There was an old and bare village planted by the sea deteriorating more every year as the wrath of tourism tore it down. Its inhabitants were of such a small number that their attempts of asking to be left alone were barely heard; and even if they were ever loud enough their voices were muffled away by the roar of airplanes above them. Just beside this village there was a majestic mountain that once thrived as a guardian to the village and all life within it, adorned with blossoming pink trees and ancient woods. This mountain was called Tabiat. When the morning of modern technology arrived, Tabiat was on the top of any world traveler’s list, and people came from every direction to tamper with it. Inevitably, Tabiat joined the village in its deterioration.
I was a young woman just recently married when I visited. It wasn’t an uncommon honeymoon choice. Clint and I were extremely different in our choices of destination; while I would have been fine having our honeymoon right in our apartment, he always had an itch to go out and see the world. After reading about it for weeks, he took me to Mount Tabiat for a hiking trip. It wasn’t at all romantic, rather just a trip for himself than both of us together. Laying my eyes upon the mountain and its village, I could only wonder how much more beautiful it was before tourists got their hands on it. It was shaped as if it were a person resting under a warm blanket of dull green, sleeping eternally and unable to defend itself. Trekking up the soft hills and cliffs, Clint was energetic even through sweat, only bringing me to a stop when I nagged him long enough.
“What is your issue?” He snapped at me, watching irritably while I caught my breath against a tree.
“We’ve been walking for hours,” I huffed, “we need to settle for the night.”
“Just a little bit further. I haven’t seen enough yet.”
Pushing myself before him, I rolled my eyes and forced my feet quicker, attempting to zone myself out and mindlessly follow behind him. There was an occasional shift or rumble in the ground coming from the core of the mountain. When the sun set, the darkness forced Clint to stop and set up our tents beside a gloomy, isolated lake, trash and plastic decorating its banks like rusty, discarded jewelry. The view from where we stood looked out onto the land and woods below Tabiat, including the few flickers of light left in that tiny village. Our lake connected to a waterfall that ran down the ridges as swiftly as a show of shooting stars. I would have enjoyed it more, had there not been litter all over the place. Tabiat had been taken advantage of, and I pitied it as if it could feel anything.
Clint and I had finally settled and ate the pasta he had packed, sitting in lonesome silence. If I wanted to say anything, he would have tried to best me in it, no matter what it was. Both of us turned when our ears caught the nearby muffle of a voice, supposedly another hiker. In the very faint distance, I noticed the silhouette of a person stomping up the trail and close to us, lantern in hand.