Mountain Thief

High on the mountain I stood before the iron door. A cold wind blew from the between the cracks. Peering in I could see the tunnel stretch far into the darkness, a hollow needle piercing the mountain’s heart, a golden idol stolen by those who had come before me.

Deep in this place where steel tools had scraped at the gold heart of the mountain, the very earth had grown cold and angry. A dark life still seemed to flow through these veins and pressed me onwards to an empty hall. Here, this was where we had selfishly taken the mountain’s treasure, ignorant of the real treasures that lay outside.

While I gaped at my discovery, the mountain saw its chance to exact revenge on the last trespasser to this sacred place. Behind me the first stone fell from the ceiling.

Looking back, my moment of wonder transformed into a sick horror as rocks slid from the walls. If the tunnels collapsed, I would be buried alive, forever entombed in this chamber, a thousand feet beneath warm skies and fresh air. Desperate, I charged through the falling rubble.

From the outside the mountain seemed at peace. There was no sign of the maelstrom I had witnessed beneath the surface. Looking down I examined the stone I had latched onto in my escape. I too had stolen a piece of the wealth in the darkness.