while, the kite sailed on the northern mountains and what Timothy saw at last was its tails fluttering in the wind and getting engulfed by the tall trees on the mountain. He tried to pull the thread but the kite did not buzz at all, so Timothy began tracing the thread.
He kept moving towards the mountain, often fumbling on the pebbles and tip toeing the tiny bushes that jarred his quest. The sun was still bright, and the wind was still strong. He could hear the sea birds at a distance chirping but the more he moved towards the mountain the more the chirping began to feel like his father’s warning.
At the very end of the shore, from where the giant mountain stood, timothy looked back at his house almost disappearing above the horizon. His dad’s stern voice came flushing in his ears. He contemplated his next few steps for a while but the thought of losing the only kite he had and spending the entire summer with no friends to play with, made him decide otherwise. He kept moving, stumbled upon one, tiny pathway after the other. He was astonished that a mountain this dense and rocky had pathways cutout for him. Is that where everyone else in the world lived? Was this the place where all the famous events happened that he heard so much about on the radio? Why a place completely normal like this was not under his access?
This voyage to gather his only asset and to unravel the mysteries of the world known to him thrilled him more than his dad’s commands worried him.
And lost in the thought wandering through the jungles, he found himself up on the mountain, with the thread of his kite wrapped all around his hand. The remainder of it tugged to a giant tree, at the end of which the kite still fluttered calling him euphorically. The only way he could get the kite out of the tree was to climb all the way up on the giant tree and untie it gently from one corner to the other, without damaging the cross spar, the bridle, or the spine.
So he began climbing, his feet tenaciously affixed on one of the tiny branches, the other trying to find a bridge, a branch that could be used as a ladder or as an anchor. His hands harnessed him up. With squirming feet and bruised hands he kept climbing up until he found himself near the kite. He slowly untied it and straightened the spine of the kite.
Then he looked around, the waterfall was next to him, still green and misty. When he turned around and sat on the branch the sprinkles from the fall wet his hair and played with his face. He liked that. He climbed to the edge of the tree where the drizzle from the fall splattered his whole face, he smeared it with his hands and smiled, and kept the kite next to him.
A few minutes of frolicking with the water and his kite slept away from the tree, Timothy bent down almost immediately to grab the bridle, but he couldn’t, and he fell along with the kite, thread still wrapped around his arm. And when he hit the ground, his legs slipped on the slimed soaked rocks and fell in the steep cavity where the water splashes came from.
While he fell through the waterfall, the green became more vivid and alive. The reflection of the plush green algae scum turning the water green and the mist cucumberish. With every second lasting a lifetime it became clearer and clearer to Timothy what his father meant about the mountain and what the green on the mountain was.