valley. Snow fell from trees and small stones cascaded down a steep gully. But the sounds and echoes faded and the whispers of the wind returned and now there were stars in the twilight sky.
The woman and the boy walked on, pulling at the shafts of the cart, and the old man, working among the trees, loaded brushwood onto his A-frame and never let the cart slip for too long out of his line of vision.
Before dark they halted at a ledge carved out of the base of the mountain wall and the woman built a fire. An overhang extended nearly the length of the ledge. The old man, helped by the boy, turned the cart on its side and angled it against the mountain. The cart and the mountain gave them two walls, with the fire as the third. On a flat rock next to the cart the old man placed tenderly the small box that contained the spirit of his father.
The woman filled a pot with snow and boiled it and put into it the small black mountain snake the man had found curled in sleep beneath a rock during the day. She offered the food to the spirits of the mountains, thinking, Are the spirits of these mountains like the healing spirits of the cave, and they had the soup and then ate the raw liver.
All that day since leaving the cave in the valley theold man and the woman and the boy had not exchanged a word.
“I have not thanked you,” the old man said now to the boy when the soup and the meat were gone. “I want to thank you.”
The boy bowed his head. The woman smiled joyously to herself.
“You are a clever boy. Who taught you to fish?”
“Grandfather.”
“The scholar?”
“No. The father of my mother. He had long poles and high boots and fished in great rivers.”
“What did he do, this grandfather?”
“He owned many farms.”
“A farmer?”
“No. He owned the land.”
“Ah.”
“He was also a great hunter.”
“Ah, yes?”
“But I never went hunting with him.”
“Ah.”
“Have you ever gone hunting?”
“When I was a boy. But my memory of it is dim.”
“My mother’s father said I should go hunting and not read all the time, but my father and his father would not permit it.”
The woman listened and remained silent.
“When we come to the camp,” the boy said, “will you send me away?”
The man shook his head and scratched the mole on his cheek. “If the authorities ask, I will say you are not my son. But I won’t send you away.”
“Will they take me away if I am not your son?”
“I don’t know that.”
“What must I do not to be taken away?”
“I don’t know the law.”
“There was nothing left when I ran from the village. It was on fire and everyone was dead. Otherwise I would not have run away.”
The woman turned to look at the boy.
“I ran up and down and through the village to find someone. I did not run away because of cowardice.”
“I never said that.”
“I was very frightened, but I am not a coward. I even tried to put out the fires. The air was on fire.”
“I have never even thought it,” the old man said. “But you are not of our blood.”
“And you will not send me away?”
“I won’t send you away until we know it will be good for you.”
“Can I return with you to your village?”
The old man shook his head. “It is not your village and I am not your father and this woman is not your mother. Now we must go to sleep or fatigue will make us sick again.”
Quickly the woman unfolded the mats and quilts and sleeping bag and shook them out. She spread them upon the ledge, directly below the overhang. The wind as it moved through the ravine brought to them the cries and hooting sounds of night animals. Curls of smoke and heat from the fire blew across the ledge.
The boy had gone off to the side beyond the ledge to tend to his needs.
“Listen,” the woman said quietly to the old man, “you would let this boy go?”
“What are you asking?”
“This is a boy with strange power.” She knew how he thought.
“What do you mean, woman?” He
The woman and the boy walked on, pulling at the shafts of the cart, and the old man, working among the trees, loaded brushwood onto his A-frame and never let the cart slip for too long out of his line of vision.
Before dark they halted at a ledge carved out of the base of the mountain wall and the woman built a fire. An overhang extended nearly the length of the ledge. The old man, helped by the boy, turned the cart on its side and angled it against the mountain. The cart and the mountain gave them two walls, with the fire as the third. On a flat rock next to the cart the old man placed tenderly the small box that contained the spirit of his father.
The woman filled a pot with snow and boiled it and put into it the small black mountain snake the man had found curled in sleep beneath a rock during the day. She offered the food to the spirits of the mountains, thinking, Are the spirits of these mountains like the healing spirits of the cave, and they had the soup and then ate the raw liver.
All that day since leaving the cave in the valley theold man and the woman and the boy had not exchanged a word.
“I have not thanked you,” the old man said now to the boy when the soup and the meat were gone. “I want to thank you.”
The boy bowed his head. The woman smiled joyously to herself.
“You are a clever boy. Who taught you to fish?”
“Grandfather.”
“The scholar?”
“No. The father of my mother. He had long poles and high boots and fished in great rivers.”
“What did he do, this grandfather?”
“He owned many farms.”
“A farmer?”
“No. He owned the land.”
“Ah.”
“He was also a great hunter.”
“Ah, yes?”
“But I never went hunting with him.”
“Ah.”
“Have you ever gone hunting?”
“When I was a boy. But my memory of it is dim.”
“My mother’s father said I should go hunting and not read all the time, but my father and his father would not permit it.”
The woman listened and remained silent.
“When we come to the camp,” the boy said, “will you send me away?”
The man shook his head and scratched the mole on his cheek. “If the authorities ask, I will say you are not my son. But I won’t send you away.”
“Will they take me away if I am not your son?”
“I don’t know that.”
“What must I do not to be taken away?”
“I don’t know the law.”
“There was nothing left when I ran from the village. It was on fire and everyone was dead. Otherwise I would not have run away.”
The woman turned to look at the boy.
“I ran up and down and through the village to find someone. I did not run away because of cowardice.”
“I never said that.”
“I was very frightened, but I am not a coward. I even tried to put out the fires. The air was on fire.”
“I have never even thought it,” the old man said. “But you are not of our blood.”
“And you will not send me away?”
“I won’t send you away until we know it will be good for you.”
“Can I return with you to your village?”
The old man shook his head. “It is not your village and I am not your father and this woman is not your mother. Now we must go to sleep or fatigue will make us sick again.”
Quickly the woman unfolded the mats and quilts and sleeping bag and shook them out. She spread them upon the ledge, directly below the overhang. The wind as it moved through the ravine brought to them the cries and hooting sounds of night animals. Curls of smoke and heat from the fire blew across the ledge.
The boy had gone off to the side beyond the ledge to tend to his needs.
“Listen,” the woman said quietly to the old man, “you would let this boy go?”
“What are you asking?”
“This is a boy with strange power.” She knew how he thought.
“What do you mean, woman?” He
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