Beneath the robe lay one more item, a wooden box. It was small, only the size of a mandarin orange, and its finish had yellowed with age. A pattern of flowers and trees had been inlaid on its surface, each leaf, each petal a separate creation. Song lifted it out carefully and carried it into the sunlight to admire the intricate craftsmanship. His fingers traced over many colors of wood but were unable to feel any seams except those created by the cover. Tentatively, he lifted it off.
Inside were three shallow compartments that didn’t reach the full depth of the box. One of them contained a scrap of yellow, brittle parchment. Unfolding it he read two words: Song Wei.
The boy blinked with surprise.
He turned the box over. Even the bottom had been inlaid with colored blocks and felt as smooth as the sides. It echoed when he tapped on it, but when he shook it, it made no sound. Flipping the box upright once more, he tried prying up the bottom of the open compartment, but it refused to budge. The box was tight, hollow, and empty, and it offered no further information.
He replaced the parchment and the lid and sat down in the shade of the hut to puzzle over the treasure.
Perhaps the box had been a gift. In his younger days, Grandfather had wandered far and entertained some important people. The box might have been a token of appreciation.
Or it could be a family heirloom. Perhaps his grandmother had cherished it, and Grandfather had locked it away for safekeeping.
Then Song’s eyes grew round. Maybe the box was stolen! Perhaps Grandfather kept it hidden so his crime would never be found out. And the valuable blue silk and the knife? Where had they come from? Maybe Grandfather’s travels had been less innocent than Song always assumed.
The boy snorted. He was being ridiculous. And none of these theories could explain the scrap of parchment. Somehow he was tied to the contents of the chest.
He frowned. Could it be that this box held a piece of his personal history? Was it a link to the past he knew so little about?
The desire to know grew strong within him.
Just then Kintu let out a warning bark. Forgetting the box, Song sprang to his feet, trembling with a sudden memory of the night.
Chapter 7
Song peered out the window. He heard no sound and felt no chill. Kintu was not barking at anything overhead, but staring intently into the woods.
There was silence except for Kintu’s low growl. Then Song caught a flash of gray and a black-ringed tail. A mountain cat.
Kintu saw it too. He bounded into the woods, crashing after the silent shadow.
“No, Kintu! Come back you old fool!”
“Song!”
He whirled. Karina was just entering the clearing, waving a happy greeting.
“Karina! Come on!”
Song sprang away after the dog, not waiting to see if the girl followed. The cat was not large, but if Kintu managed to corner it, it would fight like a devil.
“Kintu!” he called again.
The dog led him up the side of the mountain through thick underbrush. Only when the way grew steep enough to require the use of his hands did Song recall the box they still clutched.
At last, the embankment leveled out into a long, narrow meadow. Breathing heavily, he sat on a rock to rest. He could no longer hear the dog.
The valley was unfamiliar, and Song drank in its beauty. Golden light poured down into a carpet of green grass blazing with wild mustard blossoms. Thick briars secluded it on all sides except the steep bank where he had climbed up. All around him a tumbling of gray boulders thrust up through the green like the protruding bones of the mountain.
A shallow stream gurgled nearby, narrow enough to straddle. After catching his breath, Song set his box aside and drank deeply of the sweet water.
Moments later, a rustle sounded behind him and Karina emerged over the embankment. “Song!” she cried, rushing toward him. “What happened?”
He had forgotten her.
He waved away her concerns. “It is only a mountain cat. You appeared just as Kintu decided to give chase.”
She paused to catch her breath, then swatted at him reproachfully. “You frightened me!”
“I did not mean to.” He took in her wildly disheveled hair, the pulse pounding against her throat, and the hot, red color staining her scar. “I’m sorry.”
“As you should be!”
She attempted to finger her hair into submission, but it refused to cooperate. The unruly tangles were so out of character that Song could not contain a snicker. When she glared at him, he burst into full laughter.
“Let me help you,” he grinned and smoothed back the long, black strands. They felt as soft as flowing water and smelled of dried lavender. How had he never noticed the scent before? He breathed deeply and found that his fingers remained twined in her hair.
“I am sorry,” he repeated, looking down into her flushed face. “When Kintu gave chase, I did not stop to consider how it might look.”
“Then you are forgiven—” she allowed him a begrudging smile “—this once.”
Kintu bounded out of the underbrush, his thick coat ragged with twigs and burrs, and Song dropped his hand. “Kintu, you fool,” he called again, relieved to find the old dog well.
As Kintu lapped at the brook, Song sprawled on his back in the thick, cool grass. The sun dotted his face with perspiration. All around him the meadow held perfectly still, a haven for a thousand droning insects.
Karina still looked weary. He patted the ground beside him. “Rest a few moments,” he suggested, “then we’ll return.”
Karina sank beside him readily, lying with her arms behind her head. She sighed contentedly. “If I were ever to leave, this is what I would miss most about the mountain. The solitude and beauty. ”
Song propped himself up on one arm, his brow furrowed. “Is your life really so terrible that you think always of leaving?”
“Of course not,” she answered. “I am happy enough. But a girl can harbor dreams, can’t she?”
Kintu came to lie protectively beside Song. His soft panting merged with the meadow’s buzz.
“What would you miss the most, Song?”
Still looking down at her, he did not hesitate. “You.”
She giggled softly. “Look!” she exclaimed. “That cloud looks exactly like Li-Min’s beard.”
He laid back, and together they soaked in the season’s waning sunlight and pointed out shapes in the passing clouds. The afternoon was so fine, the company so comfortable, and the magic of the meadow so hypnotic that both children soon dozed.
The rumbling in Song’s stomach awakened him. He sat up. The shadows were beginning to lengthen. “Karina,” he whispered, nudging her gently. “Wake up.”
The girl stretched, blinking dazedly. “What time is it?”
“Nearing supper hour.”
Karina rose, stretched again, and caught sight of Grandfather’s box. “What is that?”
Song reached for it, feeling again its smooth finish. “I do not know. I found it in Grandfather’s chest.”
“His locked chest? Oh, Song, why did you take it?”
“He left it unlocked. I was looking at it when Kintu charged into the forest, and I forgot to put it down.”
Grandfather would be angry. How could Song replace the box without his knowledge?
“You shouldn’t have taken it out of the chest. You know how secretive he is.”
Song’s face darkened. “But why is he so secretive?”
She shrugged. “I cannot make such a guess.”
Song jumped up and paced the meadow. “Why would he hide this from me? Why keep it locked up for so many years?”
“He must have his reasons.”
“Of course he does. And trying to figure them out is making me suspicious and angry!”
He stopped his pacing and pulled the box open, showing her the parchment. “Look, the box has my name in it. For some reason, my name was placed in this box a long time ago.”
&nbs
p; His eyes blazed. “There were many things in the chest: wonderful things, mysterious things, things I must be connected to in some way.” He fingered the parchment and scowled. “But my past is as unknown to me as the origins of the Chin-Yazi.”
Karina laid a gentle hand on his arm. “Song, you must trust Li-Min. He holds a great amount of wisdom. He will tell you all you need to know when the time ripens.”
But Song broke away and stood at the edge of the embankment watching the sun ease itself past the heads of the distant Kindoli. Karina knew her parents and her history. She could never understand how he felt. Even he wasn’t sure where this hot emotion had come from. It sprang up suddenly where only curiosity had stood before.
He could not explain the compulsion he felt to find out what the box meant, as if his past and future were somehow tied up in it. He knew only that the time had come for him to find his own identity apart from the habits and fables of an old man.
He stared far off the mountain, hoping to find answers written on the horizon.
“Song, come here.”
Karina’s voice came from the east side of the valley. While Song mused, she had wandered across the meadow. He turned to find her peering into an open space between two boulders.
“I think I found the mountain cat’s den,” she called.
He scoffed and turned back to his pondering. “No cat would sleep where sun, wind, and rain are such easy houseguests.”
Karina didn’t move. “I think you’d better come look.”
He walked the few dozen paces to where she stood. To his surprise, the space between the rocks was indeed lined with gray fur and the remains of a season’s worth of meals. The floor was bare, hard-packed earth.
“It looks like an underground den,” he admitted, “but it sits in the sun.”
“I think it used to be underground,” she said, her voice tight. “Look.”
She pointed beyond the den to a round crater eight feet across and several feet deep. When Song wrestled rocks out of the garden plot in the clearing, they left holes just like this. Small holes.
This hole was huge!
“Karina,” he realized, “there used to be a boulder sitting there.”
“That’s what I thought,” she answered. “And there. And there.”
The ground was littered with fresh craters. At one time, the cat must have dug its den deep beneath a mountain of rock.
Karina’s face blanched. “Where did they go, Song?”
They scanned the valley frantically, as if it was suddenly haunted by ghosts.
“There!” Song yelled. He ran toward a rock slab so huge it must have been planted by Mutan himself at the birth of the mountain, yet it sat in a fresh gouge of earth. The rock had come to rest recently, tossed there like a child’s toy. And the top, not the bottom, was stained with earth, just like the stones in Grandfather’s garden. Rain had not yet washed the dirt away.
Looking with new eyes, they found other signs of violence. More displaced boulders, uprooted trees, rocks newly split into sharp splinters, a grove of plum trees shattered, their foliage hardly wilted.
“Song, what did this?” Karina whispered.
He shook his head. “I’m too afraid to guess. Let’s get out of here!"
Already the valley was draping itself in shadows. Kintu had led them far up the mountain, and they must start for home before the evening grew any later. Nothing could bring Song to stay in the valley after nightfall.
But the climb down took more time than the reckless chase. Song set a course for the river, glancing nervously at the purpling sky. Hadn’t Grandfather told him not to leave the hut? Surely the old man would be home by now, worrying.
Despite their haste, dusk overtook them before they reached the village, making the unfamiliar route hard to follow. Stars twinkled overhead then disappeared as the children ducked into a copse of heavy timber. Fear of an unseen menace pressed heavy against Song and mixed with terrors conjured up by his own imagination. He had to force his feet to maintain a careful, steady pace.
The silhouette of an elm tree loomed in the darkness, and Song’s breath loosened at the familiar sight. The village lay just ahead. After Karina was delivered safely home, his own dear hut would be only a short walk away. He heaved a heavy sigh of relief.
Then the slap of canvas cracked against the black dome above.
Song threw himself, cowering, against the trunk of the tall tree, clutching the box to his chest with one arm. The other he threw around the neck of the growling dog. His eyes, huge as full moons, stared up through the canopy, searching for a glimpse of the enemy. He could feel its presence, sense its evil, and taste the fear it cast like a shadow around itself.
But this time he could not feel its seeping chill.
The demon passed. Song remained pressed against the bark of the trunk, his breath coming in short gasps.
Karina grasped his arm. “S-Song!” she shuttered. “Wh-what was that?”
Before he could answer, the night’s stillness was shattered by the shrill scream of a woman.
The village!
Another scream.
Pounding footsteps.
A flurry of shouts battering the air like stones flung from a slingshot.
Suddenly, all sound was swallowed up by a single roar. Loud as thunder. Powerful as heaving earth. Terrible as death.
And then, only mangled silence.
A soft crackle whispered at the edge of the stillness, rising in volume till Song could see an orange glow illuminating the trees where the Chin-Yazi flowed over the toes of Kamiratan.
The village was burning!
Chapter 8
Most mornings, Kamiratan awoke with a dazzling display of color, green and gold and rose, cheerful and happy to greet the new day. But this morning brought forth only a somber, gray dreariness. Smoke hung low along the ridges like toxic vapors escaped from a pit. Above, the mountain mourned, its sides wet with dewy tears.
Song knelt beside the cook fire and dished himself a bowl of gruel. Last night, the soft murmur of flames had grown to a raging snarl, louder than water pouring off the mountain after a storm. Orange flames licked hungrily at the mountain’s feet. While Karina raced ahead to the village, Song had fled away home, pausing to stash Grandfather’s box among the carvings in the rock crevice, both to preserve it and to avoid punishment.
But the hut had been empty when he stumbled inside. At first he feared his grandfather might have returned and, not finding Song, left again to search, but the unlocked chest in the corner put those concerns to rest. Grandfather had not been back. Alone, Song had clung to Kintu during the long hours of the night.
From the window of the hut, it appeared the sun had lost its way and wandered in the direction of the river. For a time, Song was afraid the fire might spread over the entire mountain. But in an act of self-preservation, Kamiratan had breathed down enough wind to blow the flames into the quenching grasp of the Chin-Yazi, and the light had gone out before dawn.
Gray ash continued to swirl among the breezes, and the reek of burned timber sullied the cleanness of morning. Song ate his breakfast in silence, his thoughts as dark as the smoky air.
Moments later a faltering step sounded on the village path, and Grandfather dragged himself across the clearing. Weariness bent him almost double, and his eyes held sadness enough for ten lifetimes. Settling painfully beside the cook fire, he sat cross-legged with Kintu pressed against his knee. Sooty smudges blackened his skin and clothing.
Song ladled him some breakfast.
“I have sent for help too late, I fear.” He shook his head regretfully. “Two have perished.”
“Who?” Song asked sharply. He had called Karina back from the flames, begged her to follow him, but she would not abandon her family.
“Little Tamina was lost in the fire, and Lonzi Sanochi has disappeared. Carried off, I suspect, but he may still turn up in the rubble.”
Carried off? The man was as big as an ox!
Grandfather wiped feebly at his face in a gesture of pure exhaustion. “The villagers will rebuild, as they always have, but I fear this time their heartache has just begun.”
Song’s hand trembled as he offered the old man the bowl. “Grandfather,” he whispered, “I have to know what’s out there.”
But the man was busy shoveling food into his mouth. When he began to slow, Song fixed him with a level gaze. “Twice I have felt evil pass overhead, trailing fear like a ship trails a wake. You cannot protect me by hiding it from me. Please, you must tell me what it is.”
The old man seemed to sink beneath the weight of the foul air, but he nodded in agreement. “It is time you heard the very first story.” He took one last, huge bite of porridge, as if for strength, set aside the bowl, and began:
“Long, long ago, when the earth was molded of new clay, Mutan built upon it the city of Zuminka. All about this city he planted sunny meadows that rippled with grasses and flowers. To cast shade, he fashioned groves of cool, dark trees. And everywhere he set gentle animals, and birds of every song and color. He caused waters to flow and trees to bloom and bear fruit. And at Zuminka’s very center, he placed an ancient tree, old beyond the beginnings of the world.
“He fashioned a man and a woman and placed them in a fine hut. He fashioned others to fill the city, but Zumari and his wife he set above every created thing. They were to rule over the people and the creatures. Yet, the ancient tree they must not touch. It was sacred and old, out of the land beyond time, and it was called the Guardian.
“The man and woman lived long in their hut, at peace and at rest, discovering daily the many blessings of Mutan. The animals multiplied, and the man and woman brought forth children of their own. The city grew and filled. And always the old tree stood guard above them, but against what, the people could not tell.
“Over time, Zumari developed great skill in carpentry. He constructed many handsome buildings and filled them with beautiful things. He crafted bowls and utensils, tools and carts. He carved likenesses of the animals for the children to play with. He was highly esteemed by all for his skill, but the man’s heart grew prideful. If only he could create something truly great, he might set himself apart from all other craftsmen.
Song of the Mountain (Mountain Trilogy, 1) Page 4