Song of the Mountain (Mountain Trilogy, 1) Read online

  Song of the Mountain

  The Mountain Trilogy

  Book One

  Published by Michelle Isenhoff at Smashwords

  Copyright 2012 Michelle Isenhoff

  Cover image by D. Robert Pease

  of walkingstickbooks.com

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  Table of Contents

  From the Author

  Prologue

  1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8

  9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14

  15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20

  21 | 22 | 23 | 24

  Fire on the Mountain sneak preview

  Titles by Michelle Isenhoff

  Audiobooks by Michelle Isenhoff

  About the Author

  From the Author

  Every book should stand on its own, requiring no explanation to understand it. However, because Song of the Mountain departs from my usual fare, I’d like to give it a little background. In all the drafts and revisions this story has undergone, I’ve been asked most often where it takes place. It is not meant to have a definite historical setting as my other works do. I wanted to create my own mythology for this story, so I needed a setting that offered the freedom to do so. Yet I wanted a real geological area, not a fantastic world. So I settled on the Orient, as Tolkien settled on Europe, and pulled it back beyond the farthest stretch of memory. I did include some elements that give it a hint of Chinese flavor, but only to build a culture from which China might have logically evolved. By so doing, I hope to set the story free, not bind it to historical expectations. By so explaining, I hope to free my readers to enjoy it.

  Michelle Isenhoff

  November, 2012

  Long ago…

  …after the first age of men perished in a rush of mud and water, after ice twisted the face of the earth, when wise men first thought to put history on parchment, an old man sat at the eastern edge of the world. A boy knelt beside him, listening to the old man’s rhyme and shivering in the heat of a blazing fire.

  If you listen carefully, you might still hear the echo of that ancient whisper:

  Mud and mire shall birth a tree;

  A sprout shall grow of ancient seed.

  The five unite to break the one;

  The curse of man shall be undone.

  But brothers rise ere dragon’s bane;

  The last shall smite the first again.

  Chapter 1

  Song knew he was foolish to linger, but his feet refused to acknowledge the fear tapping on his shoulder. All around him the forest opened like a wide, clay bowl, with a score of bamboo huts lying like pebbles in its bottom. Song had completed his task, but he paused, searching the village, seeking that one face that drew him despite the danger.

  He hiked his tunic above his knees and crept behind a wooden handcart. There, he could overlook the dirt path that wandered in one side of the village and out the other, connecting it to other settlements far away. In both directions the path rambled along the curves of the mighty Chin-Yazi River, the lifeblood of the village.

  Song could see the river through a border of vegetation. The hot, rainy season was past and the high waters had flowed away to the sea, leaving the steep banks dry and lush and fragrant. Above him, Mount Kamiratan rose like a great green father, and across the river, the smaller heads of the Kindoli range peered at him over one another’s shoulders.

  Song focused again on his purpose. His glance skipped over an old woman sitting in the dirt before her hut, weaving a basket out of willow strips. Neither did it linger on two small children who led a long-haired goat by a string around its neck, nor on the man who mended a hemp fishing net. Yet he could not find the face he sought.

  Ignoring the danger, he raised his head above the handcart, straining to scan the terraced fields beyond the village.

  “There he is! Get him!”

  Song abandoned his quest and darted for the edge of the forest. Behind him the village boys spread out like a pack of wolves closing in on a wounded deer.

  Song raced between the cultivated plots that marked the edge of the settlement. He ran like a brook tumbling down the side of Mount Kamiratan, like the wind racing through the grass in Mamuri Valley, but he could hear bare feet pounding close behind him.

  If only he could reach the forest! The trees knew him well and would offer him a thousand shelters. But as he broke through the protective fringe of leaves, a body slammed into him and encircling arms dragged him to the ground.

  Before he could throw up his hands, all five boys were striking him, spitting, tearing at his hair and clothing. Song rolled himself into a ball, covered his head with thin arms, and absorbed the blows until they grew weary and lessened. Then a more painful assault began.

  “Stand up and fight, boy! Don’t lay there like a dead dog.” The strongest of the boys stood over him, his fists resting on narrow hips.

  “He couldn’t fight if he tried, Keeto. Look at him! He’s as skinny as a fishing spear. My little sister could knock him down.”

  “All he’s good for is reciting those ridiculous stories his grandfather makes up,” mocked another.

  Keeto snorted. “The Old One’s thoughts have more twists than a mulberry branch, and this one is studying to become just as crazy as the old man.”

  He scuffed a spray of dirt and leaf mold across Song and leaned down to sneer in his face. “Not so fine now, are you, Great One? Why don’t you crawl back to the dung heap where you belong?”

  The boys doubled over with laughter. Then with one final kick, Keeto led them away, but their continued mockery drifted back to Song, scraping over him like bits of broken pottery: “…misfit…worthless…not one of us…”

  Song lay under the canopy of leaves a long time, letting the forest floor soak up the tears that dripped off his cheek. The same thing happened every time he had to visit the village. He could not hope to win against so many, because what they said was true—he was small and weak. That’s what made his name such a cruel irony. Song Wei, the “Great One,” routinely beaten by peasant boys.

  Sometimes Song hated his parents for choosing such a thoughtless name—or he would hate them if they were still a part of his life. But they were dead. For most of his thirteen years he had lived on the mountain with his grandfather.

  For a moment, his anger rose up against the old man. Why couldn’t Grandfather fish or work a trade like everyone else in the village? Why did he live apart like an old hermit, dispensing proverbs and remedies and those silly fairy tales to anyone who would listen? Maybe if Grandfather tried a little harder to fit in, the village boys would leave Song alone.

  Then shame rose in his chest like morning mist above the Chin-Yazi, turning his insides cold. If Grandfather was just like anyone else, he would no longer be Grandfather. He
would only be what others made him, and Grandfather was much too strong for that.

  Song rose painfully from the ground, wishing he had inherited a greater portion of the old man’s inner strength or at least enough physical strength to beat off his assailants. When he was out of sight of the last hut, he picked his way down to the well-worn path and turned homeward.

  A stone’s throw beyond the village, the path crossed Lord Dolisu’s road. The smooth path began at the river, at the lord’s private port, where ships disgorged his wealth and scores of servants carried it to his estate that sprawled like a lazy cat on the side of the mountain. The man owned Mount Kamiratan and all the land from the valley to the river, including the village and the small plot Song and his grandfather cultivated.

  Today no one labored at the harbor. Song’s ribs ached with the fire of his beating, so he stole carefully to the river’s edge to quench the burn.

  The river flowed yellow, thick with silt and the tears of the mountains. Bending down, Song splashed his stinging face, mingling his blood with the river. The water was cool and welcome and he waded into it, lowering his body into its healing wash.

  Why, he wondered, did Mutan, the Highest One, allow such inequality and injustice among men? Why could one man live in a palace while others eked out a living from the dust of the ground, offering up their little to make the great ones greater?

  And beneath them all, a beetle in a dung heap, dwelt Song.

  Heaving a sigh, Song stood up with his clothes streaming and listened to the music of the water returning to the river. In nature he could find beauty and justice. Whenever Grandfather didn’t need his help, he roamed the mountain and the valley and the river. They had become his companions, his source of strength, and they never played favorites.

  Above the tune of the water, Song heard footsteps approaching on the village path. He ducked low and scooted among the leaves growing along the bank, unwilling to take any more risks. Parting the bushes with his hands, he watched a girl come to the water’s edge and kneel down. She wore a long, dingy shift covered with a threadbare shawl, but her face was as fair as the lilies growing in Kamiratan’s Pool.

  The girl set something on the river and gave it a shove with a stick she found at her feet. It floated out into the current, and when it sailed past him Song saw a little ship made out of many pieces of folded paper. As he looked on, the girl pushed a second vessel out to join the first and stood on the bank, watching, until both floated around the bend in the river.

  When she turned to leave, Song shifted to keep her in sight and the branch he clung to gave way. He took a small step, barely disturbing the water, but the girl heard it and whirled. Scanning the bank, her eyes followed the spreading ripples and caught the form of Song crouching beneath the leaves.

  “Who is there? Come out where I can see you!”

  Reluctantly, Song dragged himself before the beautiful girl. She drew her shawl protectively about herself; her lips parted and her eyes widened expectantly. But when she took in his size, his muddy, ripped clothing, and the cuts on his lips and eye, her expression turned to bored disgust.

  “Why are you spying on me?”

  Song gulped. “I only came to wash off, miss.”

  “Why do you not bathe in the village like everyone else?”

  “I—I—” His face burned.

  “Well?”

  His voice was barely a whisper. “The boys will not let me, miss.”

  She arched one beautifully shaped eyebrow. “You are an outcast.” Her lip curled in disdain. “Go! Be on your way and do not show your face before me again.”

  Song crept out of the water like a sodden rat, his face burning with shame. Great One indeed. As he picked his way past the girl, every footfall, every snapped reed, every beat of his heart reminded him that he would never amount to anything.

  Chapter 2

  Song ducked into the bamboo shelter he shared with his grandfather. The old man napped on a mat beneath the hut’s single window, a thin cloth pulled around his shoulders. Beside him lay the wooden chest that always remained locked. Some tools and dishes lay stacked in the corner beside Song’s rolled up mat, and a precious few garments hung neatly side by side.

  Song stepped carefully over the hard-packed floor, but his grandfather awakened. With a grunt he sat up, stretched, and walked stiffly to the covered pit in the corner that stored their food. Bending, the old man withdrew a sack of grain and settled himself with a pestle and mortar to prepare the evening’s bread. Without looking at the boy he stated, “The forest puts forth much effort to take back our garden.”

  Song understood. Ducking outside, he took up the iron hoe that leaned against the side of the hut and began hacking at the weeds that threatened their vegetables.

  The little clearing they occupied was located low on the shoulders of Mount Kamiratan where the land was sloping and gentle and covered with thick vegetation. The forest pressed closely all around. Kintu, a huge, golden dog and his grandfather’s longtime companion, helped keep the yard free of animals, but it was Song’s chore to keep the forest at bay.

  The garden overflowed with produce. Now that summer had burned off its fierce temper, their late-season vegetables were thriving in the warm, mild sunshine. Cabbage, bok choy, broccoli, leeks, snow peas, longbeans, garlic, melons. Their cellar pit would soon be brimming with good things for winter.

  When the soil flowed as loosely as a black sea, Song took up the clay water jar and carried it to a stream that bubbled through the far end of the clearing. Wrestling the heavy container back to the hut was an arduous task, but he knew it saved the old man many trips to the slippery stream bank. He placed the jar against the wall beneath a dried gourd that served as a dipper.

  Next, Song split the last of the firewood and stacked it neatly in the yard. During the dry season Grandfather always cooked outside. Already he had a fire lit, and the smells wafting from the pot made Song’s stomach rumble like the rockslides that sometimes crashed down the mountain’s face.

  Finally, Song scattered feed for the chickens that scratched hopefully in the dirt of the clearing. Then he took his place beside Kintu, running his fingers through the dog’s thick, golden mane. He could not remember a day that failed to follow the same routine since he was old enough to speak his own name.

  Grandfather ladled him a bowl of fish chowder and asked, “Were you able to deliver the medicine to Madam Sanochi before you were attacked?”

  Song sighed. The old man had not asked if he’d been attacked, only whether the delivery had been made before the inevitable happened. “I delivered it.”

  Grandfather grunted his pleasure.

  Song took a mouthful of the soup, letting it trickle down his throat and soothe his weary body. At the same time he felt his resentments resurfacing, and for once he found the courage to voice them. “Grandfather, why do you send me to the village when you know what will happen? How can I possibly stand up to so many enemies?”

  “You will find a way. In the meantime, you will grow clever.”

  “But they strike me, and they say terrible things. They rend and tear until I can find little to put back together.”

  The wrinkles in the old man’s face deepened with compassion. “It is hard for you now, but it will not always be so. Someday your path will open before you and reveal your place and your purpose, for each life fills an important role. In the meantime, you must not let those wicked brothers, bitterness and hatred, poison your soul.”

  Grandfather’s answer failed to satisfy Song. He grew weary of the old man’s riddles. There were so many answers he sought, and tonight his impatience boiled like the kettle of soup. “I have no future,” he stated flatly, “for I have no past. You never speak of my parents. I do not even know how they died. How can I find the road I must travel when I do not know my own history?”

  “My child, for your protection some things must remain hidden. But like your path, they will be revealed in their time.”


  “Your silence does nothing to protect me from my enemies,” Song countered.

  “There are far greater perils than wayward children.”

  Grandfather considered Song for many seconds. “Perhaps it is time to tell you the story of the Five Great Gifts.”

  “Another foolish myth,” Song muttered.

  Grandfather paused to look hard at Song and the boy felt shame once again. “Lord Dolisu believes my stories, and he is an educated man.”

  Song hung his head. “He pays you to entertain him.”

  “Ah,” Grandfather said with a toothless smile, “so he does. But he also understands there is much to be learned from old tales.”

  The man set down his empty bowl. “Come. I have made a poultice for you.” He dipped a cloth in a steaming pot. “Hold it to your face and I will tell you of the gifts.”

  Song shrugged and sopped up the last of his chowder with a chunk of bread. Grandfather was old and deserved his respect. It would hurt nothing to humor him. And the poultices always helped.

  Grandfather’s voice fell into a melodic sing song. “Long, long ago, when the mountain and the river were young, there lived a wise lord named Pavu. He was humble and good and sought the welfare of the people he ruled. But in his land dwelt bands of outlaws, for there is evil in the heart of every man, and many had fallen away from the honor given them in the beginning. But Pavu had not forgotten the call of Mutan, who awakened the first man.

  “The wise lord resisted the wicked bands for many long years, never finding the strength to defeat them completely. When he was bent with many seasons and about to pass his rule down to his son, he remembered Mutan and called out to him, ‘High One, have mercy on my people and on my son! Give him the strength I did not have to drive evil from our land!’