Features

In the middle of the green field, a few meters away from the small clusters of fruit and olive trees, near where the rocks and streams were, firmly planted in the ground, and going upwards, so tall, so very imposingly tall that one lost sight of it when it reached the heavens, was The Ladder. 

I don’t know when The Ladder was first there, and because of that, it is so that I cannot tell you how old it was. What we do know is that Didaco first found it. When he was grazing the sheep he stumbled upon it; you see Didaco was looking at his feet, and at the rocks and occasional lizard that rapidly darted in front of him between the lush, soft, thin, green grass. He was the type to find beauty in these small things. When suddenly, he noticed that the sheep were all baaing in the same note, and, when he looked up to see what could cause such an anomaly, he found himself face to face with The Ladder.

The Ladder was so very tall, yet narrow enough that either a child or an adult, of any size, could hoist themselves on it, either from the horizontal pegs or the vertical poles. The Ladder awed Didaco, being comparable to nothing he had seen before. It was something so unrefined, yet glittering gold like the most beautiful decorations in any reliquary he had ever seen. The Ladder appeared to be made of brass, the same brass Didaco had seen in some of the old trumpets the veterans kept in their homes. However, this brass was of a much higher quality than those antiquities of glory gone past. The brass was resplendent, not rusty, and when it shone golden, it almost appeared as if someone had just finished polishing it. It seemed to shine with the sun, and not simply reflect it, not simply shine from it. When Didaco went to touch it, he noticed that it felt warm, but not in the way metal becomes scalding under the sun and definitely not in a warmth like the one he had experienced cooking with his grandmother’s old pot; instead it seemed more similar to the heat that came from the sheep, or from someone else’s hands. It was a comfortable, almost fresh, and subtle heat. Synchronous to the moment Didaco touched The Ladder, a note arose all around him, as if The Ladder had decreed for it to happen. It was nothing like what those old trumpets could make; unlike them, the note was perfectly on key, it wasn’t feeble and inconsistent but strong and all-encompassing, lifting his spirit high. It was not a note he could recognize from those he heard before. The second he stopped touching The Ladder, the note was replaced with absolute silence, except for the whistle of the wind as it passed in the space between the pegs and through the open sky and field. 

Didaco brought back his family, and later he would confess to us, felt relieved when not only The Ladder was still there but his family saw it, too. He was afraid he had hallucinated everything, or dreamt it while awake. But no, The Ladder was still there, unmoved, as if it was waiting for them. His family was astounded as to how none of them had seen it before, considering the middle of the field where it was located was not a great distance away from their house and the rest of the houses in The Village. However, they all saw it now and while they discussed the possibility of always having seen it from its side and thus easily missed it or, (as an uncle tentatively proposed) confused it with a very tall cypress tree; suddenly, Aunt Martirio, in her late fifties but not old enough to be considered one of The Oldest out of all of us, climbed atop the ladder. And while no melodic hum appeared this time, something even stranger still happened

Her hair, always neatly tucked under her scarf, suddenly became loose, and spread out, floating in a round circle of gray and black tendrils as her body quickly elevated, hoisted up sharply and strongly by The Ladder, which seemed to grow up and up, until Martirio’s body disappeared among the clouds, and until her raucous laughter grew faint and disappeared. Olvido was only left with her sister’s scarf, someone she never got back. 

The news of The Ladder spread quickly amongst The Village, but somehow, not yet past its borders. And while everyone hoped and swore that they were convinced that Martirio had gone to heaven, taken by The Ladder, they still did not dare get too close to it, much less touch it. We’re still not entirely sure what that said about the strength and depth of our faith. Somehow it feels of note that Martirio’s family were the ones with the closest view of The Ladder, just outside their window. And it was common for Olvido to stare at it intently, farther away, but with the same intensity as the family’s sheep, goats and lambs, that had taken a liking to gathering around it and looking at it. Because of this Didaco often found himself herding sheep in the clearing, under his mother’s faraway and worrisome gaze. Everyone else, for their part, tried to avoid that specific clearing, and went through their daily activities ignoring The Ladder as much as possible. At least everyone except The Oldest out of all of us, who watched everything unfurl from afar, with a certain sadness, filled with certainty and conviction.

The inevitable eventually happened, as the nature of the inevitable often shows itself to be. Eventually, other people heard of The Ladder. People from outside The Village. While no one truly knew who blabbed, it was easy to see that it had happened when we found a cream van, slightly rusty, clearly from the next town over, filled with strangers. The Tourists all pointed their cameras in the air, and their flashes ricocheted off the golden rods of The Ladder. As they all heard a guide drone on about the mysterious structure that had appeared overnight, the news of their presence spread around The Village. First was Didaco, who curiously and cautiously looked at them from his house; next, Olvido, who seemed worried. Quickly, a few meters away from them one of The Oldest in The Village also stared intently, silently and with a furrowed brow. And so on and so forth, everyone in The Village eventually made a human circle around the small group, The Ladder at the center of it all, at the center of the valley. The tension in the air was cut when one of the men of The Village stepped forward. He approached the tour guide, and asked exactly what was going on. 

“We saw this staircase from a distance and decided to check it out for ourselves.” The response was a low hum. 

“We really mean no disrespect, if it’s a problem we’ll leave!” 

“How much are you charging them?” Drily.

“Twenty each, let’s break even.” 

Hands were shook, and agreements stated. 

Soon, groups of The Tourists became a common sight in The Village, and were usually greeted with warmth and welcome. Greeted by almost everyone, except for The Oldest, who just shook their heads and looked down when they saw them walk down the cobblestone streets. Same streets whose corner stores had started selling small wire ladders, sweaters with ladder patterns, toy ladders in wood and wool, embroidered ladder pillows and picturesque paintings of The Ladder, as well as photos of it too. Though they all paled when compared to The Ladder itself, obviously. As a still small hidden gem, the town did not boast great travel rates towards it yet. That would happen much later. But for now The Village was happy and so were The Tourists. On a Good day, up to five groups of ten people each, clustered around in the valley where The Ladder was located. Somehow, their constant presence had become a sort of balm for Olvido’s anxiety, and she often saw them out of her window and sighed. For the time, Didaco had to find a new place to herd. It was around that time when, so to speak, the dam broke, unleashing waters we did not yet quite understand. 

It was a sunny day; in fact, the sun cast an unforgiving golden shadow over everything, and some of us had no resort but to hide under makeshift shadows of our own, made from our brochures and guides. The latter which cost only twenty-five each, and were filled with information about The Village, even if it was often ignored and seen as filler for the real subject of the book: The Ladder. One of the guide’s sweat trickled down his cheek, and slid off his mustache as he spoke, small droplets of spit every so often escaping his mouth as he recited the story of how The Ladder appeared, and how Didaco found it. When he arrived at the part of Martirio’s “Miraculous! Absolutely surprising ascent towards the heavens!” as if by clockwork, everyone seemed to take a step back away from it like they usually did with that line. Everyone but a young man with curly golden hair, and a scraggly beard. The story seemed to fuel a spark in his eyes, a fire of determination, as he stepped forward. 

Yoncross, as he had come to be known by the locals, had been casing The Village and most importantly, The Ladder, not speaking much about it, to the owners, but often looking at it longingly, while resting in the bars. Yoncross walked confidently outside of his small group, and headed directly to The Ladder. His cargo shorts almost glistened in the sunlight as his trusty tin water bottle swung from a carabiner in his belt and clanked against his keys. Only the tree leaves moved slightly with the faint breeze, the long grass leaves having been trampled by thousands of feet long ago, and at the present moment, being squished yet again by the deliberate steps of brand new sport shoes. Everyone froze in shock and as such, we’ll never know if they would have been able to stop him anyways. My money has always been on not really. However, seeing as no one stopped him, he continued. And quickly, he put one hand on the right beam, and another on the left, and he lifted his feet and placed both on the same beam. He waited for a bit, as sweat rolled down the side of his face. When nothing happened, he started his climb. The audience, both visitors and locals, just looked on, as this determined man continued to pull himself on and on. It was his pride perhaps, forcing him to not quit, and to face the task of climbing for only God knows how long, as if this was a possible thing for a human to do. Everyone stared on, small murmurs growing and some even pulling phones out to take videos of the man’s ascent. Halfway through, at a height of meters upon meters over the head of everyone, The Ladder slowly pulled him upwards, and calmly, as if he was riding the elevator for work, he ascended up above the clouds. Silence fell on The Tourists. Silence fell on The Village. Tour guides started charging before the tour, fifty, thirty more if one intended to climb, no liability as to whether one would be able to come down, no liability if The Ladder decided to pull one up, no liability if it didn’t. The Ladder worked in mysterious ways. 

The video quickly became viral. And so did the location. Myths and legends about The Ladder started to spread like a flood that starts with a drizzle and goes on to become an uncontrollable force of nature. Even the most skeptical commenters had to admit defeat when people started visiting the site. The Ladder was there, clear as day, real as life itself. The origin, however, quickly became murky. Even when we know the truth, at least I do, I can say I do, I’m not entirely sure for those who are younger; in the end it doesn’t matter since it all becomes superstition anyways. In any case, tales of being first seen in the nineteen twenties, or the fifties, or of a strange rock formation or of being built over the generations abounded between tour guides. Both ones that found The Tourists more eager to shell out cash if the explanation was more to their liking, and from those who plainly didn’t know, yet spoke as if they did. 

The streets became filled with new establishments. The craft stores found ways to outsource work if they could; after all, The Tourists would pay the same prices even if the work wasn’t up to par with traditions, and everyone could do with saving money. They also found themselves neck to neck with newer stores selling Photoshopped postcards of images found in Google, and t-shirts with those same images plastered on them. In every corner, either a local or a chain store of hiking gear was present selling big backpacks, huge lunchboxes, great water bottles and colorful carabiners hanging from each spot they could perch on. The local canteens, restaurants which existed in The Village for as long as some of its inhabitants, found themselves growing to be more exclusive: bigger recipes, bigger budgets, some even put in second or third floors and let guests stay overnight. Others found themselves sharing streets with fast food chains from outside of their quaint community, placed there to satiate the homesickness of The Tourists, or to placate their need for exoticism in a safe way, recipes engineered to be foreign to them yet familiar enough to entice them. The streets were bustling with life, people selling, people buying, people taking pictures. The Tourists walking everywhere. At the same time the houses were filled with The Oldest, tucked away, silent and grimacing, having been told: “Stay away from them, it’s unappealing to stay in a place where people glare at you!”

The Ladder now had a line of people who wanted to climb, to gain a chance at heaven, to be able to reach a form of salvation so easily, with no confessionals, no charity. One only had to reserve a spot on the line, which, with a little luck, became a spot at The Ladder. As long as one had 100 dollars the spot was secured; with an extra 80, one could hear the tour (or just pay 120 for the tour alone). Only one-way trips, keep it pushing, and keep a 6 feet distance from each other. Even when The Ladder didn’t automatically push people upwards, people still climbed it. So far no one had fallen; so far, no one had come back. 

The wind howled through the open sky. Some of The Tourists simply moved their hair from their faces when this happened, and kept it pushing, making sure to not accidentally step on the person behind them, or to not leave enough space for the person in front to move. At this point they had found that when in The Ladder, one didn’t have need for water, or food, or any sort of mundane need. Only keep it pushing. 

At this point the tour agencies had found a way to create timetables, equal shares of the ladder for all of them, and even find a way to create packages with traditional dance shows with new costumes every week, with restaurants of all kinds, all ending (via choice--and a very popular choice might I add) with a secured spot in The Ladder, a secured spot towards heaven. Some of The Tourists would even come to their spot at midnight if need be. The Tourist’s employees lived in a frenzy now, trying to find new ways to create need, create demand, sell. 

“Expand our hostels.”

“Work in the chain hotels, they pay better, it’s more secure.”

“Come up with new recipes. Our food is too different for them.”

“Stay with the old creations, authentic sells better.”

“Pull the kids out of school, experience selling will be better for them than the 

curriculum.”

“I’ve heard some of them want to move in, we should sell our house, it has a great view.” 

The Ladder. The Ladder. The Ladder. The Tourists. The Tourists. The Tourists. 

It wasn’t easy, for all of us, such change. We do---did--our best. Sometimes it seemed the only ones that never changed their attitude towards The Ladder were the animals, who still stared at it. They only broke their stare once, the day when they started howling at the same time. The sheep started baaing at the same time first, all in one not--the same note The Ladder played when it was first touched. Soon the dogs followed, howling. Soon the cats, and the cows, and every creature in creation except for humans. 

They all arose in a choir. That’s when it all changed. 

That’s when we saw the ground open up. That’s when everyone in The Ladder, all tightly packed atop it, found they could not detach themselves from it. And as rapidly as Martirio went up, the ladder went down. It did not collapse, it just moved down. It just went down, the earth swallowing everyone in it, as we all just stared, and heard them scream. What else could we possibly do about it? As soon as it happened, it stopped. The earth closed back up, and only left a skull with long black and gray hair from it. We didn’t state the obvious. Didaco’s sheep didn’t come back to the place. 

Tomás's short story won first prize in SVA's Annual Writing Contest in the spring of 2022. Tomás is a senior majoring in Visual and Critical Studies at the School of Visual Arts. He was born in Mendoza, Argentina, the product of a long line of Gauchos and European Immigrants. They are interested in creating works reflecting on Latin America, as well as queerness, perhaps because he comes from both of those things, or perhaps because he's obsessed with trying to fit lush, chaotic and huge things into stories. They hope their future career as a cryptid really takes off. Judges Simon Van Booy and Jeff Beardsley have this to say about Tomás's prize-winning story: "From its inception 'The Ladder' blends fable, legend, and literary prose. The reader might not be sure what kind of world this is, but it's crafted from elements that ground the reader and allow for swift pacing. The story develops in a way where it's impossible to foretell the ending. When it does come, it's highly unusual and uncompromisingly bizarre--in a way that feels satisfying. This story is a lovely, post-modern tale with echoes of Chekhov, Calvino, and the paintings of Bruegel."