Having received an affirmative answer, John and Lewis crossed the threshold of the house, and they were immediately enveloped by a heavy silence, broken only by the crackling of logs in the fireplace. The air carried the smell of old wood, saturated with smoke, and a faint aroma of herbal tea standing on a low table. The furniture was simple, hand-carved: a rough wooden table, chairs with worn upholstery, exuding the warmth of human hands. The walls were adorned with faded rugs with intricate patterns, their threads trembling in the firelight, and in the corner of the room, strange objects gleamed—either ritual or forgotten relics, covered with the dust of centuries. Lewis felt his skin prickle with tension, but he forced a smile, trying to lighten the atmosphere.
The Elder sat opposite and waited, his hunched figure sinking into an old armchair, upholstered in wool, smelling of dampness and smoke. His eyes, deep and dark, closely followed every movement of the guests, but his face remained impenetrable, as if carved from stone.
John and Lewis tried to keep the conversation light, avoiding sharp topics, but the air in the room felt thick, like before a storm.
"You often visit the mountains," John noted, his voice sounding even, but his fingers nervously fiddled with the edge of his jacket. "It's probably a wonderful place for rest."
The Elder nodded, but his gaze drifted somewhere far, beyond the room, as if he saw something inaccessible to them. The fire in the fireplace cast shadows on his wrinkled face, emphasizing the fatigue in his eyes.
"Yes, the mountains are our life. We have always been part of this land," he replied, but there was no warmth in his voice, only cold detachment, like the wind blowing from the peaks. Lewis, sitting nearby, felt his patience thinning, like a thread on an old rug.
After half an hour of probing questions, still getting nothing from the stubborn old man, who seemed to anticipate every question and skillfully evade answers. It seemed that all was lost, and they had no choice but to say goodbye and leave.
But Lewis, with his journalist's tenacity, not accustomed to giving up and skilled at extracting information by any means, suddenly decided to change tactics. He pulled out a flask of whiskey from his pocket—a faithful companion in his travels, the cold metal pleasantly settling in his palm. He hoped that the Elder, perhaps unfamiliar with such drinks, and in this village, where little was known about alcohol, this could become a bridge to openness.
"In a few days, we're leaving, and as a token of gratitude for your hospitality, we'd like to offer a small gift. This is a healing remedy," Lewis said, pouring a little whiskey into the clay cups standing on the table.
The liquid splashed, reflecting the fireplace light, and its sharp aroma mixed with the smell of logs. "In the world, many use it, and it helps feel vigorous and healthy. Just a couple of drops—and a person feels young. We'd like to treat you before we go."
And so the Elder wouldn't suspect him of dishonesty, he drank from his own cup first.
The Elder looked at the cup with a long, thoughtful gaze, his fingers, gnarled and dry, frozen on the staff. But then, as if suddenly making a decision, he took the cup and cautiously sipped. His face immediately flushed, his eyes slightly clouded, and his breathing grew heavier, betraying his unfamiliarity with alcohol. Lewis suppressed a smile, feeling that his plan worked and the tension in the room slightly dissipated.
"You… about a secret… there's no secret," the Elder said with difficulty, his voice slurring, and the words fell slowly, like stones into a deep well. He coughed, trying to regain clarity, but the whiskey was already doing its work.
John, seizing the moment, leaned closer, his voice calm but firm:
"It's okay. We just want to understand a little more. We've been here a month, and we notice something's off. Tell us what's happening."
The Elder sighed heavily, his shoulders slumped, as if the weight of centuries became lighter. The fire in the fireplace cracked, throwing out sparks, and their reflections danced on the walls. His face softened, his eyes, still cloudy, now looked directly at the friends.
"The village… our village is very old. It exists for more than a thousand years," he began, his voice trembling but gaining strength. "Once, there were many families here, and they lived long, but aged, like everyone. However, over time, when people began to feel the approach of old age, they couldn't accept becoming frail in this harsh place. They left."
Lewis and John exchanged glances, their shadows trembling on the rug in the firelight. Lewis felt his heart beat faster, and his fingers involuntarily gripped the edge of the table, rough and cold.
"Left where?" he asked, his voice sharp but filled with a thirst for answers.
The Elder lowered his gaze, his fingers tightened on the staff, as if seeking support. Outside the window, the wind howled, rustling branches, and the room grew colder, despite the fire.
"In the mountains, there's a secret path," he continued, his voice quieter, as if he might fall asleep.
The Elder spoke softly, as if each word required effort:
"This path leads to the unknown. Those who don't want to be old and frail go along it. And they don't return. But here, no one asks where they go. That's our tradition, and it's always followed."
He fell silent, staring at the floor. Shadows from the fire darted across the clay walls, intertwining and dissolving, as if mirroring his thoughts. Finally, the old man continued, and his voice sounded like a hollow echo:
"We can't afford to grow old. Life in the mountains has always been hard… And so those who reached the age when the body weakens left along the path. The young don't want to care for the elderly—they're busy with their youth. And the elderly didn't want to be a burden to the tribe. It was our collective decision, and no one ever objected."
Lewis and John sat silently. The silence was broken only by the crackling of logs in the hearth and their occasional breathing. Lewis felt his mind vainly trying to piece together what he heard into a coherent picture, where half the fragments were still missing. John, usually rational and cold, looked at the Elder with disbelief; his fingers froze on the armrest, as if he feared making an extra movement.
In the hut, silence lingered for a long time. The old man's words weighed on both of them, and yet there was a sense of something unsaid. Finally, Lewis glanced at John and, with a wry smile, said:
"Well then… a good tradition, and most importantly, useful. I've long felt like an old man myself and increasingly think about retiring. Maybe tomorrow we'll set off along this path."
The Elder jumped up sharply. His face contorted, he waved his hands, as if warding off invisible enemies, and shouted three times:
"No! You're not of our law! You haven't passed the trials! You're forbidden to enter the Temple of Desires! Only our people have the right to passage and fulfillment of their covenants! For millennia, we've walked this path and earned this right! Get out! And never come back here!"
The village's secret turned out to be not just a strangeness but a system hidden behind its idyllic façade. From his final outburst, the Elder seemed drained of all strength. His shoulders slumped, his hands trembled, and he sank heavily into the chair. The whiskey Lewis had offered him had done its job: the strong potion was unfamiliar to the old man's body, which had never known alcohol before. His eyes clouded, his lips whispered something incoherent, and soon he drifted into an anxious, restless sleep.
Lewis and John stood silently, listening to his heavy breathing. Then they exchanged a quick glance and, without saying a word, quietly left the hut, leaving the Elder alone with his oblivion.