Song of the Mountain (Mountain Trilogy Book 1)

by Michelle Isenhoff

  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.”

  Chapter 5

  Mount Kamiratan’s face glowed with the last fire of sunset and shadows swallowed the path as Song, Grandfather, and Kintu passed the quiet village and pressed for home. They were pushing through a bamboo thicket that crowded the path when loud, pounding footsteps echoed behind them. The fur stood in a ridge along Kintu’s back.

  Song stopped. “Grandfather, what is it?”

  The old man paused to listen. “It is haste, my son, and haste is seldom welcome.”

  In the dim light a figure drew close. “Li-Min?” a voice called. Song recognized the blue and gray attire worn by officers in Lord Dolisu’s militia.

  “I am he,” Grandfather answered.

  “Health and good fortune,” the captain greeted him with a hasty bow. “I bid you come! Lord Dolisu calls for you.”

  No emotion passed over the old man’s face, but his step quickened. “Song, stay near me.”

  They passed swiftly back to the landing and up the smooth, winding mountain road. The valley fell away as they rose to the terraced grounds of Lord Dolisu’s manor. A thick wall made of earth and brick encircled the entire property, protecting the many workers who lived there: cooks, house servants, stable hands, groundskeepers, and soldiers. The estate was a small community unto itself.

  Many times Song had peered over the walls from the mountain slopes above, observing the daily routine of the servants’ quarters, but he had never set foot within the entrance—a huge reinforced gate set within a bricked archway. Now two burly guards with swords belted around their middles opened it from within and let them pass unquestioned, each bowing slightly out of respect.

  Song’s stolen peeks had only enabled him to guess at the beauty with which Lord Dolisu had surrounded himself. The gate opened into a courtyard webbed with pebbled walkways. Sculpted trees cloaked in deep shadow transformed themselves into an army of fantastic shapes, and the fragrance of a thousand blooms permeated the air. Close by, Song could hear the melodic tinkling of a fountain.

  At the doorway of the manor house, Grandfather gave Kintu a command, and the dog sat patiently on its haunches. They passed into a magnificent hall, illuminated by torchlight and decorated with delicate paintings and tapestries. Song took in the marbled floors, the rich red walls, and the varnished wood through eyes as wide as cooking pots.

  Their guide led them to a door on which he rapped softly. “Lord Dolisu has summoned only you, Li-Min,” the captain warned. “The boy must wait.”

  Grandfather agreed and entered the chamber alone. Soon voices rumbled in conversation, low and indistinguishable.

  Song turned away in disappointment. The wealthy lord rarely went out in public, and then only to travel between his home and the landing. Song had hoped for a closer look, but it wasn’t to be. Instead, he studied his guide.

  The officer stood rigidly before the door, neither friendly nor threatening. He had a thickly muscled torso, handsome features, and intense, dark eyes that took in everything but displayed no emotion. They were as fathomless as the midnight sky, and Song grew uncomfortable beneath their stare.

  He moved away, admiring the fine furnishings of the beautiful room, but everywhere he could feel those eyes following him. “May I go outside?” he finally asked.

  The captain gave one short, precise nod.

  Song entered the cool darkness with a welcome feeling of invisibility. Kintu gave his hand a lick and fell into step beside him. Again Song heard the fountain, its chatter loud in the stillness, and he wandered along the walkways until he found the low pool.

  The moon had risen over the courtyard wall, casting long shadows over the garden and turning the pool into a bowl of silver shards. Song settled against a dark tree trunk and watched the restless water while Kintu investigated the plants growing along its edge.

  The dog had taken only a few steps into the pond when a figure dressed all in white appeared on the garden path.

  Song bolted upright. “Kintu!” he whispered. “Get out of there!”

  The dog raised its head, panting, and gently waved its tail. Then it waded deeper, snuffling after a frog that leaped from a lily pad into the center of the pool.

  Song fell silent as the ghostly figure drew near, following the sound of the dog’s splashing.

  It stopped at the water’s edge, and a laugh peeled out in perfect imitation of the fountain. “A dog!”

  Song stared, entranced. A girl stood before him dressed in lengths of shimmering silk that seemed to rob her of substance. With little imagination he could mistake her for a misty river goddess rising from the Chin-Yazi or a wood nymph flowing through a starlit forest. But Kintu did not share his fancies. He bounded to her, covering the gown with water stains.

  The girl knelt to touch the dog, heedless of the mess. “Hello, beautiful one! Where have you come from? Did my father buy you, or do you belong to someone?” She raised her head to glance around the garden.

  Song froze, suddenly recognizing the girl. It could not be! But there before him in Lord Dolisu’s garden was the girl from the river!

  In echo of the first time they met, he shrank back into the shadows, praying that this time he might remain undiscovered. But it pleased Mutan to disregard his pleas. For just then Kintu trotted back to Song and shoved his muzzle happily into the boy’s hand.

  The girl straightened quickly, her tone cold. “I did not see you. Why have you not made yourself known?”

  Song couldn’t answer. He simply stared at the beautiful girl, acutely aware of his own battered face and travel-stained garments.

  The girl took a step closer, staring hard into the shadows. “Who are you?”

  “I am Li-Min’s grandson. My grandfather was summoned.”

  “Come out where I can see you.”

  Song crawled from under a tree. How had he mistaken her for a peasant?

  “You are the boy from the river!” she exclaimed in surprise. “The outcast!”

  He held silent, and she came to stand over him with arms folded across her chest. “You are spying on me again, peering out from another hiding place. What is your name?”

  He hesitated. How could he tell her his name was Great One? She would laugh at him!

  But she insisted, as one accustomed to being obeyed. “I asked your name, boy.”

  “It is Song Wei,” he answered, barely above a whisper.

  She did not laugh but looked at him steadily, perhaps trying to determine if he was serious. “You are the bard’s grandson?”

  He nodded, glad she could not see his burning cheeks. Here, at least, Grandfather gave him some credibility.

  She knelt again to stroke Kintu’s soft fur. “Is this your dog?”

  “My grandfather’s.”

  Kintu sat regally between them, happy for the attention.

  “He is a breed of kings. My father has many in his kennel but none of such sweet temperament.” Her voice softened as she ruffled the dog’s thick mane.

  “Grandfather would never sell him,” Song remarked.

  The girl sat up stiffly, her tone imperious once again. “He would if my father told him to.”

  Song was gripped with sudden anxiety. He and Grandfather lived on the mountain by the goodwill of the lord, on land they did not own. What if this spoiled girl took it in her head to make trouble for them?

  “Please do not take Kintu,” he pleaded. “My grandfather is old. The dog is his comfort and friend.” And mine, he thought, but he doubted that would move the girl’s pity.

  She gave a haughty lift of her chin. “My father will get me anything I want: dolls, gems, games, pets. Anything that suits my fancy.” Then her voice grew thick with disgust. “But what is one more amusement when I am a prisoner within these wa
lls?”

  “Surely you get out sometimes,” Song protested. “I saw you at the river.”

  She giggled unexpectedly. “That was a carefully planned scheme for which three servants lost their positions.” She laughed again, with total disregard for the unfortunate ones, before growing disdainful once more. “But that was a rare moment. Indeed, most days the tedium within this estate is enough to forfeit my inheritance.”

  Song gaped at her, glancing around at the manicured grounds, the carved garden statues, the fountain, the gorgeous house. How could all this not be enough?

  “Do you know what I was doing at the river?” she asked with a conspiratorial glance. “I was floating two wishes to the sea—one for excitement, the other for danger. Perhaps the mighty Chin-Yazi will grant my requests.”

  Before Song could think to answer such a confession, silhouettes moved against the torchlight in the manor’s doorway. He recognized the bent form of his grandfather.

  “Song?”

  Kintu bounded away toward the old man’s voice. The boy stood more slowly. “I must go,” he stated.

  The girl rose stiffly, with her chin up and her back straight. Without a glance at Song, she moved down the path.

  Grandfather smiled. “Ah, there you are, my boy.” He leaned heavily on his walking stick. It had been a long day.

  The keen-eyed captain led them out of the grounds and locked the gate behind them. As they picked their way down the dark mountain road, Grandfather cast anxious glances at the sky, but Song found his thoughts consumed by the girl in white. He would probably never see her again; there was too much difference in their stations. Even so, her celestial image played in his mind.

  What is her name? he wondered. She had asked his but never offered her own. Perhaps his grandfather knew.

  “Grandfather?” he began, but the old man stopped suddenly, his eyes scanning the dark heavens. Kintu crouched like a cat, growling low in his throat.

  Song felt coldness pass over him, like a breeze from Kamiratan’s heights, but the leaves held motionless. No wind blew tonight.

  Gooseflesh broke out on his arms.

  “Song,” Grandfather whispered, “run!”

  Chapter 6

  “I will not leave you!” Song hissed back.

  “Go now!” the old man insisted. “I am in no danger!”

  Song stared at his grandfather. He seemed to have grown in the darkness. For the second time that day he stood strong and straight, his staff tight in his hand. “Run for the hut!” he commanded and gave Song a hard shove.

  A deadly chill passed over Song once more, like a shadow sweeping across the sun. He turned and fled. Behind him, Kintu gave one warning bark then fell into silence at Grandfather’s command.

  Song dodged off the path, skirting the village, and set a direct course for their clearing. But tonight the trees were unfriendly. They reached with unseen branches that whipped against his face, and they thrust out their feet, slowing his stride.

  But they hid him.

  Above his head he could hear a sharp slap-slap, like the canvas sails of the river boats flapping in a stiff wind. Then there was silence, and the night grew warm again.

  Song did not stop. Gasping for breath, he stumbled across the clearing and dove into the hut. Only then did his heart slow its racing. Only then did he turn back to watch for his grandfather.

  Moments later, the old man and the dog shuffled up the trail and followed him into the hut. “It is all right,” Grandfather assured him with a frail grip on his shoulder. “The danger is past.”

  But Song was not all right. “What was that?” he demanded.

  Grandfather sank wearily to his sleeping mat and Kintu curled protectively against his side. “That,” he said, “was a very old enemy.” He lay back, utterly exhausted, and heavy snores soon filled the room.

  Song stared at him in amazement. How could he sleep so soundly when something was in the sky outside? The grass roof provided no protection. In fact, Song could see the stars through the thatch in one corner. He traveled from the window to the door and finally stepped out into the clearing, but whatever it was had gone. The night buzzed with the sounds of crickets and tree frogs, and not far away an owl added two notes to the evening symphony.

  Song reentered the hut and lay down on his mat, but the night was far gone before slumber overtook him.

  The next morning Grandfather woke him before dawn. “I must go,” he announced.

  Song rubbed his eyes. They felt gritty. His mind felt fuzzy as wool. “What do you mean?” he yawned.

  Grandfather rummaged in the wooden chest, withdrawing a folded piece of parchment. “My task is much more urgent than I guessed. I must send word to those who can help.”

  Then his memory cleared and Song bolted upright. “You are not going to leave me here alone, are you?”

  “You will be safe,” Grandfather assured him. “Stay in the hut.”

  Grandfather slipped on his walking slippers and Kintu followed him to the door, eager for another journey. “Not this time, my friend. Today you must stay with the boy.”

  Kintu whined once. Then he lay down next to Song and watched Grandfather with pleading eyes.

  “I will not be gone long,” Grandfather promised. “Stay in the hut!”

  Song stood at the window and watched the old man disappear down the darkened forest trail. He glanced nervously into the sky. Dawn was just casting a silver sheen behind the heads of the Kindoli. How long was “not long” he wondered.

  He helped himself to breakfast, munching on some vegetables stored in the pit. The day stretched before him as long as the Chin-Yazi. Without the comfort of his grandfather’s presence, the empty hours terrified him. But what did he expect the old man to do against the unseen enemy?

  His fear evaporated with the rising of the sun. Plucking the hoe from against the wall, he spent the cool part of the morning defending the garden from the forest’s relentless attack. Then, after a short rest and a drink from the stream, he took up a whetstone and sharpened the curved blade of a sickle.

  Each spring the villagers harvested their wheat with such a tool. The handle was long and the blade grazed just above the earth, felling stalks at their base.

  When the newly sharpened blade cut easily through a piece of straw, Song carried it to the thick grass at the center of the clearing. With muscles straining, he swung it in wide arcs. The grass fell in swaths. After it dried, he would gather it in thick bundles to repair the roof.

  By noon the sun burned hot. Song drank deeply from the stream again and withdrew to the shade inside the hut. He found a heel of bread and carved a sliver of cheese from a round purchased in the village. Kintu watched his hand travel from the bowl to his mouth. The boy laughed and tossed him a crust of bread.

  The dog snatched at the morsel, missed, and watched it roll across the floor and bump into Grandfather’s wooden chest. With a panting grin, he looked from the boy to the bread and back again.

  “You want me to get it for you?” Song grumbled. “I have been working all morning while you have slept in the shade. Go get your own bread.”

  But the dog lay in his place, and the boy stood up muttering about old dogs. He crossed the room and stooped against the chest to pick up the food. Then his fingers tightened around it.

  Grandfather had forgotten to lock the chest!

  The crust fell away as he rubbed the smooth, wooden lid. It stood slightly ajar. He slid his fingers under the rim and tested the weight. It lifted easily.

  But opening it felt criminal. Grandfather had never let him peek inside.

  He jerked back his hands. What if Grandfather came home suddenly and found him snooping?

  Rising, he glanced out the hut’s only window. The old man was not in sight, but he had set no time for his return. Wisdom urged Song to leave the chest undisturbed.

  Reluctantly, he returned to his meal, but while he had wavered, Kintu had cleaned out his bowl. The dog now lay stretched in the
corner happily licking his muzzle.

  Song tossed the empty dish aside. He was too distracted to eat anyway. Unwittingly, his eyes flickered back to the chest.

  What had Grandfather been hiding all these years?

  Against his better judgment, he knelt before the box, drawn like a bee to a flower. He examined the scarred surface. It was very old. He rubbed the lid again, tracing scratches etched deeply into its wood. Then, holding his breath, he lifted it.

  On the very top lay a sheaf of parchment and several fine brushes. Song had seen them before. Sometimes Grandfather wrote out his stories and used them to teach Song to read. He gently lifted them out.

  Below, he found a robe of fine blue silk as dark as the midnight sky, and wrapped within it was a broken dagger. The blade was sheared off—only a jagged shard remained—but the hilt of the knife was set with gems and engraved with runes. Song could make no sense of them.

  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.