A Mountain of Minions

By Jim McClean A short story from the 2014 publication "Thou Shalt Not Snoooze and other tumultuous tales"

I wish I had just said ‘No!’ to the invitation, but Aidan Fields could be remarkably persuasive. He had emailed all the local writers, calling for a meeting of minds, or as he described it, a “Literary collective”. He presented the idea, ever so eloquently. It was a classic resume, which created the illusion that every scholar in the country would be present.
            The weekend was labelled, ‘a Journey of unique inspiration and opportunity’. How could any aspiring scribe resist? The venue I considered peculiar. I had never before heard of the location known as Minion Mountain. It was described in the document as a “pleasant garden of enlightened tranquillity”. The website acknowledged it as “the perfect abode for a literary overload”.                              
            I marvelled at the tranquillity part at least. I had to credit Fields, as perhaps being precise on that point. As I sat aloft a picturesque hillside, overlooking a luscious crystal stream, I felt a rising sensation of inner calm. My host had hinted that the stream’s waters held certain restorative properties, magical in their appeal. I had always regarded Fields as something of an eccentric, so his Bohemian ideals rarely moved me. 
            A crimson sun settled moderately above my brow, as I commenced scribbling my ideas. It was indeed one of the most radiant suns I have ever witnessed. This part of the world must be truly utopious. That it was to be an enlightening journey remained a mystery, but I discovered as I sat on that sun showered precipice, that inspiration did ignite, in me.
            I could not however, be prepared for the scene to transpire. As I sat alone in that redeeming atmosphere, I perceived I heard a triumphant din, somewhere in the distance. On a normal occasion, I probably would have welcomed such music. It sounded not unlike a small brass band, though with more primitive pipe noises and clangs, a little like someone banging a dustbin lid.
            I mounted, my concentration spoiled. Wondering who or what may be producing such humdrum, I wandered in the direction of the vibrantly increasing tones. I perceived that somewhere on the far horizon, I saw a tiny figure. The figure, if it were such, was clothed in an almost aluminous shade of pink. He appeared to wear a hat, or other head wear, of aluminous green. I considered if this was a brass band, the clothing may well be uniform. The figure was making the most valiant of movement, approaching at a slow yet grand pace. I considered he may be marching, like many military marching band leaders, I had witnessed as a child.
            In part, I regretted leaving my notebook behind on the hillside, as I regarded this may be a happening worth recording. As the figure continued his approach, I noted the swaying back and forth of his arms, almost in marching pose, but with less precision and dignity. In fact, it was more of a child like trot, than a march. I could now observe that he was followed, by a line of almost identically dressed figures, in similar prance.
            As the parade drew nearer, I started to pick out characteristics. It was clear that these people were considerably smaller than my-self, perhaps too minute to be even deemed dwarf sized. They had high brows, which may or may not have donned hair. If they did possess locks of any kind, these were preciously hidden, beneath their vibrantly coloured head attire. I call it this as it was too dominant, and too peculiar in shape, to call a hat, but certainly nothing as elaborate as a head dress. The pink clothing though slightly reminiscent of psychedelic genre, was clearly meant as a kind of defining uniform. It was obvious to my passive eye, that this was their way of letting the world know that they were one for all and all for one.
            Their faces were peculiar. They were tinged with severely reddish complexion. I considered this not absurd, as my own skin was starting to burn in the acute rays. Their reddishness though, was a little more natural, almost touching on beetroot colour. I imagined that I could almost see blue veins, bulging through the reddened skin. Many of the minions, for that is what I have named them for the purpose of this narrative, played musical instruments. These were not of the kind I had expected. The brass producing instruments appeared to be made of an almost, organic material. It was as if they were blowing through some plant like object, such as tree bark or shrub. The clanging, was produced on a transparent, metallic object which reminded me a little of the material from which double glazing is crafted. They wore these round their necks, not as a drummer in a band might, but as a child might carry a school satchel.
            I waved as they passed, and bid them welcome, these mysterious little men, the likes of whom I imagine few people have ever witnessed. Certainly, I cannot recall having read about such a colony of beings. I called out across the lonesome hillside, to draw attention to some of my writing contemporaries. I knew that should they not observe for themselves, no one would believe my discovery. I needed at least one witness; otherwise my claim would be considered merely an illuminating work of fiction. I realised swiftly though, that I had ventured too far from camp to attract any attention. Besides, my shouting seemed to be frightening the new arrivals, and the last thing I wanted was to scare them off.
            My next course of action therefore, was to try and make conversation. I approached, and introduced myself to the leader. He seemed to look right through me, almost as if he could not see me. On bended knee, I looked straight into his eye line, yet he made no suggestion that he was alert to my presence. ‘I said I’m very pleased to meet you’ I repeated, still receiving no reply.
            Instead the tubby little man, for although not plump by human standards, he was clearly of wider build than his followers, beckoned his minion brigade to march boldly on. The whole parade passed me, not blinking an eye lid. I wondered at one point, could they blink at all. Their tiny eyes seemed to rotate, rather than move in any way, almost like a clockwork toy.
          I rummaged in my pockets incredulously. By the time I found my phone, the little brigade of minions had all but dispersed into the depths of the valley ahead. Sprinting after them, at my fastest pace, I eventually got close enough to film them, as they moved steadily yet joyfully onward. My phone camera acknowledged that I had taken almost three minutes of footage, at the end of the session.
            My thoughts raced with all manner of questions and ideas, about the tiny parade of jubilant beings. I marvelled over where they may come from, what they might eat, what sort of houses they might occupy. I was certain I had a best seller in the can. Perhaps, it was to my credit that they hadn’t made acquaintance with me. I chanced that the story I might conceive, may even be more exciting than the truth.
            I returned to the camp site to rejoin my fellow writers, safe in the knowledge that the video footage I had acquired, would be a better proof of my acquisition of literary overload, than anything one of those mellow dramatic fools may have apprehended.

           

On that eve, we were asked to put forward a presentation of our days’ refection. There were stories carefully crafted, and relating images of beautiful greenery and lush surroundings. One man had even written a rather glorious piece of fiction, based on the cleansing powers of the crystal streams. I was proud as punch however, when it came my turn. I was certain that no one had been able to invent a story as grandly imaginative as my essay, on the parading minions on the mountainside.
            I watched the fascinated expressions of my audience, as I lovingly related my story to them, all culminating in a grand applause. ‘But that’s not all’ I boasted fondly. ‘I have here some video footage, relating to the story at hand’. The other writers looked at one another aghast.
            ‘How ever can you have illustration of such a far fetched tale?’ one rather robust gent uttered.
            ‘Probably a picture of a burrow, the like of which one of his little fictional men might reside’ said another.
            I was so excited to pull out my phone, and flick to the most recent piece of footage. Watching in amusement, my contemporaries admired the sylvan scenery, the lush orchards and the glimmering crimson sun cast occasionally over the lens. However, I must note, and this to my shame. As the three minute film ended, there was not the slightest transmission of a tiny musician to be seen.  

 

 

 

 

Author's Note

short story - first written in 2014