Ziggy and the Mountain - a story by Greg Boettcher

No species names or classification info, though the story is about a yak, and of course yaks are mammals.
No map showing that yaks live in Asia.
No mention of the fact that yaks are mountain-dwelling herbivores.
No quote about yaks.

Gwendolyn: Ziggy’s Wife

e idea of the mountain stood out, strong and prominent in Ziggy’s mind. It wasn’t hard to see why. Whether you were heading out towards the pastures of mossy lichens, or turning in towards Krishna’s ramshackle hut, there it always stood: the mountain, a permanent icon, etched upon the sky in ice. Night or day, cold or spring, it was always there. To some it seemed a monument to its own supremacy, a boast of its own grandeur, a testimony to one sublime idea: that the world’s ceiling is not the sky. By the time we were calves, the mountain was burned into our retinas. For Ziggy, it was carved into his brain. Sometimes in winter, when the sun was searing and the snow was full of fire, Ziggy would cock his head to the northern skyline until his eyes grew teary and his heart beat like a hammer, and then his hooves buckled and he fell, knees down hard into the highland snow. For Ziggy, the mountain was more real than the farm itself. Sometimes he seemed to think the mountain was the whole world. It didn’t matter if he was carrying Krishna and two others on his back; it didn’t matter if the snow was up to his flanks; it didn’t matter, finally, that I was desparately in love with him. Ziggy would answer half the time in a distracted tone of voice, speaking about one thing, while his mind remained set on that distant peak. Finally it was impossible to get him to talk about anything else. I tried to bring him around and make him talk about things on the farm, but in the end he was too far gone. He would say things like, “The mountain is the only true reality.” Now how do you deal with a statement like that? I never even told him I was pregnant with his calf. By that time, I knew he was going to leave, and I couldn’t bear to think he might not care about his own child. Well, Ziggy left, all right. Old Krishna never found him. Maybe Ziggy even made it to his mountain. After his departure, Travis, the local guru of the farm yaks, went to the drinking trough every day, sprinkled in a few dry blades of grass, and read them, to learn of Ziggy’s fate. One day he said, “Ziggy is dead.” We held a memorial service for Ziggy that same evening. Soon after that, I gave birth to little Ziggy.

Travis: Ziggy’s First Guru

Ziggy—Ziggy Sr., that is—was the quietest yak I’ve ever known, and at the same time the most inquisitive. I got to know him quite well during my daily lectures. In his youth Ziggy was the mildest of the calves, the best behaved. For a while, in fact, I thought he was addled, so quietly did he listen, and so little did he socialize with the others. Then, one day, abruptly, he asked, “What lies beyond the farm?” This question gave me pause, as I wondered about the young calf’s motive. Then I answered, “The village. The village lies beyond the farm.” Then he asked, “Why can we never go to the village?” All eyes turned toward me. I said, “You can go to the village. But only when your master, Krishna, demands that you go.” And then Ziggy asked, “Where is that written?” Now I had a good answer ready. I said, “It is a question of dharma, whose importance is written throughout the sacred texts. Dharma means many things. It means ritualistic worship, but it also means the reinvigoration of the cosmic order. It means tradition, but it also means the maintenance of society as a whole. If society is to be maintained, the balance between man and animal must be maintained. But that balance cannot be maintained if every yak tries to gratify his every whim. Some things are beyond the proper role of the yak, and going to the village is one of those things. If you go to the village, you bring bad dharma to yourself and to the herd. Society as a whole would suffer, and finally even the cosmos itself would begin to collapse. Now do you still want to go to the village?” Ziggy was quiet after that.
But not forever. One day, a couple of years later, Ziggy asked me, “What is moksha?” The question might have seemed innocent enough, but coming out of Ziggy’s mouth it made me a bit uneasy. I gave the standard answer: “Moksha is a state of eternal bliss. It comes when the soul is finally liberated from endless transmigrations from one body to another. It can only be achieved after many lifetimes of living with excellent karma.” Ziggy replied, “That is just what I thought. Moksha is eternal. But this dharma that you so often speak of—that is temporal. Everything about your dharma refers to particular things: particular rituals, particular traditions—things that are particular to one’s place and time. But moksha is universal. Now moksha is said to be the highest good, the very goal of all living things. But you always talk about dharma, which is very different. How do you explain this discrepancy?” My nostrils flared with impatience, and I said, “Where did you get these ideas?” Ziggy said, “I got them from Nigel, another guru down the road.” I cast my horns to the sky, perturbed and indignant. Nigel was indeed another guru—a maverick and a radical—who lived on Kamsa’s farm, of all places. I said, “Nigel can go and moksha himself into perdition if he likes, but as for me, I say do what’s best for the herd!”
Ziggy never listened to me very much after that. He had latched onto new ideas—ones that were more exciting than mine, but also more dangerous—and he knew it. What was at stake was more than just some metaphysical debate. Ziggy’s very soul was on the line, as well as the souls of whomever else he managed to corrupt. If a yak uproots himself from all the traditions of dharma, free to forsake society for his own selfish interests, too often that yak’s life ends up as a free-for-all game where everything is permitted. Then, bereft of any guide, the yak’s soul has to find its own way, and usually it fails. Well, Ziggy had to find something new to live for, because he had just managed to erase for himself everything that the herd had ever loved. The thing he found was the thing he saw every day: the mountain. Then he started to say things like, “The mountain is the eternal reality.” By that time, I knew I could do nothing for him but just stand to one side and let his neurosis run its course. Finally it became clear that Ziggy would not let go of his preposterous daydream. He went off to live the dream. He went off to climb the mountain. And so he died.

Henrietta: Ziggy’s Sister

I never actually thought Ziggy would leave. I heard him talking about the mountain, and, yes, in some respects the mountain was a whole different world for him. But I was able to get through to him in some cases where the others couldn’t, and so I didn’t think he was really that far gone. If you ask me, the thing that really hit home for him was when Father died. Dad had been old for a long time, but you never really thought he’d die, you know? Finally, the winter before Ziggy left, the snow was especially bad, and Dad didn’t look too well. It was all he could do to root through the snow for grass and moss. The rest of the time he just lay in the snow. Finally, one day, he just didn’t get up. Then, later that day, when Krishna found out, he took Dad and made a big meal of yak meat for his whole family. The very thought of them eating Father—well, it’s none too pleasurable for any of us, but especially not for Ziggy. Everything had to be so meaningful for him. And Father’s death meant that Ziggy would die one day, too, in much the same way, if he didn’t do something about it. Well, Ziggy did something about it. And so he died young. But I’m not among those that condemn him for it. It’s not what I would have done. But then, I’m not Ziggy. And who’s to say Ziggy didn’t find something spiritual on his way up the mountain? Who’s to say Ziggy didn’t die happy? I like to think that whatever happened to Ziggy, at least he found freedom, freedom from the farm, which is something he always wanted. And I’d like to think he found peace.

Eddie: Ziggy’s Brother-in-Law

I’ve had just about enough of this sentimental bullcrap. Now there are real dangers in going off on some madcap adventure through the hills. If we don’t teach our calves to learn the right lesson from all this, then all of them are going to grow up with this stupid delusion in their heads: “Hey, let’s go climb a mountain! Oh boy!” And all of them are going to wind up mincemeat. We’ve got to draw the line here. So the question is: why shouldn’t we do what Ziggy did? Well, I’ll tell you.
       First of all, there’s the rockslides. Up there, it happens all the time. Every ten minutes—boom!—more rock, down on your head. You just can’t prepare for it. One minute you hear a noise, the next you’re dead on the ground. In some of these mountain areas, so much rock falls that rock dust piles up on the snow. It’s a war zone out there, and yaks are the losers.
       And then you have the avalanches. On the steeper slopes, walking on the snow can start a deadly avalanche. One loud “moo” is all that it takes. So that’s a big thing.
       Oh, and the wild yaks. Now, I’m not one to be modest, but we have to face the facts here. Those wild yaks are a hell of a lot bigger than us domesticated ones. I bet some of them weigh almost twice as much! And I don’t have to tell you about how bad-tempered they are. They’re probably jealous that we get all the best treatment. And because they’re so big and bad-tempered, you just have to avoid them. But you can’t avoid them if you go out alone, straight out to the mountain, like Ziggy did. If you do, you get pummeled to smithereens; there’s no way around it.
       Then there’s the mountain climbing itself. Even if Ziggy did make it to the mountain, could he really have climbed it without falling to his death? Impossible. Up there, it’s nothing but ice and sheer cliffs. The ice you slip on; the cliffs you fall off of. Either way, you die. It’s that simple. Just don’t climb the mountain.
       So there you have it. Rockslides, avalanches, wild yaks, mountain climbing. You just don’t go out like Ziggy did if you want to stay alive.

Dirk: Ziggy’s Brother-in-Law’s Cousin

I can’t believe you didn’t mention it! Sure, there’s the avalanches and all that. But what about this new Blak Yak Society they’ve got going around?
       What, haven’t you heard? Why, it’s the most horrible thing imaginable! I mean, you know how the villagers all believe in reincarnation, so that a good animal may be reborn as a person, and a bad person as an animal. That’s why they don’t kill us, as you know. And so, as you know, they usually get by on bread, vegetables, and cheese, only eating meat when some animal dies of natural causes. They can eat animals; they just can’t kill them.
       That’s where the Blak Yak society comes in. Wearing dark hoods and even darker intentions, these grim humans lead unsuspecting yaks up a mountain, then cruelly toss them off, trying to make it look like an accident. Then they go back to their villages, where they dine upon on the flesh of their poor victims, and then go back to leading their lives of hypocrisy and bad karma.
       A lone yak climbing up a mountain, like Ziggy? There’s no way he could have escaped. Those Blak Yaks have members on every mountain pass, just waiting for such an opportunity. You can bet that Ziggy was on everybody’s shish kebob for the next week. Sad but true. Those Blak Yaks, they’ll get you every time.

Aaron: Ziggy’s Brother-in-Law’s Cousin’s Former Roommate

This is ludicrous. Explanation after explanation, but no one is saying the obvious answer. The Blak Yak Society! That one took the cake. But let’s get serious now. What killed Ziggy? It was the Yeti. You heard me: the Abominable Snowman. Now I know what you’re going to say, and don’t tell me there aren’t any such creatures. Say that, and they’ll have to prove their existence through violent means! Sir Edmund Hillary himself saw the Yeti, and if I remember right, he described them as horrible, ten-foot monsters with fangs and claws and a really mean attitude. And his Sherpa partner, Norgay Tenzig, saw them all the time, until they almost put an end to him. Besides, my uncle Jack saw some footprints once, and he said that these footprints—and I quote—“looked really weird.” This is convincing evidence, because uncle Jack never lies. So, now that we’ve put aside our doubts, we can better reflect upon the dangers of this all-too-real threat called the Yeti.
First of all, it is a completely unsubstantiated rumor that they stand a mere six feet off the ground. No, these monsters are a good twenty feet high, even dwarfing some of our smallest glaciers. And then, once you get past the enormous height, you have to cope with their breath, which is odious and foul and really horrid. Then there are the fangs, the claws, and the really mean attitude, which I think I already mentioned. After that, you have to deal with the fact that they are really ornery. The orneriness of these creatures could not be matched if you tickled a tiger with somebody’s old undergarment. Oh yes—and they like to wail on you with clubs and spears. And they have all kinds of instruments of torture in their dungeons. So, you’d better stay away from the Yeti.
All right, then. Now that we’ve straightened out all the facts, let’s imagine what might have happened when Ziggy tried to climb that mountain. First, let’s suppose that this pile of grain here is the mountain. And my hoof here is Ziggy. So, Ziggy comes to the mountain. Boom! The Yeti kills him. But now let’s say he comes to the mountain a different way. The Yeti looks over. He sees a yak coming. He moves quietly, underneath the brush. The minute Ziggy attempts an upward climb—boom!—the Yeti kills him. There’s no way around it. And you know why? Because Ziggy specifically said he was going to the mountain, the very heart of Yeti country. He might as well have been heading for a butcher shop. That’s why Ziggy is dead.

Richard: Ziggy’s Half-Brother

Enough! Do not trample on Ziggy’s memory with your vulgar tongues! I want to raise our children well, just as you do. But before we ask the question, “Why should we avoid following Ziggy’s example?” we must ask the question, “Should we avoid following Ziggy’s example?” For we are all convinced that Ziggy died; that is not at issue. The appropriate question is not how he died, but how he lived. For if he lived well, and had good karma, then perhaps we should be finding ways to learn from his best actions, not spit on his good name.
It is well-known that there are three paths to moksha, not just one. But none of us ever act on this knowledge. In our minds we know there are three ways, but most of us follow only one. What’s more, when a yak decides to take a different path than ours, we condemn him, even though his path leads to the very same goal as ours! Yes, there is the “path of duties,” by which one follows rituals and social conventions. But there is also the path of devotion to a personal God. And there is the path of knowledge, which Ziggy chose to follow. And since none of you have ever endeavored to learn anything about this path, much less follow it, you have no license to say anything disrespectful about the path he chose.
Did Ziggy act rightly? Did Ziggy gain good karma, and find new life as a higher entity? Is it possible that Ziggy actually found moksha? I do not presume to know. But I think his life was worth more than most of yours thrown together. Ziggy dared to question all the beliefs that you accepted merely out of cowardice, laziness, and fear. Then he went on his own path, a very difficult path, and finally a mortal path, but perhaps a better path than any of us can conceive of. Until you show me that this is not true—and you will never be able to—I will not have you besmirch his name again.

Nigel: Ziggy’s Second Guru

Whether Ziggy truly came close to finding moksha, I don’t know. However, I do know that something within him was awakening, something that took a long time to awaken. By the time his father died, the thing was wide awake. And I sense with great certainty that after Ziggy leapt free of the farm, this thing grew and flourished as never before. It is possible that Ziggy experienced as much of life in those few days before he died than he had ever experienced before in his lifetime. I am sure Ziggy’s soul gained more from being liberated from the farm than from anything else. Ziggy was not a guru. The only soul he tried to guide toward moksha was his own. But for all that, he did it rather well. Wherever his soul has leapt to, I’m sure he must be doing well now. Some part of me thinks he may have been reborn as a wild pheasant—he always wanted to be free. Or perhaps he may be one of the wild rams that roams the mountaintops in solitude. And, yes, it is even possible that Ziggy has been reborn as a human baby. But there is also another possibility. Lately, you know, I’ve seen a young little calf who looks just like him, and is of the same mind. Whether he is of the same soul—who knows.

Ziggy: Ziggy’s Son

Cast your gaze to the northern sky, and there it is: the white snow, the ultramarine shadows, the rock as black as darkest night—the mountain. Follow the land up as it rises from our little Sherpa village, up to the rocks and crags of the adjoining foothills, up to the jagged white of the glacier beyond, and up, finally, to the august peaks on the horizon. There they are: the titans, guardians of the valleys, keepers of lost snow, and monoliths for the whole world. Here, finally, ends the aching of the earth, the obsession always to ascend; here, finally, the hard earth finds its culmination. It is the rooftop of the world; it is the epitome of all things that stand; it is the perfection of the elements. Some would say they are like the oldest of the old men, blessed for a lifetime of continual meditation. Others would say they are the source of all life here in the highlands. I say they are simply mountains, above us in every respect—above our petty day-to-day affairs; above us, too, as we appreciate their splendor and yearn to achieve their perfection. And scan now among all the peaks on the northern horizon, and select among them the biggest: yes, there it is! There is the giant of the giants, truly the most awesome of all the awesome pinnacles. It looks like an enormous ice block that someone chipped and chopped until nothing was left but jagged edges pointing skywards. Here the sun inflames the snow to a blistering, blinding white; there, shadows settle in and rest in its cool depressions. In some places snow stands supreme; in others, it gathers like flaky rice over the black rock. Its neighbors aspire, but this one is the champion. It makes one want to shout! It makes one want to raise one’s head to the sky! It makes all yaks want to scream together in unison, “Yes, that is the mountain! I want to see it! I want to breathe it! I want to feel it with my hooves!” They call it Everest.

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