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“Because it has been passed down from poet to poet, line for line, even written down by the ancient scribes so it would be remembered.” Then he smiled softly. Amazingly, he still had most of his teeth, but perhaps a poet took better care of his mouth, knowing that his fortune rested there and in what he could recall from his mind. “But I’ll tell you a story that happened to me when I was a young man. Ai, Lady! Have you ever heard of the Alfar Mountains? Can you imagine, you children, mountains that are so high that they caress the heavens? That snow lies thick upon them even on the hottest summer’s day? These mountains you must cross if you wish to travel south from the kingdom of Wendar into the kingdom of Aosta. In Aosta you will find the holy city of Darre. That is where the skopos resides, she who is Mother over the Holy Church.”
“If the mountains are so high,” asked Anna, “then how can you get over them?”
“Hush, now,” he said querulously. “Let us proceed with no more questions. There are only a few paths over the mountains. So high do these tracks rise along the rugged ground that a man can reach up and touch the stars themselves at nightfall. But every step is dangerous. No matter how clear at dawn, each day may turn into one of blinding storm—even at midsummer, for summer is the only season when one may cross the mountains.
“Yet some few attempt the crossing late in the season. Some few, as I did, try it even as late as the month of Octumbre. My need was great—” He raised a hand, forestalling a question. “It had to do with a woman. You need ask no more than that! I was warned against attempting the crossing, but I was a rash youth. I thought I could do anything. And indeed, as I climbed, the weather held fair and I had no trouble …”
He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a whisper that still carried easily over the crowd. Every child hushed and leaned forward, mirroring him. “The blizzard hit without warning. It was the very middle of day, a fine day, a warm day, and between one footstep and the next I was engulfed in storm. I saw nothing but howling white wind before my eyes. The cold pierced me like a sword, and I staggered and fell to my knees.
“But I would not give up! Nay, not when she awaited me in distant Darre. I staggered forward, crawled when I could no longer walk, and yet the storm still raged about me. The cold blinded me, and I could not feel my feet. I stumbled, fell, and tumbled down a slope to my death.”
Here he paused again. Anna edged forward, hand tight over the bulge of onions. No one spoke.
“But alas, the fall hadn’t killed me. I tried to open my swollen eyes. As I groped forward, I felt grass under my hands. A stream ran not a man’s length from my body, and there I crawled and drank my fill of its clear water. I splashed it on my face and slowly I could see again. Above me, beyond the steep slope down which I had fallen, the storm still raged. A few flakes of snow drifted down on the breeze to wet my face. But in the vale it was as warm as springtime, with violets, and trees in bloom.”
“Where were you?” Anna demanded, unable to keep still.
But now memory made him look down. His old shoulders hunched, and he sighed heavily, as if sorry to have remembered this tale. “I never knew. Truly, it was a miracle I did not die that day. There was a ring of trees, mostly birch, and a little grassy meadow, but beyond that I never managed to go. A hut stood at the edge of the meadow. There I slept and recovered my strength. Every morning I would find food and drink outside the door, sweet bread, strong cider, a stew of beans, tart apples. But no matter how I tried to stay awake, I never could. I never saw what creature brought me the food. When I was strong enough, I knew it was time to leave, so I went.”
“Didn’t you ever find it again?” asked Anna. Other children nodded their heads, marveling at the thought of an enchanted place where food appeared miraculously each morning.
“Nay, though I traveled three times more over that pass. I searched, but the way was closed to me. Now I wonder sometimes if it was only a dream.”
“Could we take him in?” she demanded at dusk as she and Matthias feasted privately on onion stew and roasted eggs. “He’s just a frail old man. He can’t eat much, and he hasn’t anyone else to take care of him. There’s room for him to sleep here.” With the flap pulled down snug to protect them from wind and rain, their little lean-to did indeed have room for one more to sleep—just barely.
“But what good would he be to us, Anna?” Matthias had gulped down his portion more like a dog than a boy, eating the egg first and the stew after. Now he wiped the sides of the blackened pot clean with a dry hunk of bread he’d saved from his midday meal.
“We weren’t any good to Papa Otto!” she retorted. “Oh, Matthias, he knows the most wonderful stories.”
“But they’re not true.” Matthias licked the last crumbs off his lips and eyed the old pot with longing, wishing for more. Then he took Anna by the wrist and shook her. “They’re just tales he made up. He as good as admitted it was a dream—if the whole thing even happened at all! That’s how storytellers make their stories sound true, by pretending it happened to them.” He shook his head, grimacing, and let her go. “But you may as well bring the old man here to us, if he’s no other place to sleep. It’s true enough that Papa Otto and the other slaves in Gent helped us for no return. We should help others as we can. And anyway, if you have him to care for, maybe you won’t go wandering out into the woods and get yourself slaughtered by Eika!”
She frowned. “How do you know his stories aren’t true? You never saw such things or traveled so far.”
“Mountains high enough that their peaks touch the sky! Snow all the year round! Do you believe that?”
“Why shouldn’t I believe? All we’ve ever seen is Gent—and now Steleshame and a bit of forest.” She licked the last spot of egg from her lips. “I bet there’s all kinds of strange places just as fantastic as the stories the poet tells. You’ll see. I’ll bring him here tomorrow. I bet he’s been to places no one here has ever heard of. Poets have to do that, don’t they? Maybe he knows what the Eika lands look like. Maybe he’s seen the sea that Helen sailed across. Maybe he’s really traveled across the great mountains!”
aned forward, his voice dropping to a whisper that still carried easily over the crowd. Every child hushed and leaned forward, mirroring him. “The blizzard hit without warning. It was the very middle of day, a fine day, a warm day, and between one footstep and the next I was engulfed in storm. I saw nothing but howling white wind before my eyes. The cold pierced me like a sword, and I staggered and fell to my knees.
“But I would not give up! Nay, not when she awaited me in distant Darre. I staggered forward, crawled when I could no longer walk, and yet the storm still raged about me. The cold blinded me, and I could not feel my feet. I stumbled, fell, and tumbled down a slope to my death.”
Here he paused again. Anna edged forward, hand tight over the bulge of onions. No one spoke.
“But alas, the fall hadn’t killed me. I tried to open my swollen eyes. As I groped forward, I felt grass under my hands. A stream ran not a man’s length from my body, and there I crawled and drank my fill of its clear water. I splashed it on my face and slowly I could see again. Above me, beyond the steep slope down which I had fallen, the storm still raged. A few flakes of snow drifted down on the breeze to wet my face. But in the vale it was as warm as springtime, with violets, and trees in bloom.”
“Where were you?” Anna demanded, unable to keep still.
But now memory made him look down. His old shoulders hunched, and he sighed heavily, as if sorry to have remembered this tale. “I never knew. Truly, it was a miracle I did not die that day. There was a ring of trees, mostly birch, and a little grassy meadow, but beyond that I never managed to go. A hut stood at the edge of the meadow. There I slept and recovered my strength. Every morning I would find food and drink outside the door, sweet bread, strong cider, a stew of beans, tart apples. But no matter how I tried to stay awake, I never could. I never saw what creature brought me the food. When I was strong enough, I knew it was time to leave, so I went.”
“Didn’t you ever find it again?” asked Anna. Other children nodded their heads, marveling at the thought of an enchanted place where food appeared miraculously each morning.
“Nay, though I traveled three times more over that pass. I searched, but the way was closed to me. Now I wonder sometimes if it was only a dream.”
“Could we take him in?” she demanded at dusk as she and Matthias feasted privately on onion stew and roasted eggs. “He’s just a frail old man. He can’t eat much, and he hasn’t anyone else to take care of him. There’s room for him to sleep here.” With the flap pulled down snug to protect them from wind and rain, their little lean-to did indeed have room for one more to sleep—just barely.
“But what good would he be to us, Anna?” Matthias had gulped down his portion more like a dog than a boy, eating the egg first and the stew after. Now he wiped the sides of the blackened pot clean with a dry hunk of bread he’d saved from his midday meal.
“We weren’t any good to Papa Otto!” she retorted. “Oh, Matthias, he knows the most wonderful stories.”
