“Stupid boy! See what you have done! Listen.”
He was pointing down into the crater. A deep, throbbing rumble rose from below, but threaded through it Alfredo could faintly make out, right at the limits of his hearing, a high, fierce music. He recognized it at once, the voices of not one but a multitude of salamanders, and knew that they were answering his singing, rejoicing in their element.
The rumbling deepened and increased, and became a roar as the floor of the crater below him cracked apart in a great, suppurating red-and-black wound. A blast of roasting wind, reeking of sulphur, swept up the slope, and huge chunks of fiery matter were flung skyward like dead leaves caught in a wind eddy.
“Tell it no!” snapped Uncle Giorgio. “You began it. You must end it. I can only help you.”
Alfredo looked at him, bewildered. He was staring out over the crater, erect and stiff, with his clenched fists held in front of his shoulders, waiting. Alfredo, not knowing what else to do, copied his stance. Uncle Giorgio glanced at him and nodded to him to begin.
How can you tell a mountain no?
The knowledge slid into his mind.
His earlier exhilaration returned, the outside power, the lens through which it poured, the burning dot—only thedot was now doubled, his own power overlaid with Uncle Giorgio’s, one intense concentration of the pure power of the sun saying to the immense furnace below, “I am your Master. Be still.”
And then it was over. He felt himself unfocussing, separating from the one-ness with his uncle, withdrawing …and he was standing, dizzy with effort, on the lip of the crater as the rocks rained down on the outer slopes and the fiery turmoil stilled and the roaring dwindled to a rumble and then to silence. The wind lifted the smoke aside until he could see the floor of the crater clearly. There was now a third small cone down there, with its own thin plume peacefully drifting away. Distantly in the stillness he could hear the singing of the salamanders, lulling the mountain to sleep.
Utterly dazed, half still exultant, half appalled, by the torrent of power that had rushed through him, he turned toward Uncle Giorgio, expecting a blast of anger at his rashness and folly. But Uncle Giorgio was smiling his thin smile and nodding with inward satisfaction. All he said was “Do not sing on the mountain again, not until you understand more of what you are doing.”
“Isn’t…isn’t the mountain angry with us for stopping it?”
“It is always angry, but it knows its Master. Its Masters, I must say now. That is enough for today. Let us go home.”
It was already drawing toward dusk as they made their way down the mountain. The whole of the Straits was laid out below them, with the fishing boats gathering toward the harbor and larger vessels sailing peacefully on. Alfredobarely noticed. He was still wrestling with what had happened up at the crater—not outside him, but inside. He had been changed. Such power!
I could do anything!
But…
It had been wonderful, glorious, unimaginable even now, even in memory—memory wasn’t big enough to contain it. …
But did he want it to happen again? And again, until he became in the end what the power made of him?
Like Uncle Giorgio, perhaps?
Could he even help that happening to him, now that he’d started?
He was appalled, terrified. But still deeply, deeply thrilled. Yes, though the actual experience continued to fade in his mind as they made their way down from the crater, it had not been a dream. By an exercise of pure power he had woken the mountain, and stilled it.
Now, suddenly the feelings returned. The mountain spoke in his mind. Not with its full thunder, but with a deep, rumbling whisper.
“Here.”
Where? A little below him and to his left a small crag jutted from the slope. Beside it ran a hidden fault line in the underlying rocks, a place where the central fires rose close to the surface.
“Let me out,”
it seemed to be
He was pointing down into the crater. A deep, throbbing rumble rose from below, but threaded through it Alfredo could faintly make out, right at the limits of his hearing, a high, fierce music. He recognized it at once, the voices of not one but a multitude of salamanders, and knew that they were answering his singing, rejoicing in their element.
The rumbling deepened and increased, and became a roar as the floor of the crater below him cracked apart in a great, suppurating red-and-black wound. A blast of roasting wind, reeking of sulphur, swept up the slope, and huge chunks of fiery matter were flung skyward like dead leaves caught in a wind eddy.
“Tell it no!” snapped Uncle Giorgio. “You began it. You must end it. I can only help you.”
Alfredo looked at him, bewildered. He was staring out over the crater, erect and stiff, with his clenched fists held in front of his shoulders, waiting. Alfredo, not knowing what else to do, copied his stance. Uncle Giorgio glanced at him and nodded to him to begin.
How can you tell a mountain no?
The knowledge slid into his mind.
His earlier exhilaration returned, the outside power, the lens through which it poured, the burning dot—only thedot was now doubled, his own power overlaid with Uncle Giorgio’s, one intense concentration of the pure power of the sun saying to the immense furnace below, “I am your Master. Be still.”
And then it was over. He felt himself unfocussing, separating from the one-ness with his uncle, withdrawing …and he was standing, dizzy with effort, on the lip of the crater as the rocks rained down on the outer slopes and the fiery turmoil stilled and the roaring dwindled to a rumble and then to silence. The wind lifted the smoke aside until he could see the floor of the crater clearly. There was now a third small cone down there, with its own thin plume peacefully drifting away. Distantly in the stillness he could hear the singing of the salamanders, lulling the mountain to sleep.
Utterly dazed, half still exultant, half appalled, by the torrent of power that had rushed through him, he turned toward Uncle Giorgio, expecting a blast of anger at his rashness and folly. But Uncle Giorgio was smiling his thin smile and nodding with inward satisfaction. All he said was “Do not sing on the mountain again, not until you understand more of what you are doing.”
“Isn’t…isn’t the mountain angry with us for stopping it?”
“It is always angry, but it knows its Master. Its Masters, I must say now. That is enough for today. Let us go home.”
It was already drawing toward dusk as they made their way down the mountain. The whole of the Straits was laid out below them, with the fishing boats gathering toward the harbor and larger vessels sailing peacefully on. Alfredobarely noticed. He was still wrestling with what had happened up at the crater—not outside him, but inside. He had been changed. Such power!
I could do anything!
But…
It had been wonderful, glorious, unimaginable even now, even in memory—memory wasn’t big enough to contain it. …
But did he want it to happen again? And again, until he became in the end what the power made of him?
Like Uncle Giorgio, perhaps?
Could he even help that happening to him, now that he’d started?
He was appalled, terrified. But still deeply, deeply thrilled. Yes, though the actual experience continued to fade in his mind as they made their way down from the crater, it had not been a dream. By an exercise of pure power he had woken the mountain, and stilled it.
Now, suddenly the feelings returned. The mountain spoke in his mind. Not with its full thunder, but with a deep, rumbling whisper.
“Here.”
Where? A little below him and to his left a small crag jutted from the slope. Beside it ran a hidden fault line in the underlying rocks, a place where the central fires rose close to the surface.
“Let me out,”
it seemed to be
Similar Books
