The Healing Mountain

This story originally published by Flame Tree Press in 2025.

A great splash leapt up from a slow-moving pool in the river. Its final droplets landed very near the boy on the rocks. His friends were swimming. He was waiting.

Ajax returned to the surface with a shout, “The mighty Achilles! Defeated by a little water!”

The boy on the rocks didn’t look at them, though he could feel the eyes of Patroclus watching him from just above the water. 

The boy never looks, and he never swims. They cannot see what he sees.

“I don’t swim,” Achilles said evenly.

“It’s getting cold anyway,” said Patroclus, swimming to the bank.

Ajax followed him grudgingly and they clambered out of the water and back into their tunics. “Seriously though, your mother is a sea-nymph,” Ajax said, leaning against a tree to pull on his sandal, “and you can’t swim?”

In a flash, Achilles’ knife left its sheath and flew across the clearing, burying its point with a shiver inches from Ajax’s head. Achilles met the other boy’s eyes. “I said I don’t swim, not that I can’t.”

“Alright,” Ajax conceded, hands in the air. “Alright. Just making conversation.”

He continued to make conversation all the long way back up to their camp, leading Patroclus by several paces with Achilles trailing at the rear. Ajax passed the time by complaining loudly about the days they spent huddled together in Chiron’s cave, discussing philosophy or medicine. He boasted of his preference for things like hunting, or sparring, or actual combat. He hadn’t seen any actual combat, but he never tired of pretending that he had. 

The other two simply let him get away with it. Things were easier that way. And besides, they knew the truth, so what gain was there in arguing. This was the manner of reasoning Achilles and Patroclus had learned from Chiron while Ajax was refusing to pay attention.

The three of them continued on that way. Ajax jabbering up ahead, Patroclus occasionally feeding him a reply, and Achilles wandering on in silent contemplation.

Achilles was thinking about the water.

He thought about the water for hours whenever he left it behind. He always tried not to look, but try as he might, he wasn’t able to keep his eyes off it entirely. Every time, without fail, there would be a moment of complacency or forgetfulness or relaxed ease, and he would find himself scanning its surface. And every time, without fail, he saw the bodies.

Six of them. Swollen. Floating. Crowded around him.

When he was much younger, he would scream and cower and clutch at his mother or the nursemaids. Didn’t they see? Didn’t they realize? How could they possibly wade out into the water?

But they did not see. They did not realize. Achilles was far from a man now, though he would have pretended otherwise, but he had learned years ago that it was best not to acknowledge the bodies in the water. Or the way they were unknowingly nudged aside by bathers and boats. Or the striking resemblance they bore to Achilles himself.

He shook them from his mind just in time to hear Ajax lamenting the end of the days-long break they had been given by Chiron.

Time spent discussing philosophy or learning the healing arts certainly did not feel like time wasted to Achilles, but they could only spend so many hours shut in a cave talking before they began to lose their minds. Chiron knew this, hence the breaks.

They relished these days. The freedom to release their conscious thoughts and drift about the healing mountain as they pleased. He would never tell the others, but Achilles found it was in these unstructured days, with his mind wandering aimlessly from point to point, that the teachings they were given in the cave truly crystallized. It was out here, without guidance, where they took on real meaning.

He suspected their tutor knew this, too.

“Ah, well. Couldn’t last forever,” sighed Ajax. “But hey,” he clapped his hands together loudly, the sound rippling through the trees. “We hunt tomorrow! Better bag something, or the horse will be displeased.”

“He’s a centaur,” Patroclus muttered.

“What?”

“I said Chiron is a centaur, not a horse,” replied Patroclus. “And he’s one of the most learned beings in all of Greece. It wouldn’t kill you to show him some respect.”

“I know,” moaned Ajax. “And I do respect him. Honestly, I really do. But he can be so… unpleasant when we come back empty handed. So, tomorrow,” he continued, glancing over his shoulder, “we stick together! With Achilles on our side, we can’t lose. He is an absolute killing machine!” Ajax laughed.

“He is more,” Patroclus said, with a meaningful glance toward Achilles.

This was true, and Patroclus knew it.

A year after he was born, Achilles’ mother Thetis threw the customary name day celebration for him. Many Olympians attended, out of respect for Thetis’s immortal lineage. All had gone reasonably well until Thetis overheard a pair of her Nereid sisters. They had a bit too much wine, and talked a bit too loudly about her son. She swept over to confront the two.

They blushed and admitted that, yes, they had been discussing baby Achilles. That there had been a prophecy given by the Fates about her son. That it was well known around Mt. Olympus, but had been deliberately kept from her. Thetis demanded they explain this prophecy at once.

This is what they told her:

Her son Achilles had, in fact, two destinies. He could go off to war, where he would win great victories for his home, and fame and glory for himself; becoming the greatest, most acclaimed, and most beloved warrior in all of history. But he would also die extremely young.

Or he could live to a ripe old age, eighty years or more, knowing nothing but peace.

But he would have to choose. If ever Achilles went to war, he would usher in a life of glory, and condemn himself to an early grave. If he stayed away, he would die an old man.

Thetis had told him about the prophecy just before he was sent to study under Chiron. Achilles wasn’t even sure if his father knew, but he had told Patroclus in a moment of vulnerability.

He knew, of course, what his mother wanted. Every mother wishes a life of peace and longevity for their children, Thetis had told him as much. And Achilles did see some appeal in this. He was an excellent healer for a boy his age, and he liked helping people. The looks on their faces when he successfully treated an animal in their herd, or quelled the fever of a sick child. It was fulfilling. It could lead him to a long and satisfying life.

But… glory.

What athletic young man didn’t crave the intoxicating scent of glory. The adoration of his peers, and even his elders. Physical prowess had always been evident in Achilles, and word about some of his deeds had already begun to spread. He loved the looks he got when he entered a village. The whispers. The questions.

The prospect of such an early death, however… It did take some fun out of all the glory business.

Achilles felt these twin destinies pull at him, like physical forces, threatening to split him down the middle as the trio reentered their small camp.

Checking the snares further out, the boys were rewarded with two fat rabbits. It was a fine evening meal, and they lay down in their blankets under the darkened sky.

________________________________

Achilles was drowning.

Again.

Or… maybe not drowning? He was certainly underwater, far enough down he could not see the surface, but not so far down that there was no light. An eerie, directionless glow permeated the space around him. But he felt no water in his mouth. His lungs did not burn. His throat had not closed.

He’d had this dream so many times over the years, but it had never occurred to him that perhaps he wasn’t actually drowning. He wasn’t breathing, to be sure, but he also found that he had no need to breathe. He was still and floating as usual, but there was less panic with this new realization.

Less panic, but still some terror. There were, after all, the bodies.

Six of them. Again. Lifeless limbs floating in the vague teal light of the sea.

Their consistent appearance was disturbing, as was their resemblance to him. But neither felt as strange or distressing as the fact that they aged along with him. This dream had plagued Achilles since before he was old enough to speak, and the bodies of those six boys were always his age. Back then they were toddlers. 

Tonight they were nearing adulthood, just like him.

Recognition that he was not drowning came with an increased awareness of the dream itself, and Achilles wondered if there were other assumptions he’d made that would prove to be untrue. With a great effort, he reached out and found that he could indeed wiggle his fingers. This meant that wasn’t trapped, captive as he had always believed. Wiggling fingers led to clenching fists led to flexing elbows. Before long, he was swimming.

Gliding through this strange sea, Achilles got a good look at the faces of these figures for the first time in his life. And he knew immediately that the stories were true.

He had pretended not to hear them when the nursemaids thought he was asleep. Convinced himself that he had made them up in the nonsensical state between sleeping and waking. Pushed them so far from his mind that they were less than a forgotten memory. 

But the stories were true.

Achilles was not an only son, as he had been told. He was, in fact, one of seven. 

When Thetis gave birth to her first son, he was happy and healthy. Gods be praised! The midwife placed the child in its mother’s arms, and left to fetch its father, Peleus. When the two returned to the birthing chamber, the baby was dead. No marks, no scars, no explanation from the weeping Thetis.

When Thetis gave birth to her second son, he was happy and healthy. The midwife placed the child in her arms, and went to fetch Peleus. When they entered the birthing chamber, the baby was dead. No marks, no scars, no explanation.

Over the years, six sons were born healthy, and dead within minutes. 

Peleus grew increasingly distraught. No healer or midwife could give him a reason why this might be happening. He began to fear he would never produce an heir. And so, Peleus decided he must witness the mysteries of birth in order to solve a mystery of death.

A viewing hole was made secretly in the wall of the birthing chamber, and on the day of the seventh birth, Peleus stood in the adjacent room and witnessed the birth of his seventh son. 

The baby was happy and healthy. The midwife placed the child in Thetis’s arms, and left to fetch Peleus, closing the door behind her. Then, for reasons known only to her, Thetis lifted the boy over a bucket of salt water by the birthing chair, and held him under the surface to drown.

Peleus immediately launched himself through the door of the birthing chamber and pulled the baby from the water. The child wailed, coughed, and spluttered, but he was alive. He was breathing. On his name day, he would be called Achilles, and the mother who tried to drown him would be told of his twin destinies.

Everyone on his parents estate had known the truth, and Achilles had absorbed that truth, too. Despite all his efforts to push it away. It simply did not fit with the knowledge that his mother loved him. Thetis had shown Achilles nothing but the deepest affection in all his living memory.

And yet, the stories were true.

They were his brothers. The boys, drowned at birth, now floating through his dreams and haunting every body of water.

Achilles swam into the cluster of them. Floating. Passive. Unmoving.

He was struck by the similarities in their faces, their builds. So alike, and so different. That uncanny resemblance that only siblings seem to have.

Once closer, he noticed the eyes.

They were unblinking, but not lifeless. He moved toward one of his brothers, and saw that there was a spark behind the other boy’s eyes. As Achilles approached, his brother’s eyes followed him. They roamed, just as his always had, searching the approaching Achilles from head to foot.

He had drifted within inches of the other boy’s face when the mouth opened. Just dropping wide, at first. Then moving back and forth slightly, the rest of the body still limply floating. There was no sound, but the fear on the boy’s face was unmistakable. And the words… They came slow at first, but the words could be read on his lips.

Where… are… we?

The brother’s hand suddenly shot out and grabbed the front of Achilles’ tunic, pulling him even closer.

Where… are… we?

He tried to free himself from the grip.

Where are we?!

Achilles woke, gasping for breath and covered in sweat. Dawn had just broken.

_____________________________

Silence followed the three boys as they stalked their way through the forest that morning. In some ways, this was the part of the hunt Achilles liked best. Those quiet moments searching for prey. He had the concentration born of focused movement and the freedom of his private thoughts. But he also had the comfort and security of his companions’ presence, flanked out on either side of him. Ajax a handful of yards to the left, Patroclus to the right.

Of course, the dream still consumed much of Achilles’ mind.

In the darker reaches of his subconscious, he had suspected for some time that the other boys in the water might represent his brothers. Unwilling to accept what it meant—that they were dead, that their mother had killed them—Achilles had refused to acknowledge the mere existence of the idea. He felt he had no choice but to accept it now. The experience grabbed hold of him in ways he couldn’t explain. It brought forth ideas that seemed impossible, but felt like solid fact.

What if they weren’t really gone?

What if somewhere, in another life, in another existence, each of them was the seventh son? The one saved from the water on the day of their birth. That would explain why they all looked the same age. Why they continued to get older along with him. Why all seven brothers seemed conscious, if frozen, in the watery dream.

Perhaps, in their own realms, each one of them was alive. Each one facing the same twin destinies, their paths having not yet diverged. What if, for each of his brothers, Achilles was just another body floating in the water?

Maybe the dream is some kind of accidental conduit that ties their worlds together. Could it be possible the nightmare that has chased him throughout his life was actually offering him… a chance?

To be someone’s brother?

To save another boy, in another world, from a terrible fate?

A momentary glint of bone-white broke Achilles from his reverie.

Another step, and the rest of the stag came into view. Its striking antlers shook gently in the dappled sunlight of the clearing as it grazed. Achilles put up a hand to alert his friends, and they slowed their pace, spreading out to surround the animal as they approached. They were within range and downwind. It hadn’t spotted them yet, but no one had a clear shot. Too focused on the prey, Patroclus loudly snapped a twig beneath his foot.

They all froze as the stag lifted its head.

For a fraction of an instant, the animal made eye contact with Achilles. Then it tore off into the trees. Without a moment’s thought or hesitation, he sprinted off in pursuit.

“What are you doing?” Ajax called after them. “You’ll never catch it!”

But Achilles ran on.

The stag was definitely gaining distance, but he could still see it through the trees. Arms pumping, spear gripped tight, Achilles knew there was always a chance. Somehow, he picked up more speed. They were running downhill. Just as he realized what direction the animal was leading him, he heard the splash.

A moment later Achilles shot out of the trees, pulling up short at the pool in the river where his friends had been swimming the day before. The stag was clambering out on the other side, shaking off and snorting water from its nostrils.

It did not run.

The animal just stood there, waiting. Staring at Achilles. Boldly presenting its chest. As though it knew he was no longer a threat. As though it knew what he saw in the water, and that he wouldn’t dare swim across.

Achilles reared back, and hurled his spear. 

He followed its arc, watching the tip glint in the sunlight. In that moment, he wanted to show the stag. To punish the animal for taking advantage of his greatest fears. For making him feel weak and small. The spear soared across the full breadth of the river, and sank squarely into the stag’s chest.

A vengeful smile began to spread on Achilles’ face as the animal fell.

It was wiped away when the noise began.

A horrible, soul-shattering scream filled the valley, expressing suffering the likes of which Achilles had never experienced. The kind of suffering his mother must have felt, driving her to drown her children on their first day of life. The kind his father surely experienced at the death of each of his sons.

Achilles knew he must end that suffering.

Without thinking, filled with remorse and sympathy for the animal, he prepared to dive. He was halted, as always, by the sight of the bodies in the water. His brothers stretched across the width of the pool, floating along the path between himself and the stag.

But they weren’t actually there. Not really. He knew that now. They were each on their own shore in their own world. Standing exactly where he stood. Carrying the same name, the same history, and the same twin destinies he carried.

For them, Achilles was just another body in the water.

And so, he dove. The instant he broke the surface, the bodies disappeared, leaving Achilles to make his way across alone. Now that they were gone—now that he knew who they were—he wished they could be there with him. He climbed out onto the bank, sparing a glance over his shoulder, but his brothers weren’t there. He did not think he would see them again.

At least, not while he was awake.

Dripping wet, Achilles knelt down before the stag, and saw precisely what he expected. In his anger and frustration, he had misjudged his aim, and missed the heart by inches. The screaming had stopped. The animal’s breathing was shallow and labored.

His first thought was that he could heal it. 

He knew how. Pull out the spear, scrape the scaly green corrosion from its tip, apply that to the wound, and say the right incantation. The animal would recover. He had seen it done. Here on the shoulders of the healing mountain, it was certain to work.

Patroclus and Ajax appeared from the trees on the opposite bank, standing some ten yards apart from each other.

“Did you see that?” Ajax shouted to Patroclus. “Achilles ran down that stag on foot!”

Kneeling beside the animal, Achilles stared into its eyes. For an instant, his hand hovered halfway between the shaft of his spear and the knife on his belt. Destiny pulled that hand in both directions. Achilles thought of his brothers, and chose.

With one smooth motion, he unsheathed his knife and cut the stag’s throat. The suffering was over in seconds.

As he rose to the cheering and adoration of his friends, Achilles felt whole. A gentle smile on his face.

Somewhere, in another life, in another existence, he hoped another boy had made a different choice.