Part 4

Rough barked with mention of his name.

Watching him with both amusement and pride as he stalked into the bordering forest, his mother Metaneira noted the approaching storm cloud. She frowned.

With all his strength and courage he was still but a boy. Hopefully he will find a dry cave to shelter in. The rains will be heavy, the winds strong.

Even in the best of weather she felt concern when he went on his sojourns. Too many hunters had gone out, not to return. The Gods of the Forest did not take kindly to wanderers. And they protected their own.

A chill ran along her back, and she shivered.

"Rough, I shall be glad when you can go with him. He may well need your aid one day."

She did not realize how prophetic were her words.

Leaving their home he strode rapidly through the open forest of oak trees. Soon the land began to rise. He climbed the high mountains, their peaks glistening in the sun. The oak trees gradually thinned, and pines began to take their place. And at the higher reaches even the pines gave way to scrubbrush and weeds. Sunlight was beginning to disappear as he climbed, and he noted the dark thunderclouds, forming in the north. There shall be weather by nightfall, he thought.

"The deer will sense it. They will be searching for shelter. And I know the grove where they will congregate, waiting for the storm to pass." He voiced the words even as they came to mind.

It was a habit formed of living a lonely life. Since he had none to talk to on his frequent excursions, he talked softly to himself.

At times he argued with himself - now supporting a position; now, opposing it. Such mental contests amused him, sharpened his wits, or so he led himself to believe.

"They will drift down to the little valley on yonder hillside. I can be there by set of sun, or perhaps travel under moonlight, and our larder will be well-stocked tomorrow."

Today he didn't argue with himself. It was a good plan. He began the climb to the mountain valley.

Few paths led into the mountains. Torturous and narrow they quickly petered out into animal trails or ended abruptly without cause. Man left the mountains to Gods of the forest. Only the bravest hunters dared their heights.

It did not concern him. This was his world, and he climbed steadily, finding passage where others might turn back.

The lower reaches of the foothills were rolling and the climb was gradual. Here grew giant trees, broadleafed under the summer sun, bare in the cold of winter. Nevertheless, here game was rare, as man dwelled nigh.

As he passed the foothills the terrain became increasingly rougher. From time to time a vertical wall of stone blocked his way, and he detoured on twisting paths among boulders as tall as himself. Sometimes, when no path existed for his progress, he carefully and slowly climbed the rugged precipice.

"Ah, " he smiled, "would I could fly." He gazed upward, noted dangerous routes, continued his climb. Panting from his efforts he progressed ever upward, soon reaching levels where only the evergreens grew. And as he went upward still, even these grew more rarely, and more diminutive in form. A few, twisted and gnarled, hung tenaciously to the near barren earth, their forms bowed in submission to the power of the wind.

As he leaped from boulder to boulder one twisted beneath his foot. The motion of the stone threw him to the side of the trail, to the outer edge of the pathway. Loose dirt and gravels rattled downward, bounced from jutting ledges, disappearing into the fog that hid the rock-strewn surface at the cliff's base.

With the agility of youth he caught his balance, danced to a more solid footing. For a moment he sat down, grinned at the incident as he gazed over the edge of the precipice that might have welcomed him. He picked up a pebble, tossed it over the rim, watched and listened as it careened downward from ledge to ledge. He shook his head.

"Could have been me."

He grinned, tossed another pebble. It rattled down the surfaced, bounced outward.

"No, no way, not me."

He leaned back for a moment, relaxed in the warming rays of the sun, filtered at times by the gathering clouds.

He rubbed his ankle, winced at the pain. "Well, not broken. I think I'll cut a staff. Too bad. May slow me."

Even as he fashioned the staff his thoughts wandered. He thought the deep, deep thoughts of youth. The concerns for tomorrow. His search for a goal beyond the hunting and fishing of his daily life. His companions had gone diverse ways. Some were now merchants, others farmers, a few followed the sea. Some very few had disappeared into the wilds, destined to join outlaw bands. Perhaps he should become, as his Father, a farmer.

To plow the fields, plant, and watch the harvest grow. Marry and raise a family.

"Mother would like that. She would favor Theresa. And I do like her. "