The Deepcombers

Chapter Fifty One

The goat path crested into another thorn bush which Saeya moved clear with an expert push and then she held onto the sedge as the others came up over the edge. They picked their way through the pine forest on the mountain slope above Atarskall on their move toward Atar's Falls and the Wolfspire. They hiked even higher up-hill and soon found a path for wheeled carts.

Saeya turned them onto the grassy trail. The ground was flat and both sides were lined with bushy plants and herbs. Lon saw animal scat and reckoned the mossy grass fed ground hogs and deer. The waterfall was near, and its gentle hiss whispered through the trees. As they hiked closer it grew steadily louder and Lon yearned to see the spectacle he'd admired so often from below. Its swishing sound was like a soft blanket and its plush serenade was only occasionally interrupted by far-away shouts, barking dogs, and the distant clash of swords.

The group was in a mood now of course and Lon felt terrible and could see the others struggled to hold their wits and brace in the face of such a tragedy. The lad had only known the giant for five days, but he too felt the sharp pain his oversized absence would bring. He too would miss Atar's booming laugh in the halls and in the construction site and he'd miss his wise words and council. Lon treasured his talks with the aged deepcomber and he would forever think of the watermill and its gears when he used his mind and spoke Varget. Lon's mind worked overtime trying to sort out what the hulk's death could mean and how things would change. In this respect the exercise of hiking through the tall pines was very therapeutic for the woodsfeigor and it calmed him right up until the scenery took over his thoughts. He looked around and smiled. This was Amon's Home.

Here was a healthy forest filled with valuable logs on a splendid alpine ledge. A quiet breeze blew through the boughs overhead and sunlight dappled their bodies. Leafy herbs and flowers abounded on both sides of the road. Lon understood how the trail had four separate uses and there was different season for each reason to visit. In the winter, the Calbians would no doubt log the tall pines and collect deadwood for cooking and heating. In the spring they'd ply the route again to collect pitch. Axe-cuts in tree trunks revealed how the locals collected the resin which the trees secreted to heal the wounds. This was how they made the water-tight leather boats he'd seen in the bog. Additionally, the monks distilled the pine tar and needle-mash in that alembic in the cellar. The spirit of pine is a powerful solvent. In the summertime, the templekin would return to this track and collect the medicinal herbs which grew so thick at the roadside. There were hundreds of different species here and the trail was something of a garden path in many places. In the fall, the hunters would come again and try for deer and other wild game. They'd also collect pine fronds to freshen their living spaces and make festive wreathes and thrushes for the cold stone floors. Thick pines filled this narrow shelf and it was wonderfully peaceful here...

"He died a proper deepcombers' death." Melcart interrupted the sea drover's tranquil thoughts and brought the agony back again.

Lon was about to send his counterpart a withering glance for being so hopelessly insensitive when he saw their freckle-faced friend smile. Saeya liked that idea.

"And in front of everyone," she said and smiled again. She thought about it some more. "He didn't want to grow old."

They walked on in silence for another few paces. "I got that sense too," Lon said.

"He went down swinging," Melcart chimed, and then put his hands together in mock prayer. "I hope I go the same way. Kluth willing..."

"He'd always said he'd lived too long, and he yearned to be young again," Saeya said.

"To ride the Bombora," Melcart said it like he was singing a song. He made the same curious wave motion with his hand. Lon gave him a look which asked: What does that mean?