The journey to Mount Mathieu unfolded like a moving map, an ancient roll that the wind itself unrolled as they progressed. With each breath of air, with each oscillation of the flying vehicle, the landscapes opened and closed like the pages of a celestial manuscript. From the top of their position, the earth seemed to breathe, swell and contract, as if it shared a secret pulsation with the sky. The forests, plains and cities did not form simple expanses, but an invisible calligraphy. Every line of the relief, every river curve and every shadow spot seemed to have been drawn by a cosmic brush, guided by an invisible hand. Two dark forests, three plains with changing scents, and two cities with ancient charms followed one another, drawing a sinuous and living line. This path was not only a journey: it was a chosen path, a path designated by the sky itself, saving stops, visions and revelations, as if the world had decided to accompany them.
The Rebentis Forest appeared first, a dense shadow spot in the northwest. It presented itself as a wooden fortress, a plant cathedral whose trunks rose in columns towards infinity. Tight, massive, they seemed to watch for centuries, indifferent to the passage of men and seasons. However, sometimes the vault opened in bright clearings where the sky pierced like a blessing. In these rare spaces, the light landed in silver sheets, revealing another face of the forest: that of an open sanctuary. The air here was not the same as elsewhere. It vibrated with a dense freshness, saturated with moisture, almost liquid. Each inspiration gave the impression of crossing an invisible membrane, as if you were going from one world to another.
Beyond the trees, stretched the Plaine des Herbes Argentées. There, everything changed. The trunks gave way to a sea of fine herbs, flexible, motionless under the light. Each strand seemed to be cut in a silver thread, capable of capturing and reflecting the clarity of the sun as much as that of the moon. Seen from above, the plain turned into a frozen ocean, sparkling with moving splinters like a vault of stars lying on the ground. But she was not silent. A breath ran through her constantly, light, almost imperceptible, which caressed the herbs and produced a fragile melody. It was a music that no instrument could have reproduced, a vibration that only attentive hearts could grasp. It was said that anyone who stopped there could hear his own mind resounding in harmony with the earth.
A little further on arose the City of the Lying Lotus. Seen from the sky, it looked like a huge flower, placed on the edge of an invisible lake. Its gray roofs curved into harmonious arches, evoking the folded petals of a lotus at rest. The walls, made of light stone and dark wood, breathed balance and sobriety, like a wisdom embodied in matter. The alleys wind around inner courtyards, planted with pines and cherry trees, while graceful bridges cross narrow canals. In the water, the red lanterns were reflected like fragile stars, creating a starry night at ground level. Everything in this city invited meditation: the slow rhythm of the inhabitants, the discreet scent of wet wood, the rustling of bamboo in the courtyards. Even silence had a particular density here, like a suspended prayer.
The road then widened into the Plaine des Brumes Déliées. It was a moving space, which seemed to hesitate between clarity and the veil. The herbs grew higher, thin but dense, and every night a light fog descended, touching the surface like a dream layer. The wind, blowing, drew moving lines, horizontal waves that followed each other endlessly. Seen from above, the plain seemed alive, like a breathing body, guiding travelers through its invisible flows. Some said that these mists were the scattered thoughts of the earth, dreams that escaped from the ground to touch men.
The progression then led them to the Blue Shadow Forest. On the opposite of the Rebentis, it was neither dense nor dark. She had a strange lightness, as if her trunks had been erected to let the light through. The sun penetrated in silver diagonals, and the shadows, instead of crushing, seemed to float, tinged with blue reflections. In this diffuse clarity, the animals lived without fear. The step of a deer, the discreet jump of a hare, the rapid shadow of a fox are sometimes in line, suggesting the abundant life. But even more, the air carried a fragile solemnity, as if every sound, every breath had to be respected. We didn't talk about it, or little. The simple silence was enough to feel the weight of the centuries.
Then the road stopped in the City of Sapphire Bridges, a haven of water and stone. Everything was built around the canals, which drew a fine network, reflecting the light like splinters of gems. Narrow walkways connected the neighborhoods, and the houses, modest but balanced, displayed facades whitewashed by time. Through the fine skylights, we sometimes distinguished attentive silhouettes, artisans, sages, families living in a peace that seemed age-proof. Here, the water was queen: it flowed gently, carrying the reflections of the sky, and gave the city an atmosphere of permanent contemplation. Everything encouraged introspection, rest, as if this place had been built to welcome travelers tired of too long quests.
Finally, the road led to the Plaine des Falaises Vertes, a vast sea of thick herbs, of a deep and vibrant green. They waved like motionless waves, suspended in an eternal movement. From time to time, rocks emerged, massive, raw, erected like beacons. They seemed to witness another time, mute guardians of the passage of generations. Even the birds respected them, spinning around without ever landing on them, as if they recognized their role as immutable landmarks.
And then, beyond everything, the silhouette of Mont Mathieu was revealed. On the horizon, it appears like a dark, imposing and mysterious ridge. His mass dominated the whole earth, like a colossal beast asleep under the sky. However, to those who knew how to look, he was not inert. A subtle pulsation, an invisible force, seemed to beat within him, like the heart of a dozing dragon. This mountain was not a simple destination, or even a summit to climb. It was an ordeal, a border, a threshold. Those who approached it quickly understood that they were no longer walking on an ordinary path, but on a passage between two worlds. Mont Mathieu does not welcome travelers, it experienced them. For those who could read the sky as much as the earth, it became clear: to cross this mountain was to cross a destiny.