“One day, Zumari’s path took him beneath the spreading branches of the Guardian. No breeze played against his cheek, yet the ancient giant swayed from side to side. The man stopped to watch its motion, wondering, as he often did, if the tree was recalling some storm beyond the memory of the world.
“As he watched, he saw that the wood never cracked. In fact, not even one severed twig lay on the ground. The tree was strong and supple and perfect, with no blemish or shriveled branch. Its wood, he realized, was better than any other tree in Zuminka.
“Disregarding Mutan’s orders, he took hold of a branch. It felt warm in his hand, and throbbed with life, yet he applied his blade and severed the limb.
“When the branch lay at his feet, the tree shuddered. A groan issued from its roots, passed through the trunk, and trembled the leaves nearest heaven in a desperate prayer of supplication. Then as the man watched, the Guardian suddenly wrenched apart, torn and splintered in an angry explosion, its proud form lifeless on the ground.
“From its wreckage arose fire and thunder and the form of an evil, black dragon. The serpent clawed itself free, shrinking from the light of the day. With a shriek of triumph and terror, it unfurled its wings and spiraled skyward, seeking refuge in the darkest bowels of the mountain.
“From that time on, Zuminka was scattered and fell into decay. For on the day the Guardian died, the Ancient Terror entered the world.”
In the silence that punctuated the end of Grandfather’s story, Song could almost hear his hair stand upright.
“A dragon?” he cried incredulously. “That thing flying around at night is a dragon?”
“Not just any dragon.” Grandfather’s voice sounded low and thick. “It is Ju-Long, the Ancient Dragon. The Father of Dragons. He has emerged from the mountain after twelve years.”
Chapter 9
Two hours later, Song was startled from his brooding thoughts by a rhythmic pounding. He peered blearily at his grandfather. The old man still lay where he had crumpled into an exhausted slumber, the fire smoldering low beside him.
Song rubbed at his face. What was that infernal throbbing?
A low growl cut through the fog of his mind. Kintu stood alert beside Grandfather, peering down the path, his coat molten in the golden rays.
“Grandfather!” Song called out, just as a figure in blue and gray stumbled into the clearing. It was the keen-eyed captain, a curved sword hanging at his side.
The old man sprang up, fully awake. “What is it, Asito?”
The messenger panted for breath, disregarding formalities. “Lord Dolisu calls for you.”
Grandfather immediately grasped his staff, which still lay beside him. “He would have heard about the village,” he nodded. “Kintu, stay!” he commanded and trotted toward the manor.
The soldier gave Song one sharp look before turning to follow.
The sound of their leaving died away, and Song found himself alone once again. Resentfully, he stumbled to the stream and splashed his face with cold water. Already the sun had burned off the grayness of morning and lightened the terror of night. But dragon or not, the chores must be done.
He turned to survey his home. The garden needed harvesting, the chickens had been fending for themselves for days, and the last of the firewood had disappeared beneath the morning’s porridge. There was also grain to pound into meal, bread to bake in the clay oven, vegetables to prepare and store, and dinner to cook. But most importantly, he must go in search of firewood before night fell.
After the garden had given up its bounty, Song took up the ax and tested the blade against his thumb. Satisfied, he called to Kintu and fitted the dog with a soft harness. Finally, he picked up a loop of rope and started into the woods.
The forest was full of deadfall, but any limbs that fell close to the hut were quickly used up. Song had to walk for some distance before coming to a dry, broken tree. He pushed the skeleton onto its side and began chopping off branches. These he gathered into huge bundles that he tied down tightly. Next, he chopped the trunk into manageable pieces. Kintu stood patiently while Song tied the end of one six-foot length to loops on either side of the harness. Then the boy hoisted a giant pile of brush to his own back. It would take multiple trips to move it all, but the single tree would give them fuel for several days.
As Song trudged through the woods with his third load, his eyes lifted to the forest canopy. He wondered how much truth his grandfather’s tale held. He had heard of dragons, of course, though he always suspected the stories were exaggerated, maybe even fanciful. But something had moved the boulders. Something had burned the village and carried off Mr. Sanochi. Something had passed overhead.
Song’s toe struck a tree root. Unbalanced, his bulky load carried him off the path and he sprawled headfirst into a scrubby patch of autumn olive. Heaving and panting, using a heavy branch as a prop, he managed to right himself. But the shrubs claimed a chunk from his newly mended tunic.
He regained the trail, straining as if the branches were rocks. His legs trembled beneath their weight with unaccustomed weariness. He hadn’t slept well in days. And he was heartily sick of his own company.
“A plague on dragons!” he suddenly burst out, beating his prop against a tree until nothing remained of it but a pulpy stump. “I wish I never heard of Ju-Long, or the Keeping Stone, or—or Grandfather’s wooden box!”
The box! It was still hidden in the rock crevice!
His weakness forgotten, Song shuffled back to the clearing and dropped his load beside the fire pit. Hastily, he untied Kintu. A glance at the sky promised several more hours of daylight. Perhaps he could still return the box without Grandfather’s knowledge.
“Come on, Kintu!” he called, trotting down the path toward the village. But the old dog remained behind, curling up reproachfully beside the empty harness.
“Suit yourself, then.”
Within ten minutes, the elm at the edge of the village came into view. Song could see the secret cleft in which the box was hidden. He could also smell the smoldering remains of the settlement. He hesitated.
The air was unnaturally quiet. No sounds of children playing among the huts met his ear. No mothers called to them. Not even a dog barked. Only the thwack of a distant ax proved that life remained in the once lively community.
Curiosity overcame caution. Bypassing the elm, Song made his way to the edge of the forest. With his first look, the hazy detachment that had claimed him since the fire gave way to raw emotion.
The village was devastated. Where a score of huts used to stand, there remained only smoking, charred rubble. Everything had burned: carts, tools, mats, food. The ground was featureless all the way to the river, covered with soot and gray ash.
On a swath of grass that somehow escaped the inferno, a few hasty shelters had been constructed of leaves and sawn bamboo poles. Beneath them huddled a handful of old women and young children, but most of the residents were in the forest gathering food and wood and the means to sustain themselves.
Then Song’s eye rested on a tiny box—a casket—with sides of bright, new wood.
Sorrow welled in his heart for the people of the ruined village. Even so, he looked on them as a starving man eyes fish at the bottom of a deep pool. Though they suffered, still he longed for a share in their world. They were his people, molded of the same clay as him. But he could only gawk from the edge of the forest, showering them with an outsider’s pity.
“Have you seen your fill?”
The bitter words were spit at him from behind. Turning, he found Keeto watching him, a load of bamboo poles wrapped in his corded arms. Keeto, the knife that had carved the gulf between him and the villagers. Yet Song felt too numb to summon any resentment.
“I’m so sorry,” he whispered, “for all of this.”
The older boy leveled him with a cold stare. “Are you?” he asked. “Or did you come down the mountain to gloat?”
Song shook his head sadly. He couldn’t understand the boy�
�s animosity. He had never done anything to provoke it. Could there be another reason for it, as Karina had once suggested?
“Keeto, why do you hate me so much?” he asked.
The boy sneered, “Because you are pathetic and weak.”
“Is it because I am friends with your sister?”
“Friends?” Keeto’s eyes narrowed and his lip curled up in a snarl. “You presume too much, dung beetle.”
“I presume nothing. Karina admits our friendship freely.”
“Then she is foolish and naïve. She doesn’t know what I know.”
The boy’s words hit Song like a slap in the face. What did Keeto know? Was he just talking, or could he truly hold some of the answers Grandfather would not share?
Keeto rammed one of the bamboo poles into Song’s chest. “My sister is too good for scum like you. But I promise you this, Great One,” he scorned, stepping forward threateningly, “if you mistreat her, I will kill you.”
Song stared at Keeto, but he was too preoccupied to show fear. “What do you know?” he asked. “About me. What do you know?”
Keeto smirked, looking like a child who had just licked clean a honey jar. “You would like it if I told you, wouldn’t you?”
Song frowned. Grandfather was as tight-lipped as they came. Keeto could know nothing. His hatred stemmed not from Song or anything he had done, but from himself.
“It’s you,” Song whispered.
Keeto regarded him with deep suspicion. “What did you say?”
Song looked up, unaware he had even voiced the thought. Now, warily, he struggled to explain. “All of this. The names, the beatings. It’s not about me at all. It’s about you.”
“What about me?” Keeto asked, his arms tightening around the bamboo.
Song stepped back a pace and didn’t answer.
“I already told you, dung beetle, I don’t like you because you’re pathetic and weak.”
“And beating me up makes you strong?” Song asked quietly. “It makes you important?”
Keeto tossed the poles to the ground with a clatter. “Yeah,” he said. “It does.”
Song took another step backward. He knew he should keep his mouth shut. He knew he should start running for the woods, but he didn’t. Like an idiot, he lifted his chin. “A lot of snakes feed on dung beetles.”
Blind rage contorted Keeto’s face as he leaped on Song and pinned him to the ground. Grabbing the front of Song’s shirt, Keeto pulled his fist back and struck Song again and again.
Song struggled to free himself, but he was no match for Keeto in size or strength. He threw up his hands to block the blows. Still they rained down on his face and body like hot fire. A gray haze began to creep in the sides of his vision.
“Keeto! Stop! Stop it!”
Dimly, Song was aware of Karina throwing herself against her brother.
Just before he lost consciousness, Keeto grabbed him by the hair. His face contorted with pure malice. “You and the Old One do not belong on our mountain.”
Chapter 10
Song lay on the ground after coming to, listening to Karina and Keeto argue. But this time the tears didn’t flow. They dried up with the heat of his anger.
Keeto was pure evil! Grandfather might warn him of the perils of such bitterness, but he didn’t care. He let his defiance harden like fired clay. He hated Keeto!
He climbed weakly to his knees, pausing to let his head stop spinning. When it stilled, his stomach revolted and he vomited in the dirt.
Then Karina was by his side, her cool hands touching his face. “Song, are you hurt?”
Song moaned.
“I brought you some water.”
She held a clay bowl to his lips. He took a few sips then splashed the rest on his bleeding face. “Help me get away from here.”
She scowled. “He will not come back.”
“I would rather not test that.”
With Song’s arm around her shoulders, Karina supported him, half-lifting him from the ground. He stood shakily beside her.
“Where do you want to go?” she asked. “To the river?”
“To the pool.”
“Kamiratan’s Pool?” she asked incredulously. “It is half a league away!”
“Grandfather says there is healing in the mountain’s tears.”
“Well, I hope you do not die getting there.”
With her hand on his elbow, Song staggered back up the mountain trail, away from the village, away from harm. As he passed the elm tree, he remembered the wooden box.
“Karina, please retrieve my grandfather’s box from the rock cleft.”
She brought it to him. “You have not given it back yet,” she stated.
“I did not want it to burn.”
“We should return it now,” she admonished gently.
“Not yet. I do not want Grandfather to see me like this.” Again.
Grandfather would have only words, words, words to fix a shameful situation. Stories and advice that Song had no wish to hear. He knew Grandfather loved him, but Song found no identity or comfort in the old tales. Song’s hope lay in the future, while Grandfather was forever looking back.
Karina, on the other hand, walked far with him in silence, never needing to fill the air with talk. Though the continual beatings embarrassed him, Karina never made him feel inadequate. It was that unconditional acceptance that made him crave her company.
A hint of dried lavender touched his nostrils, and he had to admit he was discovering other reasons, as well.
“You are walking better,” Karina noticed.
Indeed, with the exercise Song’s head had begun to clear, and some of the stiffness had worked its way out of his muscles. Karina removed her hand, and they walked again in companionable silence.
Kamiratan’s Pool lay at the head of Mamuri Valley, collecting the crystal waters that fell from the mountain’s heights before they flowed away to the Chin-Yazi. The valley lay open to the sky. Gentle breezes lifted Karina’s long hair and carried the fragrance of damp earth. On one side, a grove of crab apple trees opened their arms to embrace the airy light, and clusters of vibrant pink camellias bloomed in the valley’s shadiest corners.
Song’s step lightened as he descended into the lush valley guarded by the high crown of the mountain. It held a reassuring promise of peace and safety.
“I’ll go look for some elderberry leaves for those wounds,” Karina said, and left him beside the pool.
Kneeling at its edge, Song took long swallows of the cold, clear water. Then he stripped off his tunic and sank into its depths. The coldness took his breath away and sent shivery tingles to the ends of his fingers and toes. But it also eased his wounds, washing them, healing them.
He floated in the crystal waters until numbness began creeping up his limbs and his teeth chattered with cold. Only then did he crawl on shore and don his garment. Sprawling in the thick grass, he let the warm rays of the sun soak into his bones.
His eyes blinked open when Karina sat down beside him. She handed him a fistful of leaves. “Crush these and apply them to your face for an hour.”
“I cannot sit here for an hour!”
“You can if your hands hold these.” She dropped the panda carving and his knife into his lap. “You have had no opportunity to work on it, and I am eager to see it born.”
He smiled and grimaced as his lip cracked.
“The leaves,” she reminded him.
Feeling foolish, he ground them in his hand and plastered them to his battered face. Then taking up the knife, he shaped the wood with small, delicate strokes, carving away whatever did not resemble a panda.
Karina smiled. “He will be beautiful when he is finished.” She watched him for several strokes of the knife. “I am sorry Keeto did this to you. I will speak to him again when he regains his reason.”
Song remained silent—her words would change nothing—but his knife strokes grew jerky and erratic.
Karina laid a gentle hand on his
arm. “Song,” she asked quietly, “have you never wondered how my face became disfigured?”
He frowned, the question unexpected. “I have never wished to bring you pain.”
“The pain is long gone. And when others try to inflict it anew with their barbed words and pointing fingers, I do not allow it to linger.”
Song let his eyes rest on the ugly scar. It looked pale and fragile, spreading across one side of her face like pottery glaze. “You do not have to tell me this,” he said. “Your scar makes no difference to me.”
Her eyes grew warm. “I know. But the time has come for you to hear it.”
She took a deep breath. “When I was very young, my father used to hold tightly to my hands and spin in a circle. My feet would lift off the ground and I would thrill with the sensation of flying. This was my favorite game, and I begged my father to play it again and again.
“One day my father was drying a large catch of fish and could not play. Keeto, three years older than I, thought himself strong enough to take my father’s place. Grasping my hands, he began to spin, but my weight was too much for him. His grip slipped and I was flung into the drying racks. The racks probably saved my life, yet my face was burned in the fire.”
Song’s face was an unreadable mixture of emotions.
“It was an accident, I am certain, though I do not remember it well. I do recall the agony of the burn—and the agony I caused myself by harboring hatred for so long toward my brother.
“Song,” Karina continued, holding his eyes, “Keeto has never learned to handle his guilt. He has made himself tough to hide his shame. But if I could learn to forgive him, so can you.”
Song tore his gaze away, returning to his panda with strokes smooth and controlled once more.
“Song?” she prompted.
He carved for one minute, then two. When he met her gaze again, the look in his eyes had grown stony.
Song of the Mountain (Mountain Trilogy, 1) Page 5