Son of the Mountains

At last, I reached the mountain. No plants grew on its face, not the hardy grass that slept under thin blankets of frost, nor even the low, scratchy weeds that grappled mountain rock with their roots. Nothing shielded me from the cold and wind.

A dark blot stood out against the ice-crusted rock. A heavy, stoop-shouldered woman slouched on a flat stone. A thin old knife picked her crooked teeth.

"You..." I asked. "Are you a vision?"

Her throat crackled dryly, either laughing or coughing. "I assure you, I am very real." Her head turned up to the sky, and I could almost hear the bones grinding in her neck. "Sixty-one winters I've spent on this earth, with surely not many left to go."

"You came here to see your future?"

"This mountain is my future. Four hundred and thirty two days, she has sheltered me."

I recoiled. "What are you doing up here?"

"There is nowhere to go. I am what remains of the Whisperers."

"The Whisperers?" I wracked my memory. "They were killed off by the lowlanders." Comprehension dawned on me. "You're the last of them."

The wrinkles on her cheeks bent into a smile. "You are a sharp lad. This mountain is the one place where no one dares shed blood. It is the one place where I am safe. Even now, they're waiting at the base. They suppose I'll be a fool and come down someday."

"They've waited all this time?"

"Some days, they're gone. But always, they come back. The Whisperers killed many of theirs, long ago. And revenge has a long memory."

"Give me your hair. I'll take it to them and make like I killed you."

She made no reaction.

"What do you have to lose?"

Her shoulders trembled as she brought her hands up to remove her cap. "You may try it."

As gently as I could, I took her hair and bunched it into one great tress. Unsheathing my knife, I brought it up and severed her locks in one crisp movement. I held it up, showing it to her, then laughed. With her bald head, she looked like a Stonewaller. The girls of that tribe shave their heads when they marry.

I turned to leave, saying, "If this works, go to the Fast-rafter tribe. They're in the higher lands, on a mountainside that faces the morning sun. They can't keep you safe, but they'll keep you warm."

I marched around the mountain until I saw figures at the bottom, rough but well-equipped, camping there as if they had nothing better to do. As I made my way down to them, I reminded myself to move slowly. This was, after all, spirit's territory, although it was harder to believe that now that I knew somebody lived here. A place can be inhabited, or it can be hallowed, but never fully both.

When I reached the bottom, it was clear why these warriors weren't out adventuring with the steel-clad outsiders or fighting in some tribal feud. The bulk of them were boys, not men. I saw narrow faces and tall, lean bodies, with hardly a hair on their chins except for two of them. As I stepped up to their meager camp, those two stood to meet me.

The taller of the two, the only true adult of the bunch, stood back and folded his arms. A stocky young lad in front of him put down something he had been whittling and faced me. "Move along," he grunted.

I presented the hair. "The crone on the mountain is finished. If that's why you wait here, your work is done."

The stocky one stepped forward suspiciously, carving knife ready in one hand, as he examined my trophy. "This is hers," he said gently.

"Wait!" the tall man jabbed a finger at me. "Where'd you get that ax?"

I let the hair drop, readying my spear.

The man's face twisted with rage. "You're the mongrel who killed Harl and Solt!" His right hand produced a sword from beneath his cloak. "Die!"

Perhaps my curse that morning had offended the spirits after all. I took off running, uphill so as to give myself the advantage, hoping at the same time that superstition would dissuade them. Rather than give me up, they traced the base of the mountain, guarding against my escape, forcing me to cut to the opposite side to make my path shorter than theirs. As I approached the all-important border of the mountain, I looked over my shoulder to see both men following me, the boys trying and failing to keep up. Mercifully, neither man had a bow.

But it was a small mercy, as my flight from the mountain brought me out into the great valley, where there was nowhere to hide. Virgin snow banks reflected sunlight painfully into my eyes, and the wet, sticky snow clung to my boots. I tried to think of a plan.

Then something dark appeared on the horizon, too big and too fast to be a man. I made an exhausted smile. Indeed, it was no man.

Imutai thundered across the valley, her horse's broad, fur-lined hooves making quick work of the slush. As she passed us runners, she stood up on her stirrups and aimed her bow at my pursuers. A sliver of dark wood, nearly invisible against the bloom of sun-bright snow, streaked through the air, embedding itself in the chest of the taller man.

I stopped, laughing out loud at my sudden turn of fortune. The shorter man stumbled to a ¬halt, suddenly at a loss. Horses were a rarity here in the mountains, and chances were that he had never seen anyone loose an arrow astride one before.

Galloping off into the distance, she made a broad loop and circled back at the shorter man, who threw up his arms and pelted for the cover of the distant trees. Imutai aimed at him, but did not shoot. She pulled her horse to a gentle stop at the fallen man. I joined her.

She dismounted. "I thought I might find you in the middle of that commotion."

"Now do you believe that I don't belong here?" I asked her through a tense laugh.

Kneeling on the man's back, she wrenched her arrow free, cleaning its crimson tip on the snow. "I see your reunion with your clan could have gone better."

"He's not my kin!" I said abruptly. "I tried to help an old woman, and they saw me for a son of their enemies." I looked for the spirits' mountain, hoping the woman had taken the chance to escape. But from my distance, it was impossible to see. It crossed my mind, 'Maybe she was a vision after all.'

"This is sooner than I had meant to meet you," said Imutai, remounting her horse. "I see you've unfinished business here in these mountains."

"No. I'm done being chased." I spoke with as much force as one can while looking up. "There's nothing but death in these mountains, Imutai. We had plenty to begin with, and now those plainsmen have come and brought more."

She raised her eyebrows.

I pointed at the slain man. "If I stay here, I'll meet an end like that. That man didn't attack me for my loot. He did it for his tribe. And look where you get, doing that! Heroes are not welcome in these mountains." I looked back to Imutai. "If there was any honor in your promise to take me away, then please, Imutai, let me on."

Her cold, round face gave a little smile, all the warmer for that she didn't seem to know she wore it. She reached down. "Get on."

Eagerly, I vaulted on, lifting my right leg the way I had seen her do. I almost laughed at how small she seemed now that I sat level with her, my eyes peeking over the tip of her hat.

We started off. "I protect a trade caravan not far north of here," she said. "It's made good business, plying these armies. They're going away to get more goods tomorrow morning, and we leave with them. You can get off when we reach the nearest city." She paused. "I don't know what you think you'll do there, but the city's as good a place as any for an outlander."

"I don't know either. But if I stay here, I die. And the dead are no good to anyone."