Even if he could not, Quon would never admit it. Clenching the sack between his teeth, he wedged himself into the angle and gripped the stone firmly with fingers and toes. A moment later he cleared the wall and dropped lightly to the ground.
Juto landed beside him and urged him toward a line of underbrush a spear’s throw away. Bent double, Quon feared every moment the sharp bite of an arrow. At last they flung themselves into the shelter of the foliage. Juto passed him a skin of water. “Two minutes’ rest. Then we walk till morning.”
Juto did not follow the smooth grade of the road but skirted the open fields and traveled faint woodland pathways that starlight could not penetrate. Thick vegetation clutched at their ankles. Rocks thrust themselves under Quon’s feet and toppled his balance, but the bruises he suffered were nothing compared to the ache in his heart. And the long night gave him plenty of time to grieve.
His parents were gone! It hardly seemed possible—the memories of the day were still too clear. Just that afternoon his father had berated him for efforts that yielded a crooked wheel spoke, but he had ruffled Quon’s hair proudly when they closed up shop at the end of the day. Then Mother had served fish and rice curry, his favorite, and they had all eaten together in the sheltered warmth of the garden. He hated to think how he had rushed that meal just to play a silly game with his friends. If he had known, if he could do it over, he would savor every bite. He would relish each glance, each smile, each emotion, and store them up against the bleak years that now stretched endlessly before him.
The hours crawled past. Quon tried to bear up under his sorrow. He tried to push it into some corner of his mind and face the night as stoically as his guide, but it was still too fresh. Juto had the courtesy to ignore the quiet sniffling that escaped despite Quon’s most earnest endeavors.
His grief could not fully distract him from fears that clung to his shoulders like unwelcome friends. Where was he going? What would he find there? How would he survive once Juto returned home? The questions gnawed at his mind. Furthermore, he was tormented by the thought that he may have brought trouble on Emi and her family. He fervently prayed it was not so.
Morning found them far across the plain. The city had passed from sight, but the mountains seemed no nearer. “We will rest here,” Juto said, concealing them within a leafy thicket. “You are still too near the city to chance being spotted.”
Quon sank wearily to the ground and tugged the blanket from his knapsack. He was too tired to eat. “Where are we?”
“We have walked nine leagues.”
“How much farther until I reach the mountains?”
“Seventy leagues lie between the city and the peaks. If you rise at dusk and walk all night, you will arrive in the middle of the seventh night.”
Quon would not permit his face to betray his dismay. “You are leaving in the evening?”
“I will leave once I have slept a few hours—before you awaken. I am called to duty in the morning.”
Quon thrust out his chin. “I am not afraid. I will be fine.”
In a rare display of emotion, Juto smiled at the boy. “I am certain you will be, or I would not have bothered to help you.”
They tucked in beneath their bedrolls. Dawn filtered through the leaves, purpling the thicket in which they lay. “Juto, have you ever been to the mountains?”
“Many times. My people have a long history on their slopes. Someday I will return and claim my birthright.”
Quon found the thought reassuring. “Where should I go?”
“Stay out of sight until you reach the foothills. In four days you will cross the coastal highway. Do so at night; it is a major thoroughfare. Keep your course aligned with the Pass of Inago.” He indicated a low point in the mountain range. “You will find many villages in the valley beyond. The weather is warming, and the rainy season is still several weeks away. Find employment and shelter. And now, go to sleep.”
As he promised, Juto was gone when Quon awoke. The sun had lost its grip on the sky. Soon it would be dark enough to travel.
Quon rummaged through his pack for something to satisfy the echoing in his stomach. He pulled out bread, cheese, nuts, a skin of water, and dried kumquats, but he dared not eat his fill. He still had too much ground to cover.
For four nights the boy stumbled onward in the dark. The journey was long and arduous. His muscles ached. His bare feet were scratched and blistered. Days he spent holed up like a wild animal. The ground was hard, sleep was intermittent, and grief was a constant torment. Such deprivation took a toll on his body.
But he gritted his teeth and plodded onward.
After crossing the highway, the road narrowed and twisted among the foothills. The land grew wild. Civilization dwindled to a scattering of small huts. Still Quon dared not show himself.
On the sixth night, the sky opened and poured down rain. Quon took shelter beneath a giant elm, but his cotton tunic did nothing to ward off the moisture. He was soon soaked through. Rather than allow the little bit of food left in his pack to spoil, he ate it. Then—cold, exhausted, and miserable—he wrapped himself in his blanket and wept.
Chapter 3
A warm caress disturbed Quon’s slumber. He shivered and stirred within his muddy cocoon. The gentle touch came again. Shielding his eyes from the light, he squinted up into the face of a huge golden dog.
“Kintu is happy to make your acquaintance.”
Quon focused, searching for the source of the voice. The light, he saw, came not from the rising of the sun but from the blaze of a campfire. Seated beside it was a wizened old man.
“Who are you?”
“I am called Li-Min. And you, I believe, are Quon, son of Miruna’s best carriage maker.”
Quon peered at him with suspicion. “How do you know that?”
The old man’s face wrinkled with pleasure. “Much that is hidden has been made known to me. But fear not. I have no intention of escorting you back to the city.”
The boy relaxed but kept a wary eye on the old man. The dog moved to lie beside its master and set its muzzle in his lap.
“Come.” Li-Min patted the ground on his other side. “The fire is warm, and you are wet through.” But it was the aroma, not the blaze, that drew Quon from his bed. His nose twitched, searching out the fragrance that flickered through the forest like firelight.
The old man held out a bowl. “You are hungry? I have made a stew.”
Quon pounced on the offering. Standing beside the fire, he spooned it down as quickly as he could swallow.
“Draw breath between bites,” Li-Min urged. “There is plenty more.”
When the boy finished, his bowl was refilled. This time Quon slowed enough to taste rabbit and onion and something wild and spicy that he could not quite identify. The blaze heated his back, and the broth spread warmth throughout his body. When he set the bowl aside, Quon felt stronger than he had for days.
The old man held out a small clay pot. “I have made a paste. Apply it to the soles of your feet. It will aid their healing.”
Quon accepted the jar and inhaled the pungent odor of eucalyptus. He settled on the far side of the fire where he could look directly into the old man’s face. “How have you found me? And what do you want from me?”
The old man took a moment to arrange his thoughts. “I am old. I have wandered many years and have learned to read the signs. They told me you were coming.”
Quon frowned. “What signs?”
“They are all around me: in the budding of the trees, the twinkling of the stars, the murmur of the brook, and the groaning of the mountain. They told me your arrival was imminent.”
Quon raised one eyebrow skeptically. “These things, they speak to you?”
“They whisper to all who seek their balance. They tell me that things written long ago are about to come to pass, and you, dear child, are to play a part.”
“I see,” the boy said, though it was clear he did not.
“If you choose to acco
mpany me, I will teach you many things and offer you what protection I can.”
Quon snorted. “What protection does an old man afford?”
Li-Min raised his staff and lightning crackled across the sky.
The boy’s face paled. “You are a sorcerer?”
“I am a guide, a facilitator, a recorder, a guardian, a teacher. I have been entrusted with a task and given the means to fulfill it. I practice no sorcery.”
“Who are you?” the boy whispered.
“One who has been sent to help you.”
Morning crowned the mountains with color. Quon opened his eyes to find the old man sleeping across the ashes from him with the dog pressed against his back. He shivered. The fire had died and his sodden blanket did little to combat the chill.
The boy rose and went in search of firewood. The branches he gathered were wet, but the ashes retained their heat. He stirred them, stacked the wood over the coals to dry, and tucked the remaining stew in next to the warmth. Then he went to refill his water skin and refresh himself at a nearby stream.
As he stepped into the current, he noticed some of the infection had already left his feet. He scrubbed away the dirt of his journey against the gravelly streambed. Then he splashed his face and neck, gasping at the water’s cold bite. When he returned to camp, the old man had awakened.
“Ah, good morning, child. You have decided not to leave a senile old man in the night?” He gave a toothless smile.
Quon sat in his place beside the fire that had sprung feebly back to life. The old man could pass for a pauper. Like Quon, he wore a long tunic tied at the waist with a length of cord. His shoes were woven of grass. He carried only a kettle, a staff, a blanket, and a hemp sack stuffed with a few meager possessions. His only item of value was a brass handle engraved with runes and fitted to the top of his staff.
Had he really caused the lightning strike? Maybe it was just lucky timing. It had been raining. And the words he spoke? They were crazy! No sane person would believe them.
Even so, Quon was intrigued by the hints the old man had dropped. Could it be he was never meant for woodworking but to play a role in some future event? His head called him a fool even as his heart asked the question, but in the end it did not matter. He had few prospects. “I have decided to accompany you. I will listen to what you say and judge whether you really are what you claim to be. If not, then I will go my own way.”
“You will be free to do so. I make no claim on you.”
Li-Min stirred the contents of the pot. “Your dilemma reminds me of another young man who went on a journey. After a time, he came to a fork in his path. An old hermit sat in the point of the road, and the young man asked him which was the better choice. The hermit answered, ‘I cannot choose your path for you, nor can I tell you what each road holds. But down one path lies deadly danger. The other holds your fondest dreams. You have one chance. Choose wisely.’”
Li-Min smiled. “You are like that young man. On one hand, your journey leads to an uncertain future spent wandering the wilderness alone. On the other, you take up with one who may yet prove himself an old fool.”
Quon regarded the man evenly. “What choice did the young man make?”
“Neither. He returned home and fitted himself with sword and armor. When he passed that way again, he was prepared for either path.”
The old man leaned forward earnestly. “You have a similar choice to make, yet you need not go empty-handed. I offer you a weapon. I hold out to you the power of story. It has the strength to captivate, to motivate, to instruct. It can propel a man to action. It can move a soul to tears.” His eyes glinted. “The wielding of such a sword can shape the future.”
The boy’s thoughts turned back to his father’s shop. “Tale-bearing is no proper trade,” he scoffed. “A man cannot earn his bread in such a way.”
“Is that so?”
“Of course it is so. A man could not survive a month dependent on such a livelihood.”
The old man’s lip twisted in humor. “And you have considerable experience in such matters?”
The boy did not answer.
Li-Min narrowed his eyes. “I do not talk of mere bedtime stories, of fairy tales and children’s fables. I speak of accounts so ancient they are laden with the very brick and mortar of the earth. Events relayed so far in the past that they have passed beyond memory. These are the tales I bear. These are the compass that will set a new course for mankind.”
Quon shifted his gaze back to the fire uncomfortably. He did not know how to respond to the old man’s riddles. “I am not at all convinced I will not die of starvation in your company.”
Li-Min chuckled and rested his hand on the dog’s golden mane. “We shall see, my child. We shall see.”
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Michelle Isenhoff writes for children and adults. She loves roller coasters, big dogs, high school football games, cycling, swimming in big waves, old graveyards, and wearing flip-flops all winter. Her dream vacation would include lots of castle ruins, but so far she’s had to settle for pictures on Pinterest. Once an elementary teacher, Michelle homeschooled combinations of her three kids for twelve years. Now that the last of them has graduated to public school, she writes full time and feels like she’s on a perpetual summer vacation.
MichelleIsenhoff.com
Song of the Mountain (Mountain Trilogy Book 1) Page 13
