The Cairn of Names

“The mountain spares no life for free, but those who fall carve the path for those who remain.” — Saying among the Climb-Bearers

The ascent began with the caution of temple architects laying the foundations of a new ziggurat. Eadric took the lead, his boots pressing carefully into the loose gravel, eyes sharp to every treacherous slope and hidden fissure. When he judged a passage safe, he stacked small cairns of stone, each one humble yet treated with reverence by those who followed, as if they were sacred markers set by priests to guide souls through the underworld. Where the path twisted cruelly or slanted too steep, he drove in stakes and stretched ropes between them, lifelines that clung to the rock like veins of salvation.

The wagons followed, their reinforced frames groaning like weary oxen. Every wheel turned with complaint, scraping against the raw stone despite Kiya’s modifications. More than once a wheel caught against a jagged rock, and the settlers winced at the sound as if hearing bones snap. Men strained at the ropes, shoulders bent, muscles corded as they hauled the carts upward inch by inch. Women steadied the loads, tightening lashings, whispering prayers through gritted teeth. Even the animals balked, their nostrils flaring, their hooves skidding against the loose ground, until sharp cries and firm hands coaxed them forward again.

By the time Shamash blazed high in the vault of heaven, the magnitude of their challenge revealed itself with cruel clarity, as if the gods themselves had pulled aside a veil. The air grew thinner, rasping in their lungs. Each breath was hard-won, like water drawn from a deep well in drought. The settlers moved slower, every step deliberate, every heartbeat loud in their ears.

The wind descended upon them, fierce and unrelenting. It howled through the passes like a host of angry spirits, stinging exposed skin with grains of ice and dust torn from the peaks. Cloaks snapped in the gale, ropes quivered, and the settlers hunched low as though to avoid the notice of the unseen forces that rode upon the gusts.

The path narrowed cruelly, shrinking to no more than a wagon’s width. On one side yawned a sheer drop, plunging into a void so vast it seemed to lead directly to Ereshkigal’s shadowed realm. Those who dared to glance over the edge quickly looked away again, their stomachs twisting, their prayers rising unbidden to their lips. On the other side loomed a vertical wall of stone, implacable, rising into the clouds like the barriers that separated mortal men from the dwelling-places of the gods.

Sara, the young apprentice, whispered to Amara as they steadied a rope together, “It feels as though we are climbing between worlds—the living to one side, the divine to the other.”

Amara, her face drawn but calm, replied, “So it is. Every step we take here is a prayer written upon stone. May the gods read it kindly.”

One of the farmers stumbled, a rope burning his hands as it slipped. The wagon he held swayed dangerously toward the abyss, its wheels shrieking in protest. Cries went up, children screamed, and for a heartbeat all seemed lost. But Torren was there, his great hands seizing the rope, muscles straining as he pulled the wagon back from the edge. His voice bellowed above the wind, steady as a drumbeat: “Hold fast! You are stronger than the mountain’s spite!” The others rallied, tightening their grips, hauling the cart back to the path until it steadied once more.

The moment passed, but the fear lingered. Faces were pale, eyes wide, breaths quick. Yet no one spoke of turning back. Each looked instead to the cairns Eadric had set, to the ropes strung across peril, and to the wagons themselves, scarred yet unbroken.

Azariel walked among them as they paused to catch their breath, his hand resting on weary shoulders, his words quiet but sharp as chisels. “The mountain is merciless, yes—but so too is stone beneath the mason’s tool. We do not break the mountain—we endure it, shape it, climb it. Look to one another, and you will find the strength the gods have already placed within you.”

Some settlers murmured assent, clutching charms, others only nodded grimly. But all bent once more to the ropes, to the wheels, to the climb.

Above them, the eagle of Enlil wheeled again, its cry piercing through the wind like a trumpet of challenge. Some whispered it was a sign of protection, others feared it was a warning. Either way, none doubted that the mountain was watching, and that the ascent had only just begun.

The mountain gave no warning.

Eadric had been calling out steadily, his voice carrying back along the line of wagons like a litany of survival. “Keep to the inside track,” he urged, again and again. “Test each step before you commit your weight, like a merchant testing his scales. The scree is—”

The rest of his warning was drowned by the sound of stone betraying stone.

It began as a whisper, faint as a snake’s hiss: loose gravel shifting beneath the wheels of one of the rear wagons. Then came the sharp clatter of pebbles falling into emptiness, followed by the grinding roar of larger rocks tearing free. The entire section of path crumbled beneath the wagon like a clay tablet shattering in careless hands.

“Hold it!” voices screamed. “Ropes! To the ropes!”

But the mountain’s hunger was swifter than human strength. The wagon tilted, one wheel hanging in the air, and for an instant the settlers dared hope the ropes would hold. Then the lashings snapped—first one, then another—each crack like bone breaking.

The cart toppled outward, its load of timber and tools spilling like the entrails of a sacrificial beast. It tumbled down the abyss, crashing against unseen ledges, splintering into fragments. Bronze fittings and shards of wood flashed in Shamash’s hard light before vanishing into the gulf.

Two figures were caught in the collapse. Harun, a young man barely into his twenties, had been steadying the wagon when the ground betrayed him. He cried out once, calling for his brother, before he too was swept away. The other, Anath, an older woman who had walked with the caravan since Ur, disappeared in silence, her cloak vanishing into the dust and stone. Neither returned.

Screams split the air. Children clung to their mothers, animals reared and brayed, men and women pressed themselves against the inner wall of rock with desperate hands. For a few moments all was chaos—the roar of the slide, the cries of the terrified, the crash of stone echoing from peak to peak like the drums of divine judgment.

When the dust at last began to clear, silence fell. The settlers stood frozen, coughing in the bitter haze, their eyes fixed on the void where wagon and companions had been. Only the grinding trickle of falling gravel remained, like the last grains in an hourglass.

Then someone shouted, “Here! Over here!”

Not all had been lost. Two others, struck by the collapse but not swept into the abyss, lay upon the broken path. Eshar, a youth, groaned as he tried to move, his leg bent at an angle no limb should bear. Zilara, a woman of middle years, bled from cuts along her arms and face, her blood staining the grey stones crimson. They were alive, but their breaths came ragged, their bodies broken.

Amara was already pushing through the crowd, her satchel thumping against her hip, her face set in grim resolve.

But before her healer’s craft could begin, the people as a whole stood stunned, the enormity of the disaster pressing down on them heavier than the mountain itself. They had seen death before—in Ur, in sickness, in the dangers of travel—but to lose wagon, supplies, and kin all at once upon this narrow edge of the world was a revelation of fragility that left their spirits trembling.

The dust clung to them like a funeral shroud, choking throats, stinging eyes. Then the cries broke loose.

A woman wailed Harun’s name, her voice tearing through the thin air as if it might yet call him back from the abyss. His brother fell to his knees on the path, clutching at the rock with scraped hands, whispering half-formed prayers to every god he had ever heard named. “Enlil, Shamash, even Ereshkigal—send him back, send him back…” His words dissolved into sobs.

Others pressed amulets to their lips, calling on divine protection. The murmurs rose in a discordant chorus: Nanna, to guard the souls of the lost; Ninhursag, to hold the mountain steady; Gibil, to shield them from the fire of panic burning in their chests.

One man tore his hair and spat toward the chasm, cursing the gods outright. “Is this your justice? Is this what you ask of us? Blood and timber for every step?” His voice cracked into silence, but the bitterness lingered in the ears of those nearby.

Children screamed, clutching at their mothers. Some were pulled back roughly, wrapped in arms that shook with fear.

And then Gideon’s voice rose, bitter as gall. “I warned you! I warned you this mountain would devour us!” His face was pale beneath the dust, eyes wild. “How many more must fall before you admit this path is cursed?” His words struck the others like blows, feeding the fire of fear, drawing murmurs of agreement even from those who despised his defiance.

The crowd wavered at the edge of panic, their grief tilting toward chaos. Men glanced at the wagons, at the narrow path still ahead, at the abyss yawning beside them. Women whispered of turning back, of abandoning the climb.

And it was in that breaking moment that Amara stepped forward, her satchel heavy at her side, her face set like a priestess approaching her altar. She raised her hand—not loudly, not with force, but with the calm command of one who had walked with suffering before.

“Silence,” she said, her voice steady as a temple column in a storm. “The mountain has taken, yes. But it has not taken all. There are wounded who yet breathe. Will you waste your breath on curses while their blood runs into the stone?”

The settlers stilled, their grief arrested, their eyes drawn to the healer. In the silence that followed, her authority settled over them, and they shifted—not yet calm, but ready to follow where she led.

Amara’s gaze swept the crowd, sharp and unflinching. “If you would honour the dead, then help me save the living.”

And with that, she moved toward the fallen Eshar and Zilara, her satchel swinging, the crowd parting before her like reeds before the river.

Amara knelt first beside Eshar, the boy’s breath coming in ragged gasps. His leg lay twisted unnaturally, bone pressing sharp beneath the skin. Dust streaked his cheeks, tears cutting pale lines across the grime.

“Don’t touch him,” she told the crowd that pressed too close. Her voice was calm, controlled, but it carried the weight of command. “Bring me space—and bring me water.”

One of the women hurried off with a flask, another already fumbling with Amara’s satchel. “The red pouch,” Amara instructed, “the one with the silver clasp.”

Eshar whimpered, his hands clawing at the earth. “It hurts, mistress, it hurts—”

“I know,” Amara said, her voice steady, not soft but sure. She laid one hand gently on his brow. “Pain is the mountain’s voice, but it will not have the last word.” She worked quickly, pressing linen pads around the break, binding them tight with strips of cloth. Then she drew two straight branches, stripped of bark, and fixed them to his leg.

As she tightened the last binding, Eshar cried out. His fists struck the ground, scattering dust and pebbles.

“Breathe,” Amara commanded, meeting his tearful gaze. “Breathe as Shamash breathes his fire each day. Each breath is proof you are still in this world.”

Her tone—part prayer, part order—anchored him. The boy gasped, then drew air more slowly, following her rhythm. His shaking eased.

“Good,” she said softly. “You will walk again. Not today, but one day. Ninurta teaches us that every wound is also a lesson, every scar a story of survival. Carry this one proudly, Eshar.”

She brushed dust from his brow, then nodded to two men. “Lift him carefully. Keep the leg steady. Set him near the fire when we make camp.”

Leaving him to their care, she crossed to Zilara.

The older woman lay propped against a jagged stone, her garments torn, blood glistening along her arms and face. She gritted her teeth against the pain, her jaw set in the manner of one who had endured much already.

Amara crouched low, examining the cuts. “The stone bit you deep, but it has not broken you,” she said, almost as though speaking to the mountain itself. She drew a vial of water infused with bitter herbs and poured it slowly over the wounds. The liquid foamed red against Zilara’s skin, and the woman hissed between her teeth.

“Hold still,” Amara murmured. “This sting drives out rot before it can take root.” She threaded a bone needle with fine cord and began to stitch, her fingers moving with steady rhythm, each pass binding torn flesh back together.

Zilara tried to lift her head. “Don’t waste your strength on me,” she rasped. “Save it for the young.”

“You are as worthy as any child,” Amara answered, her tone firm as iron. “The foundations of a temple are not young stones, but strong ones.”

Tears welled in the older woman’s eyes—not of weakness, but of release. She nodded once, then let herself relax against the healer’s touch.

Amara’s work was precise. She stitched and bound, then pressed a poultice of crushed leaves against the worst cut, binding it in place with clean linen. As she tied the knot, she whispered a blessing under her breath, words her mother had once spoken over battlefield wounds: “Ninurta, hold her strength as you hold the plough; Shamash, shine on her blood until it runs true again.”

When she finished, she sat back on her heels, wiping blood and dust from her hands. Zilara’s breathing had steadied, though her face was pale.

“You are not broken,” Amara told her, voice carrying so others could hear. “You are tested. The strength that brought you from Ur to this mountain will see you further still.”

Torren stepped forward, offering his broad hand to help lift Zilara. For a moment she looked at him, sceptical, but then she took it. His arm bore her weight as though it were nothing.

The settlers had gathered close once more, silent, watching. They had seen death only moments before—had watched the mountain devour kin and wagon without mercy. But now they saw something else: life pulled back from the edge. Hope, stitched into flesh.

Amara rose slowly, exhaustion in the slump of her shoulders, but her voice remained strong. “The mountain has teeth, yes—but it does not bite all it reaches for. Remember this balance. Death walks with us, but so does life, if we fight for it.”

Her words carried outward, settling over the crowd. Men unclenched their fists. Women lowered their hands from their faces. Even Gideon, ever quick to bitter speech, held his tongue, his eyes fixed on the healer with something like reluctant respect.

In the silence that followed, the mountain loomed as implacable as ever. But the settlers felt a shift—not the lessening of danger, but the proof that even on this narrow edge between life and death, they could still prevail, if only by inches.

When the wounded had been tended and the path shored with ropes, the settlers gathered on a broad ledge where the dust had finally cleared. No one needed to summon them; grief pulled them together as surely as the pull of the moon on the sea.

The survivors of Harun’s family sat in silence, faces streaked with tears and stone dust. His brother held a strip of his cloak, torn free in the collapse, clutching it as if it were the boy himself. Beside him, Anath’s kin laid down a small clay amulet she had carried from Ur, pressing their foreheads against it in silence.

Someone began to keen—a long, low wail that rose and fell like the wind through a reed flute. Others joined, voices weaving into a chorus of lament. The sound carried out into the pass, echoing against the cold walls of the mountain.

Azariel stepped forward, but he did not speak immediately. He let the lament run its course, let the people pour their sorrow into the air, until the last voice faltered into silence. Only then did he raise his hand.

“We name them,” he said, his tone low but carrying. “Harun, son of Amar. Anath, daughter of Zilili. They walked with us from Ur. They gave their hands to the ropes, their backs to the burden. They laughed and they despaired with us. They are of us.”

The settlers murmured assent, voices ragged with grief.

Azariel’s gaze swept the crowd, and his voice grew firmer. “The mountain took them, yes. But it cannot erase them. So long as we speak their names, so long as their memory guides our steps, they remain among us. Their journey does not end in the abyss. It continues with each breath we take.”

But not all were soothed. Gideon’s voice rang sharp, slicing through the solemnity. “Pretty words, Azariel, but they are still dead! You speak of memory, but memory will not fill our bellies when supplies run short, nor will it lift a wagon when the path crumbles again. How many more must we name before you admit this venture is cursed?”

A stir of agreement rippled through the settlers. Some nodded grimly; others lowered their eyes, unwilling to speak but unable to dismiss the truth of his words.

Azariel turned slowly toward Gideon. For a moment, silence hung between them, taut as a drawn bowstring. Then he spoke, his tone unyielding yet calm. “Death walks with us whether we climb mountains or sit within Ur’s walls. Behind those walls, how many perish unseen, swallowed not by stone but by despair, by hunger, by the slow death of lives unlived?”

He looked back to the people. “Harun and Anath did not die in vain. They died upon the path of creation, not destruction. Their blood sanctifies our steps. Their loss is our burden, yes—but it is also our bond. We do not abandon the path because it is hard. We walk it because it is the only one that leads beyond the old world.”

A long silence followed. The settlers stared at the ground, at the ropes, at the mountains themselves. Some wept quietly; others stood rigid, fists clenched at their sides.

Then an older man, a farmer with weathered skin, lifted his voice. “In my village, when one dies, we heap stones so the spirit may climb back to the heavens. Let us do the same here.”

He stooped, lifted a rock, and laid it upon the ground. Another settler followed. Then another. Soon a small cairn began to take shape, rough but steady. Each stone was laid with whispered words—prayers, names, apologies, blessings.

Even Gideon placed one, though he muttered as he did so. “If the gods demand stones, let them have them. But my hands are not done fighting this cursed path.”

When the cairn was complete, Azariel stood before it, his hand resting lightly on the uppermost stone. “May the mountain remember them,” he said. “And may we remember also, so their sacrifice carries us forward.”

Eadric, standing nearby, added in a voice roughened by wind and dust: “The mountain will not be the last to test us. There will be more names before the end. But if we falter at each, we will never rise beyond the valley of shadows. Better to carry them with us as guides than to turn back empty-handed.”

Amara, her hands still stained with blood, stepped forward and sprinkled a few drops of water from her satchel onto the cairn. “For Harun, for Anath,” she intoned softly, “may your spirits walk with Shamash by day and Nanna by night, lighting our way as you once lit your own.”

The people bowed their heads. For a moment, amidst grief and weariness, there was a fragile sense of unity. Not peace, not ease—but the hard knot of resolve tied by mourning shared.

The mountain loomed indifferent above them, but the cairn stood, a small defiance against its vastness. And in the hearts of the settlers, sorrow became something more than despair: it became a weight they would not lay down.

---

The cairn stood in solemn silence, a mound of stones bearing the memory of Harun and Anath. The settlers lingered before it, some still whispering prayers, others simply staring into the void as if expecting their lost kin to return from the abyss. The air was heavy with the dust of collapse and the raw ache of grief.

But grief alone could not carry them up the mountain.

It was Kiya who broke the silence. She stepped forward, clay tablet in hand, her stylus poised though her eyes were red-rimmed with weariness. She bowed briefly toward the cairn, acknowledging the dead, before turning to the living.

“We cannot climb further as we are,” she said, her voice low but carrying. “The wagons were built for the plains and the lowland roads. They are too heavy, too burdened for paths such as these.” She pointed with her stylus to the jagged trail above. “Another collapse will take more than wagons. It will take more lives.”

Murmurs rippled through the group. No one wished to hear this so soon after mourning, but none could deny the truth of her words.

Eadric stepped up beside her, dust still streaking his weathered face. His eyes were grim, his tone sharper than Kiya’s. “You saw what the mountain did today. It will do worse tomorrow. We cannot outmatch it with muscle alone. We must outwit it, as hunters outwit the stag. That means stripping weight, bracing wheels, doubling ropes. Every cart must be lightened until it can cling to the stone like a goat.”

“Lighten them how?” a woman asked, clutching her bundle close. “These are our lives—our tools, our food, our children’s clothes. What do you expect us to cast away?”

Kiya’s gaze was unwavering. “What is not necessary must be sacrificed. Better to lose cloth and pots than lives. Better to arrive with little than not arrive at all.”

At this, Gideon’s voice rang out once more, bitter and accusing. “So now we throw away what little remains? First bronze, then timber, now the very things we carry? At this pace we will reach the valley naked and starving, and what then? What city can be built with empty hands?”

His words struck home; several settlers nodded, fear and anger simmering in their eyes. But Torren growled, stepping forward like a bear disturbed. “You fool. A dead man carries nothing. Better to walk empty-handed than not to walk at all.” His great hands clenched into fists, and for a moment it seemed he might silence Gideon with them, but Azariel laid a calming hand on his arm.

“This is the truth we must face,” Azariel said, his voice cutting through the argument with quiet authority. “The mountain does not yield to our desires. It demands sacrifice. We cannot keep all we hoped to bring, not if we wish to live to see the valley. The dream of Fordingrad is not written in pots or cloth. It is written in us. What we carry here—” he touched his chest, just above his heart, “—is what will build the city. Not what lies upon our wagons.”

The crowd shifted, torn between grief for what they had already lost and dread of what more might be taken.

Then an older woman spoke, her voice trembling but resolute. “Let us decide together. Each family knows what they can spare. Let it be done openly, so none can say the burden was uneven.”

Kiya nodded firmly. “Yes. We will gather by wagons. Each family will lay out what they carry, and together we will choose what must remain and what must be cast aside. I will mark the loads. We will lighten them by no less than a third.”

Gasps rose at her severity, but she did not waver. “If we do less, more wagons will fall, and more cairns will rise.”

Eadric added, “The ropes must be doubled. Every wagon lashed together like climbers on a mountain rope. If one slips, the others can hold it.” He glanced toward the abyss where the wagon had vanished. “Had we done so today, perhaps Harun and Anath would still be among us.”

A heavy silence fell at that, for the truth cut deeper than any reproach. Heads bowed, shoulders slumped. But when they raised their eyes again, the glimmer of resolve had returned.

Azariel stepped once more into their circle. His cloak fluttered in the cold wind, his eyes bright with firelight and grief. “Every sacrifice binds us closer. Every burden laid down lightens another’s step. We are no longer a band of wanderers clinging to the remnants of Ur. We are the people of the path, and the path itself will teach us how to endure.”

He turned, placing his hand on the cairn once more. “Let Harun and Anath be the last taken by carelessness. From this day forward, we climb as one—every rope bound, every load shared, every life guarded as sacred.”

The settlers murmured assent. It was not the cheer of victory, but the low, steady sound of a people bracing themselves for hardship they could not yet measure.

By evening, families had begun the bitter work. Pots, blankets, even heirlooms were laid upon the ground in small piles. Some wept as they chose. Others muttered curses. But they chose nonetheless. Fires burned low that night, fed by broken timbers and discarded cloth, the smoke rising into the dark sky like the breath of sacrifice.

And in the flickering light, the settlers began again—not whole, not unbroken, but moving forward, step by painful step.

---

Morning came cold and brittle, the mountain air sharp in the lungs, carrying the smell of smoke and stone. The cairn stood at the edge of the path, its rough stones darkened by dew, a silent sentinel over the abyss. No one passed it without touching a hand to its surface, whispering Harun’s name, or Anath’s, or both. For some it was prayer; for others, apology. But none ignored it.

The camp had been restless in the night. Families huddled close, clutching what remained of their possessions. Children whimpered in their sleep, murmuring half-dreamt questions about where the lost had gone. Fires burned low, fed with the broken timbers and discarded cloth left from the sacrifices of the evening. The smoke rose straight into the still air, a grey column that seemed to pierce the sky, as though carrying the settlers’ grief to the gods themselves.

At dawn, the work resumed. Wagons were stripped of their excess: pots left behind, clothing buried in shallow pits, trinkets consigned to the fire. Kiya moved among them with her tablet, marking each load with precise strokes, weighing not only goods but the very lives they might yet save. Her stylus clicked softly against clay like the tallying of a priest-accountant in the temple.

Eadric oversaw the ropes, binding wagon to wagon in long chains. “Every knot is a lifeline,” he told the settlers as he tightened the lashings. “If one fails, the others will hold. We climb as one, or we fall as one.” His voice was harsh, but his eyes betrayed the grief he carried.

Torren inspected each wheel, his hands rough on the bronze strappings. When he found one too loose, he struck it with his hammer until sparks flew, his muttering low and steady: “Not again. Not again.”

The settlers laboured with grim focus. There was little laughter, little talk. Even Gideon, though he muttered still, worked alongside the others, his bitterness muted by necessity.

By midday, the wagons stood ready. Lighter, leaner, bound by ropes like ships lashed together against the storm. The people gathered once more before the cairn, their breath steaming in the thin air.

Azariel stepped forward, his cloak snapping in the mountain wind. He placed his hand upon the cairn, the gesture solemn, deliberate. “We leave them here,” he said, his voice carrying over the hushed crowd. “But not behind us. They walk with us now, in every step, in every rope we tie, in every burden we share. The mountain has taken, but it has also bound us closer. We are fewer, yet stronger.”

He lifted his gaze to the narrow trail that wound upward into the mist. “From this point, we climb not as families, not as fragments of Ur, but as one people. The cairn marks the boundary. Behind it lies what we were. Ahead lies what we must become.”

A murmur rippled through the settlers, not quite assent, not quite prayer—something steadier, born of weariness but also of resolve.

Then, with Eadric at the lead, the caravan began to move.

The wagons creaked but did not falter. Their lighter loads clung more firmly to the rock, their doubled ropes pulling taut between them like threads in a vast tapestry. Settlers leaned into the strain with grim determination, shoulders bent, hands raw. Children walked close to their mothers, clutching small bundles of the few treasures they still carried.

As they passed the cairn, each settler touched it in turn—some with fingers, some with palms, some with bowed foreheads. And then they moved on, step by step, leaving behind the stones but carrying the memory.

High above, the eagle of Enlil wheeled once more, its cry sharp and piercing. Some whispered it was a blessing, others a warning. But all raised their eyes to it, and in that moment felt watched—not by the gods alone, but by the dead who now travelled with them.

The path narrowed again, winding upward into mist and shadow. The mountain loomed vast and implacable, indifferent to their grief, their prayers, their determination. But the settlers moved forward nonetheless, lighter in load, heavier in spirit, bound together by the knowledge that turning back was no longer possible.

The cairn stood behind them, marking not just the place of death, but the place where the caravan had become something more than a collection of wanderers. It had become a people.