We come down from the mountaintops in the footsteps of the gods.

It’s early and there aren’t any people awake yet, but the ancient spirits show us the way.

We come down looking for the water. And those awake at this time.

We pass by our future memories: fires in fireplaces and wood stoves that have not yet been built, that will still burn slowly after being packed tightly for the night.  The faint future smell of smoke reminds us of the primal nature of life and the constant struggle against the elements.

We pass darkened areas that will become streets.  Past unbuilt stores that one day will be closed up tightly for the night. 

We shrug that off.  Because none of it is here.  Not yet. 

And we have nothing to lose this early and so much to gain as we stake our claims and forge civilizations seemingly from nothing.

The great and the common among us march together, heel to toe.  One step after another.

We force our footsteps into paths.  Codify our conduct and reduce customs to rules, laying down laws that will one day seem inevitable, incontrovertible, unquestionable like they must have been there all along waiting to sprout up from the dirt.

We feel the blisters from all our work as we make our way down.  Always spreading out, flowing down to the sea.

“We come from the mountaintop,” we are prepared to say to all we encounter.  But we don’t encounter anyone.  Not yet.  It’s still too early. 

Even the animals are quiet, keeping their distance as we move forward, ever forward, making progress.  There is still plenty of space for them to avoid us.  People are still the guests here.  There aren’t yet enough of us to herd the sheep and horses together or dictate where they should and should not be. 

Still, we sense we are headed in the right direction and convince ourselves that we are headed in the only righteous direction.

Our dogma becomes ingrained.  Carving deep ridges in reality, ruts designed to rein in those who threaten our teachings.

We come down from the mountaintops as the gods once did because we are arrogant and we are special.  As the gods once were.

We dream we’ll be remembered but we worry we are wrong.  We worry we will be forgotten and in that forgetting the world will rob us of our meaning and our very existence.

Later, there will be villages here.  And windows to look into.  Vibrant and teeming late into the nights that are no longer dark and silent and sleepy.

We keep moving forward, knowing we give all we have and demanding others give us their all in return. 

Labeling all who oppose us as heretics, we ignore their progress and their different ways of thinking.  We cannot imagine divergent paths until those paths leave us behind.  We are still moving toward the sea when we notice the others are no longer following. 

We come down from the mountaintops in the footsteps of the gods.  And we pause at the water to gaze upon our own reflection.  And reflect on what happens if we ever lose our divinity. 

We do not realize this already happened.

Instead, we continue in the footsteps of long-forgotten gods who came before us, waiting once more for the sun to rise, not imagining how much more clearly that sun will show our own shortcomings.

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 Alex M. Stein is a Los Angeles-based writer, director, and lover of the Northern Lights.  He is the author of the short-story collection Tales From the Trail: Short Fiction About Dogs, Mushing, and Sled-Dog Races (which is ironic since he lives in a place that never gets cold enough for water to freeze).  You can frequently find him on Twitter at @coldfootfilms.