The Wall That Climbs the Mountain

Today Polly goes to question the wall. It starts politely enough at the edge of town, then loses all restraint and charges straight up the bare ridge, tower after tower, like a stone staircase built for a giant in a hurry. Berta comes along as far as the first gate, then waves a paw and leaves the climbing to the one with wings.

The story of the wall is older than almost anything else here. More than a thousand years ago, a Berber family called the Banu Razin made this town their own, gave it their name, and ruled a small kingdom from this rock. It was they who first raised these defenses, and the pale square watchtower at the very top has been standing guard on the ridge ever since.

Polly rides the warm morning air to the tower and lands on its rim. From up here the town looks like something poured into the river's loop and left to set, all pink rooftops and impossible lanes. An eagle owl dozes in a shaded corner of the stonework. Night shift, he explains, without fully opening one orange eye.

She stays a long while, watching cloud shadows slide across the sierra. A thousand years of watching, she thinks, and the view still changes every single minute. On the way down she thanks the wall for its service. The wall, being a wall, says nothing, but she is fairly sure it stands a little straighter.