In which frustration is felt: The unexplained appearence of kites high in the mountains
The Atlas of Curiosities: Part 16
Though night was coming very quickly, the sky was still pale yellow, and the wind swept down off the mountains and blew our hair. We were high on a mountain pass in Afghanistan, and the next day we planned to cross over the large ridge that was now casting a shadow over the entire valley.
As we looked up at the ridge envisioning the next day’s journey, we saw a bright spot of color jump out over the peak, then another, and another. Soon, the entire sky over the ridge was full of dancing pieces of colors.
We called for binoculars, and looked closely at the colors. They were kites! Though we had thought that this area was uninhabited, it now seemed as if the ridge was concealing a village of people, and a festive people at that.
As we watched, we counting nearly 600 kites, though determining an exact number was extremely difficult, as even as we had gained an understanding of what we were seeing, the kites dipped one by one and spiralled down the ridge towards where we were. The people on the other side of the ridge, it seemed, had cut the kite strings, sending some kites higher, some lower, some spinning out of control. After several minutes, a few kites landed softly near us, and we found that they were exquisitely constructed and painted with lovely poetry in a language that no one could read.
Confused by the kite’s sudden appearance and the manner in which they were cut loose, we forced ourselves to sleep, knowing that we would need energy in the morning to cross the pass and meet festive villagers on the other side of the ridge.
We slept, and when morning came we climbed over the hill in search of the village that had made the offering of kites the night before. Crossing the summit ridge and looking down into the valley we found it to be completely empty.
We conducted a complete search of the area, but all we found were tracks, made, it seemed, by a simple cart. Following these tracks for some time, we came upon and old man riding on a donkey and towing a dilapidated wooden cart. Upon interrogation, he verified that the tracks and kites alike had been his doing, but he would not reveal the craft by which he had achieved this feat.
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We turned to our host.
“By what art did this occur?” we asked. “And by what art are mysteries concealed from us?” we asked.
Our host smiled, but eyes have a way of revealing hidden sadnesses.
“Write this down,” our host told us. “So when the time comes that the veil is lifted, you can remember what it felt like to not understand. “
“We don’t understand,” we said.
Our host just smiled.
“Write this down,” our host told us. “write this down.”