Song of the Mountain (Mountain Trilogy 1) Read online

  “With the knowledge revealed to him, Pavu’s son was able to destroy the bands of evil men, and they became so scattered that the land enjoyed peace for many generations. And he was given the secret name for Mutan that few now remember: Yong-Zay, Maker of Stars.”

  Song frowned. Such information could prove useful. “How did it work? How did he use the power?”

  Grandfather was quiet a long time. “Sadly, that secret has been forgotten. And few now remain who even remember the Giver. Instead, men worship the gifts.”

  Skepticism pulled Song’s mouth down at the corners, yet the story echoed within him like a chord that has faded to silence but still hums in memory. It agitated his thoughts.

  He had to clear his head.

  “Go,” Grandfather told him. “I will wipe the dishes.”

  ~

  The moon had already risen when Song reached the rocky summit of Kamiratan, and in its light the ridges of the Kindoli rose and fell away like wrinkles on the surface of the earth. Before him, the river flowed between its folds, and behind, Mamuri Valley spread in a woven carpet at the mountain’s feet. The entire world lay open and expectant, like a story about to begin.

  This was the pinnacle of the earth, the place Song sought out any time his mind grew troubled. Here, high above all else, he felt no constraints. Even the forest shied away, circling the rocky dome like a fringe of hair on a bald man’s head. The air grew thin and clear and cold, and problems shrank to the size of the pebbles beneath his feet.

  Song hunched down on his heels and scooped up a handful of the tiny rocks. One by one he flung them into empty space, watching their moonlit glitter fall away to darkness. Up here, high on the mountain’s peak, even a dung beetle could feel hope.

  He climbed the largest boulder and stretched out across its top, the night sky spread above him like a blanket woven of richest silk and inset with a million diamonds. It was a canopy fit for an emperor, but this night it belonged only to Song.

  A breeze, gentle as a kiss and perfumed with wild chrysanthemums, ruffled his hair. He stared hard trying to see through the blackness. Did the sky go on forever? Was it without beginning or end? Or was it a black curtain hiding what lay beyond, a mystery as unknowable as his own future? Who could tell? Only Mutan, Giver of great gifts; Yong-Zay, Maker of Stars.

  Song smiled, feeling deep inside the agreement among the gifts, among all nature. He had found his moment of peace. For now it did not matter what the village boys did to him or what the past and future held. He had Grandfather and Kintu and his mountain, and that, he knew, could never change.

  But high above, something dark stirred in the heavens, blotting out the light of the stars.

  Chapter 3

  The next afternoon, Song’s feet swished softly through the underbrush. Above his head sunlight filtered between the trees, creating a dappled pattern on the forest floor that quivered each time the wind jostled the branches. He had rambled far but the hut was just ahead, and the basket he carried brimmed with mushrooms, tender bamboo shoots, onions, and wild greens. He could hardly wait to taste whatever Grandfather might concoct with such ingredients.

  Song’s eyes fastened on a figure sitting in the shadow of the chestnut tree at the near end of the clearing. “Karina!” he called, rushing forward with delight. The village girl came often to help with odd jobs, but the only payment she sought—the only payment they could afford—was companionship. This they offered gladly.

  Karina kept her eyes on a length of coarse cloth laid across her lap. Song recognized a tunic he had torn on briars only last week. The girl’s needle moved without pause, but her voice was as warm as the breath flowing up from the valley. “Hello, Song. I saw you in the village yesterday. Were you on an errand for your grandfather?”

  “It is the only reason I ever visit the village.” Song wedged himself in the nook where the chestnut’s trunk met its lowest branch.

  “Is he well? I have not seen him yet this day.”

  “He is well.”

  Karina tied a knot in her thread and set the garment down. Tipping her face upward, she offered Song a sweet smile. “And how are you?”

  This was the face for which he risked his safety in the village. A warm, open face, displaying acceptance and sincere friendship. It was a face that made him feel comfortable. A face that made him feel special. And when she smiled, when her eyes sparkled up at him in such a way, he hardly saw the scar that pulled half her face into a shiny, discolored mask.

  “I am also well.”

  “Truly?” she asked. For even in the dark shadow of the tree his swollen lip and the purple bruise enveloping both of his eyes was visible.

  “I am not dead,” he quipped.

  Karina turned again to her work. “You make light of the beatings, but I know how helplessness twists within you, for the same knife twists within me.”

  Her admission soothed him in a way Grandfather’s words had been unable to. It bridged the feelings of separation brought on by being singled out and abused. But Song did not want to dwell on something neither of them could change. He reached a hand into his basket. “I found this while I walked. What do you think it looks like?”

  She took the knobby chunk of wood he held out, turning it this way and that before her face brightened. “Why, it looks almost like a panda!” she exclaimed.

  He smiled with satisfaction. He knew she would also see the figure in the wood waiting to be released with skillful strokes of his knife.

  “Tell me,” she said, shooting him a sidelong glance, “when you are finished, will you show it to anyone?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Song,” she frowned, “your carvings are exquisite. They would fetch a good price in the village.”

  “Who would buy them?” He had no desire to share the little figurines. They were too personal, each like a private thought. He didn’t even show them to Grandfather. Instead, he hid them in a rock cleft just off the village path.

  “Then show them to Lord Dolisu. He can afford to appreciate beautiful work. Maybe he would even send them downriver in his boats to the city near the great waters.” Her eyes grew bright with possibilities. “Perhaps one day your art will even draw you off this mountain.”

  “I have no wish to leave the mountain.”

  “But someday wouldn’t you like to see the sun rise out of the waters that have no end? Would you not wish to set foot in the city where it is said more people live than all the leaves on the largest tree?”

  “Would you?” he asked doubtfully.

  “Of course I would! There is much that lies beyond the village.”

  But Song’s heart belonged to Kamiratan. “When you have seen everything,” he asked hesitantly, “would you return?”

  Some of the sparkle faded from her almond eyes. “Oh, Song,” she sighed, “you know it is all fancy. I will never be able to leave. Someday I will die here where I was born.”

  Her words reassured him. He did not favor the thought of her absence.

  “You should at least show your carvings in the village,” she continued. “They deserve to be seen. Surely someone would offer you something in trade.”

  But Song shook his head stubbornly. “I will not go to the village unless I absolutely have to.”

  Karina’s eyes softened, her gaze reaching again to touch his battered face. “It is because of this.”

  Song stiffened. At his sides, his hands clenched into tight fists.

  “Song, you must not hate them.”

  “They make themselves hateful, Karina! They strike and cut and destroy.”

  She shook her head. “For my sake, you must forgive. Keeto is my brother.”

  “Keeto is their leader! He is the worst of them all!” Song spat out. “I cannot forgive him!”

  Karina searched his face for a long moment. “There may be a reason for his actions that you know nothing about,” she suggested quietly before returning to her sewing.

  An awkward silence
dropped between them. Grandfather, emerging from the village path, blundered into the middle of it.

  “Ah, Karina,” he beamed, “it is always a pleasure to see you, my child. You are like a fresh breeze on a sweltering summer day.”

  The girl, after stealing a quick peek at Song, greeted the old man warmly. “Hello, Li-Min,” she said and allowed him to kiss her cheek. “Have you been fishing?” She indicated the twine he carried, strung through the gills of two good-sized bass.

  “Alas, no. I am too old for such a task. A bad-tempered fish, I’m afraid, could give me quite a ducking,” he chuckled. “No, this is a gift from Madam Sanochi. The disappearance of her headache left her in generous spirits.”

  “Your remedies are remarkable,” she admitted.

  “And so are my culinary abilities. You will stay to sample them, will you not?”

  She smiled. “I could be persuaded.”

  “I gathered these,” Song said, exchanging his basket of wild food for the string of fish. These he took to a flat rock at the edge of the creek that they used for cleaning game. In his sullen mood, he was glad to escape the pleasantries the girl and the old man exchanged, though he could still hear them.

  Grandfather stirred the ashes from their noon meal, added a few sticks of wood, and soon had a blaze dancing in the fire pit. Over this he hung a kettle of water.

  “Ah,” he sighed, settling himself beside it with a knife, a board, and the basket of vegetables, “this fire reminds me of the man who once planted two trees.”

  Song rolled his eyes at his grandfather’s obvious attempt at a story invitation. He had no desire to hear it, but Karina took the bait. “Tell me about him, Li-Min.”

  Grandfather’s voiced flowed above the sound of the busy knife. “There once was a man who lived high on the side of a mountain.”

  “Was it our own Kamiratan?” she interrupted.

  “I do not know, my child, but it does not matter. It was a grand mountain, and on its height the man planted two trees. The first was a cypress that grew straight and tall and picturesque. All those who saw it commented on its majesty, and the man grew very proud of it.

  “The second was an ash tree, slender and lithe. It had a beauty all its own, but in the shadow of the cypress, there were few who noticed its qualities.

  “One day a storm fell upon the mountain and a great wind battered the trees. The mighty cypress withstood the assault for a time, but in the end its strength failed. The rigid trunk snapped, and the cypress crashed to the mountaintop.

  “The wind then poured all its fury out upon the little ash tree, and though it ravaged its branches and tore its leaves, it could not knock it down. For with each strong blast, the ash tree bent, suffering the onslaught with a resilience the cypress could not match.

  “When the tempest blew itself out, the ash tree stood alone on the mountaintop where it grew for many years. The broken cypress, however, was soon chopped into firewood.

  “Now which, I ask you, was the stronger tree?”

  “The ash, of course,” Karina answered.

  Grandfather smiled. “You have answered well.”

  Song snorted softly as he folded the fish into thick leaves and laid them at the edge of the fire. Grandfather’s old ears did not hear his contempt, but Karina glanced at him with an expression of concern.

  Rich smells of cooking food began to waft about the clearing, briefly fading away only to tumble back to the forefront of awareness like a thought one cannot dismiss. Like a thought that presses itself upon memory again and again until it becomes a singular focus. Even as Song’s stomach growled at the flickering fragrance, his mind fixed on the moment he lay on the ground beneath the feet of the village boys, and he marveled at how the shadow of that memory could darken an afternoon that had begun so cheerfully.

  The meal was a quiet one. Song knew it was his own moodiness that projected onto his companions, but he could not seem to force it away. Or perhaps he chose not to. Oddly enough, he didn’t enjoy Grandfather’s delicacies nearly as much as he anticipated.

  When Grandfather retired to the hut with the lowering of the sun, Karina moved closer to Song. He was suddenly aware of the warmth of her knee where it brushed against his own. “The twilight beckons me home,” she told him.

  Suddenly he regretted his actions of the evening. What a fool he’d been to squander this time with his dearest friend. “Stay,” he urged, “just a little longer.”

  She nodded. “A few more minutes.” She regarded him thoughtfully, her scarred face beautiful in the dusky light. “Song, this sourness is not like you. I’ve always admired the way you navigate misfortune with good humor. Never with brooding silence.”

  Her words made him uncomfortable, and he couldn’t decide where to settle his eyes. He took in the clouds shredding themselves on Kamiratan’s heights. He shifted to the stream gurgling at the edge of the clearing. He examined the ragged hem of his tunic.

  “You are letting them win.” She touched him lightly on his hand. “Don’t allow them to change you, Song. You must let it go.”

  At last he looked into her eyes, and he found he could not fight against their intensity. He heaved a sigh. “All right, Karina. I’ll try.”

  Her smile washed away any lingering reservations he may have had.

  “Come then,” she beamed, rising. “If you walk me home, we can hide away your new carving with the others.”

  Chapter 4

  Song awakened to the sound of his grandfather packing leftover bread into a hemp sling that hung from his neck. Dawn stretched rosy fingers through the window to paint the thatch overhead, and Kintu stood waiting eagerly at the door. The old man wrapped his cloak about his shoulders and slid his feet into a pair of woven straw slippers.

  The walking slippers!

  Song sat up. “Are you leaving, Grandfather?”

  “Yes, my boy. Last night the moon began to wane.”

  The old man moved to the locked chest and took a key from beneath his tunic. Song heard the catch release, and without looking he knew that Grandfather withdrew a hollow brass handle that fitted onto his walking staff. He only used the handle one time each month. When he returned from his journey he would lock it back inside the chest. Song had once asked what else was in the chest, but Grandfather merely replied, “When you are older, young one.”

  Song watched Grandfather carefully relock the chest and slip the key back into its hiding place. “Will you be gone all day, Grandfather?”

  “I never return before the setting sun.”

  “Do you have to go?”

  “You know I must check the Keeping Stone.”

  “But you always come away empty-handed. It will be another wasted trip.” He did not know where his grandfather went or what he hoped to find there, only that the old man held to his schedule without fail.

  “Caution, my child, is never wasted.”

  The old man opened the door and the dog bounded outside, eager for the journey. Song shifted on his mat. “Grandfather,” he called hesitantly, “may I go with you?”

  There was a pause in the half-light as the man turned to consider. Song hardly dared to hope. Then Grandfather’s face smoothed with pleasure. “Yes. I think today you may join me.”

  With a whoop, Song jumped from his mat into the cool outdoors.

  They followed the footpath past Lord Dolisu’s landing and into the village. Song could smell the cook fires and hear the morning sounds long before he caught sight of any huts. Women tended to household chores and called to children to mind theirs. An old man sat outside his hut shaping coils of clay into a jar. Younger men took up their nets and hammers and hoes, and one boy led a water buffalo to the river for a morning drink. Song recognized the boy and pressed close to Grandfather.

  A few minutes later, the village fell behind them, and they passed down the winding path farther than Song had ever traveled. The sun rose high in the sky and the path seemed to never end. Song took in each curve expectantl
y, eager to see what lay beyond the bend. The river flowed on beside them, the trees followed, and Kamiratan grew smaller until it was finally blocked from view by a high fold of the Kindoli, but always Grandfather plodded onward with Kintu trotting happily at his side.

  Hours later, as Song was regretting his eagerness to travel, the road split and Grandfather turned away from the river. They climbed gently but steadily up a narrow valley, following a stream that chattered noisily in its mossy bed. After a brief rest and some refreshment, Grandfather turned them down a footpath all but hidden by a copse of trees.

  The path wound steeply upward, twisting along the backbone of a mountain. Song wondered sometimes how the old man kept his footing, but he was as steady as a wild goat. Below them the valley spread out in shades of dusky green broken only by glimpses of sparkling water.

  At last the path opened into a flat clearing ringed by giant cypress trees. It was quiet in the hidden glade, perfectly still. The bird songs and insect noises that blew freely on the wind along the valley’s edge were suddenly hushed. Moss covered the ground, and the air felt cool and moist and old. Song felt as if he were stepping into some sacred chamber forgotten since the beginning of time.

  On a pedestal in the very center of the glade sat a round, thin stone, bigger than the circle of Song’s arms. Grandfather strode toward the Keeping Stone and lifted its edge.

  “Is it nothing, Grandfather, as usual?”

  The old man stood still, staring beneath the stone for a long moment. One of the giant, twisted trees groaned, and Song could feel the air pulsing around him. It made his breath catch and his fingertips tingle.

  Then he noticed his grandfather.

  The old man stood tall and straight, with an unlined brow. Hair as black as a raven’s wing fell around a face that seemed to shine. The moment hung suspended, like a beam of light hovering between heaven and earth. Then the man shook his head and melted again into Grandfather, with his age and wisdom and worries. “No, child,” he answered heavily. “Not this time. Today our fortune has failed us.”

  He clutched a piece of parchment and grave wrinkles creased his brow. Song stepped forward, but Grandfather hastily replaced the message beneath the rock. “Others may need to know what this says,” he stated and strode quickly from the clearing.

  Song followed obediently, past the ring of watching trees, back into the warmth and noise of day, but he had seen the parchment, and his blood chilled within him. Beneath a hastily drawn star, a bold, flowing hand had written, “Beware! The Ancient Terror has reawakened.”