Chiasmus

    "Do not go into the mountain, child, for the gods dwell there."

    1 Unto the Mountain
    2 Follow the River
    3 The Boy
    4 Ulee's Story

    A few notes:

    "Chiasmus" is a Greek term given to a form of poetry, often found in
    old Hebrew writings. It means a naming of objects (usually in
    threes), a resolution, and then a repetition of the first objects.
    "Chi" refers to the X-shape of the poetic form.

    Danna, Ulee and Jag speak Indo-European, the name given to the "root
    language" of most languages of the western world (with the
    exceptions of Finnish and Basque.) Language barriers would only get
    in the way. We really have no idea what Indo-European names were
    like (or at least I don't--I'm no linguist) so I made up (and
    borrowed) my own.

    Considering how long ago I imagine this to take place, nations and
    peoples as we know them did not exist. There were hundreds of lost
    tribes and nations of which we have no reliable record.
    Civilization, I believe, is far older than most people know, and all
    we have left of it is language and myth.

    There's no definite "when" or "where" to this story: only a time
    long ago and a place long lost. The only historical basis I have for
    the culture is what I know of mythology and the lives of ancient
    peoples: the rest is speculation. I'm very good at speculation.


1

    There was a river and there was a plain. If one followed the river
    towards the rising sun, one soon came to a small village where dwelt
    a clan of fair-haired, gentle people. If one followed the river
    towards the setting sun, through the forest, across the plain, one
    came to the foothills and soon, to the mountains.

    The people of the village did not follow the river west beyond the
    forest. In the forest they found all the meat they desired; on the
    plain they grew grains and flax, herded sheep and cattle. The
    foothills and the mountains had been forbidden them, though the Old
    Ones said the ancestors had come from beyond the mountain range.
    Only the shaman could go to the mountain, for the gods dwelled there.

    But this day the path beside the river was trod by different feet. A
    girl, small, slight, and alone, walked the path with determined,
    quick steps. She carried but did not use a sturdy walking stick, and
    bore a bag on her back.

    She had dressed well for her journey, with thick hide shoes and a
    long wool cloak. Spring had barely come to the valley and she knew
    winter lingered on the mountainside.

    For that was her destination, and, as she had known from her
    childhood, that was her destiny. The mountain had called to her ever
    since her eyes first beheld it, and now, having achieved her
    womanhood, she was determined to heed that call.

    Her mother had said, "Danna, it is forbidden you. Do not question
    that which is sacred."

    The shaman had said, "The gods will not welcome a brazen snip of a
    girl to their hall. Away with you, child."

    But her father said, "If you feel you must go, there will be no
    stopping you. Only return to us soon, and tell what you have seen."

    So Danna had arisen the morning after the celebration of her first
    menses, before the sun rose and the village began to stir. She had
    taken some bread and cheese and dried meat, knowing that food would
    be scarce in the forest. She had a small, light bow and a quiver
    full of arrarrows, and a dagger strapped to her side. She knew how
    to catch rabbit and fish, and was confident she would not go hungry.
    She had flint, a small stone axe, spare arrow heads. She was prepared.

    And, she thought as she walked, if she met a god she would not be
    afraid. She knew the tales--she knew what gods did to the
    presumptuous, the proud, to maidens they found desirable. But she,
    unlike those unfortunate girls, would not run away--she would look
    the amorous god in the eye and take him into her arms with
    eagerness. If the gods struck her down then they struck her down,
    and there was nothing more to be done. But if one wished to take her
    for his bride, ah then, perhaps that was what the mountain had been
    whispering to her all her life.

    One worry did nag at her. What if she found nothing?

    No, she was certain the gods dwelt on the mountain and she was
    certain she would find them.

    So she walked and she pondered, and with every step the mountain
    grew closer.

    Sometimes when the men were hunting they would camp in the forest
    overnight, but Danna had never spent a night away from the village.
    Soon before sunset she left the path a few paces and chose a
    sheltering thicket in which to sleep.

    She cleared away fallen branches and set the stones into a circle
    where she could build a fire. She ate a bit of bread and cheese, and
    looked around the darkening forest. She wrapped herself tight in her
    cloak.

    Danna had told herself boldly that she feared nothing--not wolves,
    not bears, not the gods in the mountain--but this was more difficult
    to believe as the night gathered around her. Her brother had teased
    her she would make a tasty meal for a winter-starved wolf, and if a
    bear chose to take her for his bride no one would be able to defend
    her.

    "Nonsense," Danna whispered, shivering inside her cloak. "Bears
    don't marry girls." Tales to frighten children, she thought--and
    besides, her hair was red, not yellow like the girl in the story.

    Sill, she was glad she had bound up her hair like a married woman
    instead of leaving it down. She knew her hair was a strange
    color--people were always saying so--but she did not think it was
    enough for a woodland creature to steal her away.

    Oh, it was difficult to sleep. There wasn't even a moon to comfort her.



    When Danna awoke, the sun was shining on her face. She smiled and
    spread her fingers in the sunbeam, then rolled to her feet. Birds
    chirped in the trees and the river seemed to speak as it ran over
    its stoney bed. Danna went to the riverbank and drank a few palmfuls
    of water, washed her face and refilled her water skin. She whispered
    a prayer to the river goddess, thanking her for the water and asking
    that she not change her course while Danna depended on her for
    guidance.

    There was a shallow pool at the riverbank, and when Danna lifted her
    head from prayer she caught a glimpse of her reflection. Curious,
    she bent over the pool, for she had rarely seen her own face. All
    her life people told her she was pretty, and she supposed she was,
    thought she was little and plump and pale.

    She was about to touch the pool and dissolve her reflection when the
    image changed. As Danna watched, fascinated, she saw a boy's face,
    mobile and joyous, so handsome he could only be a god.

    Danna gasped in wonder: What could this mean? Did she behold the
    face of the river god--a boy, not a goddess as she had been taught?
    Or perhaps this face belonged to the river goddess's son, and the
    vision was to show her who had been calling her to the mountain all
    her life.

    Eager to learn more, Danna watched the vision closely--but as she
    watched the boy's face grew pale and still, like the face of death.
    "No," Danna whispered, her hands outstretched, when again the vision
    changed: this time to a man's face, sharply featured and lined with
    sorrow. Before Danna could watch any further her hands broke the
    surface of the water and the vision ended.

    Danna arose from her keens, trembling. Two men? Where both of them
    waiting for her on the mountain--perhaps a father and son? Was she
    being brought here to make a family complete?

    Danna puzzled over this vision all day as she walked, until she
    reached the foothills and again had to make camp. This night the
    darkness seemed almost comforting, and the sounds of the river
    lulled her to sleep.

    She dreamed of a blue-eyed man and a dark-eyed boy, and woke wondering.



    As Danna climbed higher into the foothills, the path became steeper
    and harder to see. Danna began to use her walking stick so she
    wouldn't stumble over rocks and roots. The trees changed, no longer
    familiar oaks and birches but trees with sharp, needle-like leaves
    and a spicy scent. The river changed: not the broad, flat,
    slow-moving waters she knew but a turbulent body that hurtled itself
    over rocks and falls. The goddess is playing, she thought.

    The slope of the mountain crept upon her, and she was on the
    mountain before she realized it. Danna paused, trembling, and looked
    around. Why did it not look different? Surely the realm of the gods
    should be more beautiful, more holy, more grand.

    Danna stood still and listened. She heard the rushing waters. She
    heard the songs of birds. She inhaled the scent of trees and fresh
    water. She saw green grass poking through piled-up snow.

    No, she thought. It was not the golden hall of the stories, but
    surely if the gods dwelt anywhere they lived here.

    She smiled, planted her stick in the path, and continued to climb.

 

    She was not afraid as she lay down that night, wrapped her in cloak
    and curled around her small fire. She had heard no wolves howling,
    seen no bears shambling among the trees. She had seen no visions,
    either, and in truth it relieved her. It must have been a trick of
    the water, her own face distorted by stones and ripples.

    As she slept, Danna dreamed that the trees gathered around her,
    curious about the new occupant of their forest. She woke with a
    start and sat up, gasping. "Who's there?" she whispered, looking
    around. She poked the fire and the flames rose up for a moment
    before dying back down.

    She could see no one, not even a pair of eyes peering from the
    darkness. But across the fire lay a trussed-up rabbit, skinned and
    cooked through.


2

    In the morning, Danna decided to eat the rabbit. Though she did not
    know who had given it to her, the giver had prepared it as if for a
    feast--and besides, she was hungry.

    Once she had eaten, Danna walked carefully around the trees, looking
    for footprints in the snow. She could see her own prints, small and
    light, followed by other prints, larger and heavier. The giver had
    circled her camp many times, pausing here and there, kneeling
    sometimes. But he--someone with feet so large could only be a
    he--had not walked past the innermost circle of trees.

    Perhaps some mountain spirit had taken it upon himself to protect
    her. Danna whispered, "Thank you," as she touched a footprint, and
    then she rose and went back to collect her things and move onward.

    The trouble was, where was onward? She could only follow the river,
    but as she did the climb became steeper and rockier, and the waters
    of the river became fast and white. Do not desert me, Goddess, she
    pleaded as she climbed. Do not lead me astray.

    Soon even the suggestion of a path was gone. The banks of the river
    were crowded with moss-covered stones, with no place for Danna to
    plant her stick for balance. Often she stumbled and scraped her
    hands when she fell. The roar of the river drowned out all other
    sounds. She heard not a bird, saw not another of the small forest
    creatures that had accompanied her previously.

    There was ice on a rock--her foot slipped with a wrenching pain that
    made her cry out as she fell heavily onto her hands and knees. She
    stayed as she had fallen, panting with pain and wanting to weep. So
    this was how the gods safeguarded their domain: they simply made it
    impossible to reach.

    I'm cold, Danna thought, I hurt, I must be going mad. There is no
    place for me among the gods.

    Oh, how her brothers would laugh! How full of sorrow her parents
    would be, that she had run away only to return in failure.

    But...who had left the rabbit for her?

    Danna frowned. There was still that riddle to solve.

    Later, she thought when she heard the growl.

    She raised her head. The wolf was too far away to take her in a
    single leap, but still she could see his ribs beneath his fur and
    his teeth as he growled. A hungry wolf at the tail of winter--only a
    bear would be a deadlier enemy.

    Danna locked eyes with the wolf. Slowly she moved her hand to her
    waist, where she wore her knife. The wolf growled again and began to
    crouch, his claws scraping against the rocks.

    "No," Danna whispered. "You have no reason to kill me, Brother Wolf.
    I know you are hungry, but I do not want to die." There were
    stories, of course, about creatures talking their way out of being
    eaten by a wolf--but Danna thought this was a hard way to learn if
    they were true.

    Goddess, help me, she thought.

    Snarling, the wolf bounded towards her. Without thinking Danna rose
    onto her knees and snatched her knife, and cried out as the wolf
    leapt onto her and knocked her onto her back. Her knife sank into
    the wolf's heart. The wolf yipped and snapped his teeth at her hand
    as she struggled. Danna pushed her knife deeper, and hot blood
    gushed down her arm.

    Dimly Danna heard a hoarse yell, and another pair of hands grasped
    the wolf's head. Danna threw her arm over her eyes as the stranger
    wrestled the wolf away from her. She heard the wolf snarling and the
    stranger grunting--she collected herself and got to her feet.

    The stranger and the wolf fought desperately, the wolf's jaws
    snapping at the boy's face and arms. The boy was trying to pull
    Danna's dagger from the wolf's chest. His face, chest and arms were
    flecked with blood and foam.

    Danna threw off her bag and fumbled with the ties. They were too
    close for her arrows to be of any use. But she had her axe--surely
    it would help.

    She snatched her axe from her bag and grasped its handle with both
    hands. The wolf and the boy still wrestled each other, both snarling
    and fierce. The boy had her knife in one hand, but couldn't let go
    of the wolf's head long enough to use it.

    Danna ran to them. She raised the axe over her shoulder, meaning to
    smash it into the wolf's head. Just as she brought it down the wolf
    snaked out of the boy's grasp. He ran at the boy again as the boy
    got to his feet, and butted him in the stomach. They both fell into
    the river.

    "No," Danna whispered, then screamed, "No!" as she threw herself
    onto the rocks at the riverbank. She watched the turbulent waters,
    frantic for a glimpse of the boy's dark head.

    "Goddess--Goddess," she whispered, but no further prayers would come.

    A hand surfaced through the water and gripped the rock. Danna gasped
    and grabbed hold of his arm to haul him out from the water. His
    fingers scrabbled at the rocks. She tried to pull him up but he was
    much too heavy and he slipped from her grasp. Danna groaned in
    frustration and swung her legs over the riverbank, into the water.
    The boy's eyes were closed and his face was still as death.
    "Goddess, please," Danna whispered as she slid her arms around his
    chest, beneath his arms, barely holding his head above the surface.
    "Help me!"

    The boy coughed. Water dribbled down his chin. His chest heaved in
    her arms, and Danna felt his legs give a strong, desperate kick. It
    was enough, though, to give her strength to pull him out the rest of
    the way, and they both lay panting on the rocks.

    The boy peered at her. He grabbed her hand and lay it on his chest.
    "Are you a god?"

    "No," Danna said in wonder. "Aren't you?"

    "No," he said.

    They both were silent, except for the boy's still-heavy breathing.
    He said, "But I knew you were coming. I saw you in a dream."




3

    The boy had a house--a hut made of wattle-and-daub, with a roof of
    plaited branches. There was a wooden door that opened to a small
    round key. The hard-packed floor was clean, as much as it could be
    seen: it was covered with furs, wool blankets, pots, baskets,
    flints, and Danna could only guess what else.

    They had hobbled to his hut from the riverbank, a long walk made
    more difficult by her swelling ankle, and his injuries and wet
    clothes. They said little: they were too cold and shaken.

    "I--" the boy began, then shrugged and started to bend towards a
    pile of furs as if to start cleaning up. He groaned and sank down
    onto his knees. Danna staggered with his weight and fell onto her
    knees as well, hissing at the pain. She let herself lie down at his
    side, too weary to move any further.

    "You're hurt," the boy murmured as he touched her cheek.

    "We both are," Danna said. She propped her head on her arm. "Have
    you any healing herbs? If I don't clean your wounds properly the
    spirit of the wolf will get into your blood and the wolf will
    possess you. He will be angry that he died without cause."

    "Your life is cause enough," the boy said, then blushed and looked
    away.

    Danna blushed too, charmed by his candor, and said, "We will get no
    use from his fur nor his meat. Surely his spirit will be angry with
    us."

    "I have no herbs," the boy said. "I know nothing of healing."

    "Yet you live here alone? Have you never been sick?"

    "When I have been sick I have waited it out." He shrugged. "I have
    done what little I know. I know you ankle needs to be cold or the
    swelling will become unbearable. I think we ought to pack it in snow."

    Danna flexed her foot, grimacing. "It hurts," she admitted.

    "Tell me what to fetch and I will get it."

    "I have a few things in my bag. They will do for now. And you are
    right: packing my ankle in snow will help keep the swelling down. We
    need to get you out of those wet clothes and into something warmer,
    as well."

    "You too," he said. "You got wet, too."

    Danna felt herself blush all over her body. She said quietly, "We
    both need to warm up. All in its time." She sat up and raised the
    strap of her bag over her head. She held her bag in her lap as she
    searched through it for her herbs.

    "Are you a healer?" the boy asked after a few moments of watching her.

    "I'm learning to be," Danna said. "Our shaman says I have a gift."
    She found her pouch of herbs and took it from her bag. "I don't
    suppose you have a mortar and pestle."

    "I have a stone bowl." He started hunting through his things. "And
    perhaps a good stone for crushing . . ." He found both presently,
    and gave them to Danna in triumph. "There!"

    "If you will get some water we will have all we need, for now." She
    selected some herbs from her pouch and dumped them into the bowl.

    "There's little food in the house," the boy said.

    "You aren't strong enough to hunt."

    "I have traps to check. We needn't go hungry."

    Danna began to grind the herbs, looking at her bowl instead of the
    boy. It was strange to her that they referred to themselves as a
    unit, as her parents did. Strange, but natural. She said, "You need
    to rest. There is bread and cheese in my bag. Hunting and traps can
    wait until tomorrow. First we must be certain that you're well."

    He pouted for a moment, then nodded. "As you say." He slowly got to
    his feet. "You just want some water?"

    "Yes. I want to make this into a paste."

    "And some snow for your ankle."

    "Yes. Thank you."

    He shuffled towards the door. "You'll be safe in here," he said.
    "The door doesn't open without a key, and I won't be gone long."

    Danna nodded. "I feel safe," she said, and the boy smiled at her
    before leaving the hut.

    Quickly Danna untied her wet leggings and pulled off her shoes,
    cloak and tunic. In the pile of leather and furs she found a spare
    tunic of the boy's, and she put it on though it was far too large
    for her. It was warm and clean, which was all she required.

    The boy returned quickly, as he had said, with a basket full of
    snow. "Both at once," he said, smiling shyly.

    "Good idea. I've borrowed one of your shirts. I hope you don't mind."

    "It's all right." He knelt beside her and put down the basket. He
    started to strip off his clothes, then glanced at her and blushed
    again. "Would you mind closing your eyes?"

    "I'm going to see you anyway," Danna said, sensibly, too, she
    thought, but still she shivered a bit and pulled the heavy blanket
    up a little higher. A boy just a few years older than she was vastly
    different from tending her sister's newborn son.

    Still, she thought, if you're ever to be a healer you must get used
    to this. She said, as the boy hesitated, "The men of my tribe say
    when they get caught in the forest in winter, the best way to stay
    warm is to share bedding. So, get under the covers with me. We'll
    warm each other up."

    "As you say," the boy said again, still blushing, but he undressed
    quickly and dove into the pile of furs with her, shivering. "I
    should build up the fire."

    "Soon," Danna murmured. She scooped a handful of snow from the
    basket into the stone bowl. Soon under her makeshift pestle the
    herbs and melted snow formed a gooey paste. She hoped it would be
    enough for the boy's wounds.

    He had been watching her all the while through half-closed eyes, and
    started to sit up when he saw that she was through. "No, it's all
    right," Danna said. "Lie down."

    The boy nodded and lay back down, propped up a bit on the pile of
    furs. Danna cleaned his wounds with melting snow, which made him
    shiver. She took a bit of the paste and spread it over the scratches
    on his chest and arms. Her hand trembled. The boy breathed deeply,
    his eyes closed.

    He was quite slender but well-muscled, with a deep chest and broad
    shoulders, and he was several hands' breadth taller than she. His
    skin was the color of breadcrust, and his hair was brown as tree
    bark. His eyes were the prettiest she had seen: the gray-green of
    new grass in spring.

    "That smells awful," he murmured.

    "As long as it heals you the smell doesn't matter." She liked his
    voice, too: it was gentle and husky and warm.

    "I am in your hands," the boy said and wrapped his fingers around
    her wrist.

    Danna's gaze met his. She felt herself trembling even more, but she
    said calmly, "Let go, please. I need to finish."

    He smiled and released her wrist. "How old are you?"

    "This is my fourteenth winter."

    "Hm. I thought you were younger."

    "Everyone does. It's because I'm so little." She finished spreading
    the paste over his wounds, and washed her fingers in the bowl of
    snow. "That will dry, and then we'll wash it off and see how they're
    healing."

    "You get comfortable," the boy said firmly. "I'll take care of you
    now."

    She hesitated, but hauled herself next to him and lay down. The boy
    folded a wool blanket and lay it beneath her foot, handling her as
    gently as if she were a baby. He took the last of the snow and
    packed it over and around the swelling, and then wrapped the blanket
    tightly around her foot so that Danna couldn't move it. "It will
    feel better tomorrow," the boy said. "Won't it?"

    "Yes." Danna folded her hands over her belly, watching him sleepily.
    Danger was past, and she was warm and content. He spread the fur
    blanket over them aqain and lay down, his head next to hers. They
    lay in silence, listening to the wind howl through the trees.

    The boy sighed. His hand touched hers. "What do they call you?"

    "Danna."

    "Danna," he whispered. "That's pretty."

    "Thank you. What do they call you?"

    "Ulee." He turned his head towards her. "Danna . . . Will you stay
    with me a while, Danna?"

    He asked so sweetly, his eyes pleaded so frankly, that she would not
    have said no even if she'd wanted to. She cupped his cheek in her
    hand. "I will."



4

    The sun was still low on the horizon when Danna awoke. She was alone
    in the hut. Blinking and stiff, she got to her feet and hobbled to
    the door, which she cautiously opened. She didn't dare leave the
    hut--she had no key, and no idea of where Ulee was or when he would
    return.

    It was cold outside, and the morning light was pale. Blades of grass
    poked up through the snow, and branches rustled in the wind. Danna
    shivered, wrapping her arms around herself, and stepped back inside.
    "Ulee, come home," she whispered, peering at the forest.

    As if by magic Ulee appeared, wearing boots and leggings and a cloak
    wrapped around his shoulders. "Danna!" he called to her, and he
    covered the clearing in a few quick strides. "I checked my lines
    this morning," he said as he showed her a string of freshly-caught
    fish. "Are you hungry?"

    "Yes."

    "So am I. I'll cook them up. And I washed off your herbs--nasty
    stuff, Danna."

    "I know. Let me look at you." She pushed back his cloak.

    "It's cold," he complained, but his tone was good-natured and he
    gave an affectionate caress to her hair as she inspected him. His
    wounds were pink and healthy-looking, none oozing pus or red with
    infection. He was safe, it seemed, from the angry spirit of the
    wolf. "What are you doing up, anyway? You should rest your foot."

    "I wondered where you were."

    "Go lie down," he ordered gently. "I'll prepare the fish. Do you
    need water?"

    "No."

    He went on caressing her hair. "Little Danna. Are you unhappy already?"

    "I--I was frightened when you weren't here. Why did you not wake me?"

    Ulee smiled at her again. "Because you are so pretty when you sleep."

    "Oh." She dropped her eyes from his frank gaze. "I'm going to rest
    my foot." She turned and hobbled back to bed. She lay down and
    propped her foot on a pile of furs, and drew the blanket over herself.

    This too was strange to her: that when he was gone she desired his
    presence, but when he was near she didn't know how to look or what
    to say. She would stay with him a while, as she had promised, but
    she didn't know why he had asked or why she had said yes.

    Except that she loved his warm weight in her arms. Except that she
    liked the way he smiled at her and the way he caressed her hair.

    Not long had passed when the door opened and Ulee came inside
    smelling of fish and smoke. "We'll eat soon." He threw off his cloak
    and sat down to take off his boots. "Are you sure you don't need
    anything?"

    "I don't. I'm looking forward to that fish."

    "Brr!" Ulee burrowed beneath the blankets. "Mm . . . you're warm."

    "And you're cold. Come here." She wrapped her arms around him and
    even lay one leg over his hip. He shivered and pressed his cold nose
    against her neck.

    "Danna . . . sweet Danna . . . tell me something."

    "Yes?"

    "Why did you come here? I mean--" he raised his head to look into
    her eyes-- "I'm glad you're here. But why did you come?"

    His hair was down to his shoulders, and she played the ends between
    her fingers. "You'll think it's silly. Everyone else did. Tell me
    why you came here."

    "It's not a happy story."

    "I don't mind."

    He withdrew from her arms, sat up, pulled up his knees and wrapped
    his arms around them. "I have--I had--a sister. She was a lot like
    you: young, pretty, kind." Danna nodded, blushing. "My father
    married her to a friend of his. This man . . ." He shook his head.
    "He was not a good man. He was not good to my sister. She died in
    childbirth and she was glad to go. I couldn't stay in our city any
    longer--not when my father was so ready to sacrifice his children's
    happiness to impress his friends."

    "Did he have something planned for you as well?"

    "He wanted me to join the bureaucracy and become a toady to the
    king," Ulee said with disgust. "I had no desire to spend my days
    flattering a man who cheats his people, makes war with their sons
    and carries off their daughters. No man can convince me the gods
    made him their emmisary."

    "You were right to leave." She pulled him into her arms and kissed
    his soft hair. "You were absolutely right."

    "It has been so difficult, though. I thought I wanted to be alone,
    but when the gods told me you were coming I was so happy. I hadn't
    thought I was so lonely."

    "What did they tell you of my coming?" Danna whispered. She could
    not shake the memory of her own vision, of his motionless face.

    "Only that you would come." He yawned and smiled at her, blinking
    sleepily. "That you would make me happy. And I am. I truly am."

    She smiled back at him and kissed his hair once more. Perhaps she
    had been mistaken in her vision--without a shaman to interpret,
    there was no way to know its true meaning. She had thought he was
    dead when she pulled him from the river. Perhaps her vision meant
    nothing more than that.

    She said quietly, "Ever since I was a child I've heard the mountain
    calling to me. I was told not to be so presumptuous--that this is
    the dwelling of the gods and there would be no place for me here.
    But now that I am a woman I could no longer stay away. I had to
    come. I had to hear what the mountain has been trying to say."

    "And what has the mountain told you?" Ulee whispered.

    "I believe . . ." She kissed his hair again. "I believe it has told
    me of you."

    Ulee raised his head and looked at her with serious eyes. He began
    to speak, but then stopped himself and touched her cheek with his
    forefinger. He leaned forward until his mouth was a breath away from
    hers. Danna could not speak, could barely breathe. She closed her eyes.

    But he only kissed her forehead and whispered, "Rest, little Danna.
    I'll attend to you." He rose and put his boots and cloak back on,
    and left the hut.

    Danna lay in their bed for some time, trembling.

[no further chapters are available]