sun above. Even in the shade of his broad straw brim Alfredo could feel the roasting power of the sun beamed back from the gray litter of old eruptions. If he lifted his head to see how far they still had to go to the summit, the glare at once blinded him. He felt as if they were toiling up into the sun itself, into the true home of the salamanders.
The heat from above was steady and relentless, but that from below varied. Sometimes he was shielded from it by layer upon layer of solid rock. At other times it ran so close to the surface that he felt that Uncle Giorgio, if he had chosen, could with a snap of his fingers have caused it to burst out at their feet.
The feeling was no longer frightening. If anything, there was an exhilaration in being so close to the source of such power. The only thing he had known that was at all like it was standing in his place in the choir with his breath ready drawn for the first full note while he watched for the downbeat of the Precentor’s right hand, telling him to begin. Both the cathedral and this barren, heat-blasted summit were places where he belonged.
The mules climbed patiently on. There was no track that Alfredo could see, but Uncle Giorgio led them twisting up and up, always finding the easiest way, as if he had done this many times before. For a while they skirted an enormous silent chasm. Twice they passed near fissures from which rose wisps of yellowish reeking smoke. At last the sun dipped below the peak and for a short while they climbed in shadow, but soon the slope eased and they felt its force again. Briefly, the ground leveled, then dipped, and they were gazing into the crater of Etna.
Alfredo stared down. Before him lay a vast, ragged bowl, slopes of scarred and tumbled light gray rock and at the bottom a darker surface from which rose two cone-shaped mounds, like models of the mountain itself, each with a crater of its own. Dense smoke streamed steadily up from the farther one. The nearer one was still. To another boy, expecting to see a churning fiery surface threatening at any moment to boil up, fill the crater and flood down the mountainside in destroying torrents of molten lava, it would have been a disappointment. Alfredo stood enthralled.
Something was happening to him. He didn’t understand it. He felt…bigger. Hugely bigger. Not bigger inside himself. He was still only a fleck of living matter on the enormous mountain. Bigger, somehow
outside
himself. Sometimes he used to play with Father’s burning glass, fascinated by the way he could use its lens to focus the sunlight into an intense dot that in a few seconds could make a twist of dried grass leap into flame and shrivel into ash. Standing here on the summit of Etna, he had become that burning dot, filled with the pure fire of the sun. The mountain itself was the lens.
“You feel it?” said Uncle Giorgio.
“I could do anything!” whispered Alfredo.
“Yes,” answered Uncle Giorgio just as quietly, drawing the syllable out to become a sigh of satisfaction, exulting in the knowledge of power.
He
knew what Alfredo was talking about.
Without thought Alfredo filled his lungs and started to sing.
“Let God arise, and let his enemies be scattered; let them also that hate him flee before Him.
“Like as the smoke vanisheth, so shalt thou drive them away; and like as wax melteth at the fire, so let the ungodly perish at the presence of God…”
Psalm 68 had always been his favorite. For him it was the fire psalm. Where better to sing it, rejoicing in the central fire? Immediately he was rapt, lost in the power of the music. The mountain itself seemed to be shuddering beneathhis feet. He was being battered to and fro. His head rang with a sudden stinging buffet, so that he lost his footing and fell, with all the breath and all the singing knocked out of him. Uncle Giorgio was dragging him to his feet, and the mountain really was shuddering beneath him.
“Quiet!” snapped Uncle Giorgio.
The heat from above was steady and relentless, but that from below varied. Sometimes he was shielded from it by layer upon layer of solid rock. At other times it ran so close to the surface that he felt that Uncle Giorgio, if he had chosen, could with a snap of his fingers have caused it to burst out at their feet.
The feeling was no longer frightening. If anything, there was an exhilaration in being so close to the source of such power. The only thing he had known that was at all like it was standing in his place in the choir with his breath ready drawn for the first full note while he watched for the downbeat of the Precentor’s right hand, telling him to begin. Both the cathedral and this barren, heat-blasted summit were places where he belonged.
The mules climbed patiently on. There was no track that Alfredo could see, but Uncle Giorgio led them twisting up and up, always finding the easiest way, as if he had done this many times before. For a while they skirted an enormous silent chasm. Twice they passed near fissures from which rose wisps of yellowish reeking smoke. At last the sun dipped below the peak and for a short while they climbed in shadow, but soon the slope eased and they felt its force again. Briefly, the ground leveled, then dipped, and they were gazing into the crater of Etna.
Alfredo stared down. Before him lay a vast, ragged bowl, slopes of scarred and tumbled light gray rock and at the bottom a darker surface from which rose two cone-shaped mounds, like models of the mountain itself, each with a crater of its own. Dense smoke streamed steadily up from the farther one. The nearer one was still. To another boy, expecting to see a churning fiery surface threatening at any moment to boil up, fill the crater and flood down the mountainside in destroying torrents of molten lava, it would have been a disappointment. Alfredo stood enthralled.
Something was happening to him. He didn’t understand it. He felt…bigger. Hugely bigger. Not bigger inside himself. He was still only a fleck of living matter on the enormous mountain. Bigger, somehow
outside
himself. Sometimes he used to play with Father’s burning glass, fascinated by the way he could use its lens to focus the sunlight into an intense dot that in a few seconds could make a twist of dried grass leap into flame and shrivel into ash. Standing here on the summit of Etna, he had become that burning dot, filled with the pure fire of the sun. The mountain itself was the lens.
“You feel it?” said Uncle Giorgio.
“I could do anything!” whispered Alfredo.
“Yes,” answered Uncle Giorgio just as quietly, drawing the syllable out to become a sigh of satisfaction, exulting in the knowledge of power.
He
knew what Alfredo was talking about.
Without thought Alfredo filled his lungs and started to sing.
“Let God arise, and let his enemies be scattered; let them also that hate him flee before Him.
“Like as the smoke vanisheth, so shalt thou drive them away; and like as wax melteth at the fire, so let the ungodly perish at the presence of God…”
Psalm 68 had always been his favorite. For him it was the fire psalm. Where better to sing it, rejoicing in the central fire? Immediately he was rapt, lost in the power of the music. The mountain itself seemed to be shuddering beneathhis feet. He was being battered to and fro. His head rang with a sudden stinging buffet, so that he lost his footing and fell, with all the breath and all the singing knocked out of him. Uncle Giorgio was dragging him to his feet, and the mountain really was shuddering beneath him.
“Quiet!” snapped Uncle Giorgio.
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