Gods of Green Mountain (3 page)

Besides the weather, the puhlets had only one natural enemy--the warfars! Against the warfars' sharp fangs and ripping claws they were defenseless. All they could do was run, bleating pitifully all the way. The slinky dark warfars could race like the wind, and howl like evil spirits of the night. But during the day hours, the warfars were notoriously afraid of men. One man or boy alone could scare off a whole pack. Yet, in the dark of night, it was a far different story. At night, those that lived on El Sod-a-Por were just as defenseless as any puhlet, even more so. For the puhlets could at least stay awake.

When the burning winds blew from the desert, a remarkable change would occur; the long straight hairs would stand on end, with each hair follicle fluffing out at the end to form a thick brush of many fibers too transparent to be seen. Plus the fur turned silvery white. The intermeshing hair fibers kept the winds from reaching the delicate pink skins. White reflected the heat away. Years of instinctual behavior patterns had taught each puhlet to tuck its head under the thick neck ruff and protect its eyes and the sensitive membranes of its nose.

When the icy winds screamed down from the bleak, black land of Bay Gar, something equally miraculous happened. Their silvery fur would curl tightly upon itself, keeping the strong winds from separating the hairs, and as the hair began to curl, it changed color, turning to ebony black, thus retaining the natural body heat. Again, the thick neck ruff was used to hide the delicate facial areas. Many a young shepherd had saved his life by lying down with the flock when the devastating winds blew.

Still, a very young puka had a very vulnerable time, just after birth, when they were naked, without even the protection of the yellow-green fuzz. An entire nursery of pukas could be wiped out from the slightest draft, the slightest chill. Too much heat, and they would collapse prostrate, and quickly die. So delicate, so frail, so sensitive were these small creatures at this time, the pukas spent their first few weeks in the sod houses, romping with the human babies.

Because of this intimate closeness, and the daily care of the baby animals, it was a sad and mournful day when the full-grown puhlet had to be slaughtered. So much was this unhappy day dreaded by the tender-hearted natives, often the most compassionate would wait until their animals were old and ready to die anyway before they could bring down the heavy mallet on the paper-thin skulls. The meat was tough and stringy by then. The fur long past its prime. But there was the satisfaction of knowing the animal had reproduced many times, and been allowed to live out its allotted days.

There were many shepherds on El Sod-a-Por, but in all the hills of the borderlands, upper and lower, not one loved his flock of puhlets more than Far-Awn. He talked to them as if they understood; he sang to them as if he knew they enjoyed it, and long were the miles he walked to discover the rare places where the lushest grasses grew. Far-Awn knew the puhlets were grateful for his care and love. They gazed at him with soft violet eyes of devotion, responding in all the quiet ways they could.

When Far-Awn lay in a field, dreaming of how life could be different, and better, of how life should be happy and enjoyable, without fear of death always hovering so near, the puhlets grazed contentedly, glancing his way from time to time. Because of his presence, however distracted he grew at times, not once had a warfar stolen a calf, for Far-Awn was quick. In a flashing second he could leap to his feet and hurl a stone, and most of the time it found its mark. Cowardly the warfars slunk away--a stone or a stick was enough weapon during the day.

Leaning back against a burran tree, Far-Awn ate his lunch of cheese and bread, and spoke aloud to Musha, his favorite animal, who also lunched nearby. "Men shouldn't have to hide in the ground like dirt diggers--like insects! Why should we grow old so soon, and die so young?--it's that work!--that everlasting, perpetual work! There ought to be a way, something, that we could devise to keep the weather out. There has to be some other reason for being alive, other than working--what do you say, Musha?"

Musha bleated, apparently agreeing.

Far-Awn turned his head toward the far Green Mountain, where the Gods were reputed to live. Thoughtfully he gazed. Did they really control the weather? Did they really send the storms as a form of punishment because they were rooted in one spot? If gods they were, couldn't they grow legs if they wanted? Of course they could. There was another reason for the storms. "Before I die, I'm going to find out," he said to himself, "just who and what lives in that giant green home."

Musha looked up, still munching on the grass in his mouth. He too turned to stare thoughtfully at the distant Green Mountain. A soft sighing sound came from his throat.

Far-Awn Goes Searching

O
ne day three years later, when Far-Awn was ten, he led his flock of puhlets far from the customary grazing grounds. In that year, more storms than usual had devastated the land. More wind funnels had come to denude the fields and hills with repeated demands of tribute for the Gods. It seemed entirely possible that all the tender young grasses had been destroyed. Only in gullies and other damp recessed areas could any touch of edible food be found. But never were there enough of these areas to satisfy the hunger of each and every one of Far-Awn's animals.

What life Far-Awn could find growing, he found nearer the cold side than the hot. So ever closer he led his flock to that icy, bleak black land known as Bay Gar. In the twilight zone between the light and the dark, a narrow band of growth struggled from a crack in the cold ground. Hungrily the puhlets fed upon it. When their appetites were satisfied, the day was gone. The first short darkness of night descended.

With it came panic for Far-Awn! No shepherd stayed out all night with his flock. Always they hurried to be home before dark. In the night, the warfars grew bold, fearless. Well they knew what happened to man when night came. Then they could sneak in and use their fangs and claws to kill and eat what they would, animal and shepherd alike. "Oh, Gods that be," Far-Awn prayed, "keep us safe from the warfars this one night, and I swear I will never again doubt your existence. I vow I will never again be so careless, so thoughtless. I will struggle to be what my father expects!"

And with that, immediately with full darkness, Far-Awn fell deeply asleep. Such was the way of all those humans that lived there. Sleep had to be grabbed quickly before the first sun arose, and the labors unending began anew. Snug among the resting puhlets, Far-Awn was warm and protected from the cold, if not from the warfars.

In the permanent dusky world near the winterlands, the rays of the first sun's rising penetrated the murkiness only dimly. So it was that Far-Awn slept longer than any other night of his short life.

He awoke suddenly, feeling refreshed and renewed, but strangely lost and disoriented in this hazy, cold place. Sitting up, he looked around and smiled because they had survived the night. There was no blood on the ground, no torn bodies to horrify his eyes. Perhaps the warfars didn't travel this far north, and confined themselves to the areas where men worked and trod with the puhlets. He said then a quick prayer, thanking the Gods for letting them survive.

He was a far, far walk from home, he knew that. He would have to hurry to reach there by nightfall. And speed was doubly needed for it was nearing the time of birthing for the female puhlets. For the pukas to come in such a distant, unfriendly cold spot, remote from shelter and human care, would be a tragedy that his father would never forgive. Nor would he be able to forgive himself. How could he have gotten himself and his trusting animals in such a predicament? Oh, no wonder his father thought him a fool, a mockery of what a son should be!

To bring the grazing puhlets close, he sounded a trilling call, for some had wandered away, finding another patch of mossy growth. As they closed about him he counted. Disbelieving, he again counted. Now it was a certain thing--six of the female puhlets were missing! The ground wasn't covered red with blood, so the warfars couldn't have carried any off. Their way was to kill and eat on the spot, and all this could be done without waking Far-Awn. Once asleep, he couldn't awaken until the light came. What to do? How could he go home and face his father's terrible wrath? One animal lost was serious enough, but six? And the eventual loss would be at least double that, with the pukas due any day now--or any minute.

Again and again he sounded his call. Always before, every one of his obedient animals had responded. Always they came running, knowing he knew what was best for them. A sob of panic rose in his throat when the missing failed to respond. Musha rubbed his plush-purple nose consolingly on Far-Awn's hand. "Don't think kindly of me, Musha! It's my fault six of your wives are missing, and the Gods alone know how many of your young!

"I could go and search for them," he pondered aloud, but what to do with the others? Take them with him--risk all their lives, plus the babies due at any time? Or should he send them home alone, take the chance the warfars wouldn't slaughter half the herd? His thoughts raced, seeking a solution where there appeared to be none. But why had the puhlets led him here in the first place? For when he thought back, yesterday it had been Musha who had done the leading, not himself. How extraordinary for the timid and acquiescent to unexplainably become aggressive--to come to this unknown land in the first place. And for six to wander off? Could there be a meaning and a purpose to this? If so, was he to let it pass him by? He glanced back at the Green Mountain, frowning with consideration. Good judgment demanded that he lead the one hundred and thirty-four safely home and forget the six lost females. That was the reasonable thing to do. Almost he could hear his father speak these very words, "Use your head, boy! How can you hesitate when comparing the loss of six to one hundred and thirty-four?"--and that was not even speaking of the young so soon expected.

Yet, was he to bypass this unique experience and go meekly home and say, "Yes, I left six. They wandered off, and I didn't search for them." No, he could not live with the thought of abandoning them. Right or wrong, he would find the lost six. Out of the dusky coldness he led his charges into the full light of the first sun. He put his hand firmly on Musha's head. "Musha, I am trusting you to lead all the flock home. You are to go as fast and as quietly as possible. No bleating, no roaming off the trail to search for grasses. Keep together, the youngest in the center--and go fast! Straight home! And if you see or sense the warfars coming, run like crazy! And strike out with those horns on your head! That's what they're there for--weapons! And your hooves, they could do some damage too.
Fight back for once!
If I can throw a stone and they run, you can show some resistance! And in the daylight, they might not come close."

His lead animal gave him a long searching look, then turned and started down the trail headed for home, going at a fast clip. The reminder of the puhlets began to tentatively follow, looking back in a bewildered way at Far-Awn. "Go on," he called, "follow Musha!
He
is your leader today.
He
will keep you safe." Oh, how confidently he said that. What chance did a puhlet have against the long sharp fangs of the warfars? None at all, none at all. Determinedly he resisted the pleading violet eyes that looked back at him. "Go home!" he ordered sharply, "and go quietly and fast!"

Standing on a hill, he watched until they were out of sight, gaining speed as they disappeared from his view. All heading toward the memoried place of warmth, safety, and grain.

Far-Awn dropped down on his knees, and woefully, for the first time in his life, he prayed in complete and humble supplication to the Gods of Green Mountain to let his puhlets live to reach home; to keep the storms from coming today; to keep the warfars asleep in their dens.

Then he was on his feet and running, back to where the puhlets had fed on the mossy-green growth. His sharp eyes, almost blue, knowledgeably searched the ground. Soon he found a trail that he thought could be the one left by the missing six puhlets. Only a short way did he follow before he realized, with a sinking heart, that the puhlets were not heading into the day as could be expected! No, instead, every step that he took assured they were going, for a certainty, into those rolling plains of icy inky-dark cold! Why? he wondered. What odor of growing green could have wafted to those puhlets from this place of ice and snow where nothing possibly could grow?

This inexplicable, unexpected turn of events did not lessen his determination. It didn't occur to him to abandon the search and catch up with the main flock. A decision once made in due deliberation was not to be altered. Instead, he followed the faint hoof markings deeper and deeper into the black unexplored wilderness.

Now the frigid air became even more pungent, bitterly sharp. His nose seemed a wide-open door letting in too much air, until his brain numbed and seemingly froze. His coat of puhlet fur he drew closer about him, tugging the collar about his neck and face, pulling down the hood until only his eyes and nose were visible.