It was growing increasingly hard to promote something that he barely had a grip on himself. Banjo knew it was a club of sorts that he’d come to be part of - at least one in the woodworks, the making, it was barely skin and bone at the moment. This whole project however seemed to be his near mate’s pride and joy however, and who he to rain on Ashamin’s parade.

The day was warm, bright and more or less everything one might expect of the the middle of spring. All throughout the threshold the clashing chorus of different birds lifted merrily, oblivious entirely to the headache they contributed to; the incessant pounding of blood in his ears and the brutal stab of pain overtime his head veered this way or that. Even the ever-present stink every Tom, Dick and Harry around him was wearing his thick coat of patience quite thin.

“Bloody nora…” he sighed flatly, glancing between boughs overhead to try and spot those invisible pests as they went about their business in blissful ignorance. It was time to leave the forest and all of the pandemonium behind - at least for one day or two, like a weekend. Banjo thought of Brisa and the beach with its cold salty air and soft, slippery sand, but he remembered also the crashing waves and imagined that would only serve to aggravate his situation.

He began a slow trek west, humping between trees at a snail’s pace as the thought of anything faster (more active) made his stomach turn. No, he wasn’t in a hurry… he just needed a moment free from the overly sensory world which was mostly his home.

A mild wind blew up from the south and it helped a lot to disperse the musty, thick scent he felt so opposed to that day. The further he moved from the confines of his forest, the weaker it became and the better his head felt - the softer the nonsensical garble of the wild seemed to be. It was win-win, and the smile which was usually permanently etched into his features began to return.

Within a few hours (it might have been a hop skip and a jump should he have felt so inclined), Banjo found himself following the foot of a long mountain range - perhaps still more of the one he had descended originally to get into Helovia. He was pleased for the shade it still offered, the sun lurked like a mean-faced jack-in-the-box, just waiting for that perfect moment to leap up and stun the piss out of him. Though the buck rather loved his big red friend ordinarily, he felt hermitish today, and clung to the shade like a fly on poo.

He came eventually upon the path that carved upwards through the steep, rock face and turned onto it curiously, distracted, intrigued to find out just exactly where it lead. According to him (who loved the outback most and then the rugged dry bush scrub), no one in their right mind would actually want to spend time on a mountain top - buffeted by wind, choking on thin air and freezing their balls off; but there it was, a track worn down by more than just the light tread of busy wombats.

After my gut wrenching hike up into the Basin, it was a small wonder that I found the stomach to travel so soon after vowing to never crawl along a crevice again. Though comparing this trek to my journey north is inaccurate, the path on this mountain IS as tedious as stomping on thin ice – BUT the ground here isn’t damp and thus not as slippery. Runoffs and/or mudslides obviously weren’t common here. In addition, the road appears to be well traveled over the years -- the path is crafted from firm minerals which (over time) have hardened to the point of near security. Still, a firmer slab to place my foot isn’t a cure all. My throat still lurches with every loose pebble that narrowly slips from beneath a misplaced hoof, and every fiber of me balks at the sight of that impossible depth beyond this narrow jag. Carefully, I hug the wall and follow the width of this mountain, spiraling up and up…. straight into the clouds.

My resolve to continue is only strengthened by the fear of turning around on such a narrow ravine. Why in the world did I come up here in the first place? The locals mentioned a field of insurmountable beauty on top of this mountain, so beautiful it was obviously worth the risk of falling and smashing oneself into an unrecognizable blood splat on some lonely boulder. It’s an easy hike, they said. It will do you good to stretch your legs, they said. The teeth in the back of my mouth act as a grinder when I recall the conversation which sparked my interest to ascend.

To distract myself from the idea of sliding off the edge, I fantasize about the end result. My imagination creates: a crisp field, covered in a living rainbow of flowers that are bent by a mellow breeze and insects with wings that shine like little suns. I envision my body folding gratefully into the softest blanket of green ever grown; the tingling pressure of stiff blades pressing into my legs and stomach. The hot sun, glaring bright between a cluster of clouds – comforting me with warmth and sweet promises. A paradise ruled by no one… Reality returns – bringing wind, cold and thin to beat against me. Up ahead I catch sight of another traveler, a faint outline bobbling along through the mist.

Bloomin’ heck, he was half kangaroo not part mountain goat. Ascending the tallest spires in the land hadn’t quite found its place on his bucket list, yet there he was, legs screaming their protest, sweating like a whore in church, regretting the very point he’d decided to turn onto that cute little path - and what a dangerous little one it’d turned out to be! Banjo paused to consider the distance he’d come, the apparently endless mission ahead. He held tightly onto a breath and glanced hesitantly to the right, down the flank of rocky mountain, the deathly chasm from which he was almost certain lifted wails, screams of those broken and battered after falling ass-over-tit to the bottom.

Then again, it could have been the wind.

Because it seemed like an appropriate thing to do given the situation, the boomer slid his long-toed foot towards the edge (which lurked too close for comfort already), and a decent sized rock scooted along in front before taking the ultimate plunge; it rolled and smacked, jumped and cracked until he couldn’t pick it’s browny-form from the rest. Yup, that seemed to reassure his point about danger level. Banjo sighed loudly, releasing his breath at last and gathered body and mind together collectively, readying himself to continue. There was no turning back, there wasn’t the room. He hadn’t the foggiest idea about how he would get back down - would he eventually come upon the golden gates beyond the sky? Would he hit the top and fat over the other side?

The sound of his own chuckle filled the eerie silence around him - it seemed the thin, cold air was turning hi thoughts silly as a wheel.

Another sound touched his ears too at the same time. It was the sound of progression, one foot in front of the other, and the giddying buck began his turn to find the source. “STREWTH!” he cried  out loudly, as he found himself teetering instantly on the brink of destruction. Forearms waved about like windmills and he forced his weight backwards, a bubble of breath stuck fast in the base of his throat; “…that was a dumbass thing to do, Banj mate.”. Once recovered and secure on the precipice, the buck sent wisely his eyes back down the mountain instead, and coming along behind was … a lot of colour!

He waited the length of time for the stunted rainbow to wriggle on nearer, and he found that eventually it evolved into the form of a horse - billowy though still, like a ghost, or a nightmare skulking through the mist. He was certainly not asleep! “G’day!” he called boldly out to it, passing a wary glance by the nothingness beside him. “Hey,  might wanna watch your step there pal, she’s a tricky little trail. Wouldn’t wanna come gutsa!” Beneath the rim of his shadowing cork hat, a cheerful smile ignited - irrespective of the nervous pound of blood through his veins.

When the stranger suddenly screamed, his terrified voice turned heat into ice. Every molecule became like lead, these fevered veins cinch like a noose. I jerk to him, ears back, suspended in the apprehension that my second worst fear would become realized. His wobbly outline is mostly cloaked by smoke, it taunts in and out of view. “No!” I cry, willing him to find a solid root. My encouragement/denial is nothing but a rush of silent air escaping from a jaw that goes slack with horror. I don't want to witness his death! Yet I'm powerless to do anything but watch as he wavers; a quiet whimper chokes the back of my throat. He teeters… and…regains his balance! I suck an alleviated breath into these air starved lungs. The alarm of his brush against death eventually wanes and my numb limbs slowly regain feeling.

Thank goodness…

Carefully, these toes inchworm forward. In the time it takes me to approach he hadn't moved; his shrouded form remains. Was the male iced with fear? The deepest part of me could sympathize. My nostrils draw a shaky breath; they aim to capture his scent, but the swirling gall churns it aside at this distance. As our yards decrease to feet, I hear his words rising above the noise – and I can feel his eyes on me. Warily, my approach halts about six or so feet from his unusually adorned rump. My quivering, deadened legs feel like stone rather than supple meat – I slide subtly closer to the jagged wall, until the rough surface is scratching against my sleek side. At first, all I can do is nod, quietly. Optics slide to his long, clawed feet to stare fixedly at the walkway beneath and ahead of him. I resist the urge to peer over the ledge – those sights wouldn’t help my knotted gut. From this angle I couldn’t discern a visual defect in the footpath – a disjointed exhale slides from me as my two-toned irises slide up his leg. Magical digits have already moved to fill the gap betwixt us – yet they hold from him.

Hesitating.

What if he startled?

What if I caused him to fall?

I trace his rustic rump, a plain hue of caramel and cream to side the entrée of deformities he is gifted with. After a long moment, I attempt to bridge the rift and speak softly into the bond, “Please don't be alarmed...this is how I talk...” pleading, I struggle to shield him from the vortex of assorted sentiment – for him, for myself. “Are you alright?” I whisper, he appeared intact physically, but mentally… My head pitches forward, angling the roof of my crown against the wall. Just then, the soft body of mountain hind leaps into view, about four up the way; I stiffen – conforming myself further into the wall while tracing the tan colored prey beast as it clips and clops those tiny black hooves against the stone. It shows us how foolish we are and abandons the trail to forge a vertical way of its own. Each cloven toe dances up the wall until it disappears out of sight. “Show off…” I mumble to myself, unconscious (forgetful) that the link between our minds remains.

It felt like two eternities for the ghostly creature to navigate the remaining trail between them and arrive at long last a small distance behind the patiently waiting, watching buck - near enough anyway to attract long, drooping ears and slim patterned nose to turn in that direction. Green eyes widened amid an increasingly quizzical expression and a half-smile betrayed his amusement when at last he could view her with some accuracy. What exactly was this in a land of feathers and deer (most of whom he’d met so far seemed to be one of the two, or part thereof)? “Kangaroo’s loose in the top paddock again…” Banjo muttered beneath his breath, entertaining the idea that, should he turn and leap right then, butterfly wings might sprout from his shoulders and bear him away to paradise…

Or perhaps he’d crossed that bridge already?

Like the soft, white mountain-mist playing between the purple creature’s tentative stride, the mane which should ordinarily have fallen like a heavy cascade of winter-melt upon her, did the exact opposite. What appeared to be intangible tresses, danced like bright blue, boundless flame instead about her broad coloured shoulders; alive, weightless, pulled too and fro by the wind and utterly captivating! She was like nothing he had ever seen before, and there was no mistaking that fact as he slumped into a senseless stupor, staring  and smiling all the while. It never crossed his mind that she was doing more or less the same - though in a far less obtrusive manner.

The horsaroo was stirred back to the present moment most suddenly by a queer whisper on the wind; a feminine breath passing, that was actually more like a voice, with tone, and all inside his head…? Narrowing eyes hastened to find the speaker lurking on the path ahead, but there was nobody there - he was sure. Very slowly he glanced upwards, surveying the rude juts and impassable slope of the rock. No way! Then Banjo looked down carefully, pressing the length of his brawny frame as near to the mountain on the opposite side as he could. “What the heck?” he concluded finally, not exactly sure who was talking, or where they were. It did occur to him for a fleeting moment that she, the flowy thing behind, might have uttered it; but how could that be…

“It’s you? …wait… nah…”

Eyes landed heavily upon her, careful, cautious, disbelieving. Forgetting the question asked of him, he tested the theory - “Cat got ya tongue girlie?” What a stupid ass he probably looked, and the buck absolutely expected the backlash of one insulted by such a blunt greeting. Only it wasn’t meant to sound so; he wanted to touch her, see if she was real, but the blasted track just would not allow it. Ironically, right at that moment, an overgrown sheep appeared to steal the limelight, but the mountaineer's glory was short lived - the voice in his head returned freakishly and green eyes swept instantly back to the stranger.

I grimly add ‘climbing any mountain’ to my long list of worst ideas ever. There wasn't a part of me that didn't feel foolish for boasting that false, naïve courage – as if my shrinking self could be courageous. While the stranger gaps and struggles for an explanation, I experience an unwelcome wash of heat which flowers across my face. A distressed sigh is the last he'd possibly overhear before our bond corrodes away. Flustered, my body squirms and pulls itself tighter against the wall. Regretfully, these optics sink into the rocky terrain. The longer we stand idle, the more my coat begins to crawl with damp anticipation and discomfort. To make things worse, there is a distinct pounding in my head as the blood quickens.

When he responds doubtfully, I hopelessly wish to shrink into the stone; disappear, become like a bug on the wall -- or better yet, transform into something gracefully and lean. Like the hind, with her sure, strong legs and tempered heart. But more than anything I yearned to be moving forward again. Sadly between him and the lack of exits…moving isn’t on the current agenda. He continues to stand in stupor, looking this way and that – these lungs drag a breath of thin air as I force myself to sharpen. Glancing up, my soul summons another string of magic. These time when my talent reaffirms itself, I thicken the cord and harden our link; aiming to solidify my presence in his mind.

In the continued attempt to wash away his doubt, my conscious cracks open the floodgate – allowing him a glimpse of the stormy emotions colliding within me. He’d feel my terror of high places, how it erodes my courage and sickens me; the meek determination that brought me here and the desperation to make him see. Even though fear and resolve are powerful emotions, they are raw colors and instinctual surface types. Before he can think to dive deeper, taking more than what’s been offered, I cut them off and seal the gate until there is nothing but a trickle. “No more than you,” I reply, lukewarm and far more assertive than I felt. A quick upsurge of guilt consumes me like the plague and I battle to stay neutral in our bond. As we stagnate hundreds of feet in the air, my ability to think straight is impaired. Plus the pounding in my ears makes it nearly impossible to tell if his response is born from bemusement or a spiteful disposition.

Had we been on the ground, my answer might have been to laugh at his poor taste at a joke – maybe even go as far to tease along with the unusually clad man. “Please,” I quiver, reddening at the sound of my desolate plea, “Can we keep moving?” the soft side of my body is firmly squished against the mountain-face, forcing bits of granite to jab painfully into me.