Little Boy Of The Mountain I
--I--
As he descended he saw that it was as he thought. Coming up the path was Uncle Obúdius. They met halfway between the first eaves of the valley forest and the house. The boy greeted the visitor, who announced that he had come to talk with the boy's father. There was a shift in the wind and the distant trees sighed in the gusts. A strange feinting feeling came over the little boy suddenly. He swooned a bit and swayed in the saddle. Obúdius reached out to steady him, but the spell passed. He realized he had not eaten enough breakfast that morning. He must have been lightheaded for a hunger that all his youthful excitements and concerns had hidden from him. Perhaps he should return to the house with Obúdius and fetch some snacks?
No... he remembered then the berry bushes near the waterfall - he would go get some of those instead. He might also find some mushrooms to add to supper tonight.
He told Uncle Obúdius that his father was up in the first field, and that his mother was home. He said goodbye and spurred Clipper into motion. Obúdius was not really his Uncle, but rather an old friend of his fathers'. He was a big and blustery man, brave and strong, but of all the people the boy knew, Obúdius made him somewhat uneasy. The great man was shifty of mood, now boistrous and playful, but then suddenly sullen and thoughtful. The boy was awed by him, but some part of him mistrusted Obúdius, and he preferred to keep his distance. He got the feeling also that while his father honoured him as an old friend, that that friendship was cooling, and his uncle's visits were appreciated less by his parents than they had been in the past. As the boy rode away, and Obúdius carried on with his ascent, billows of mist were rising to their level again - it seemed the grey airs were not easily to be dispelled that day.
As he and Clipper went down the trail that descended into the valley, the boy practiced using his sling with little stones (so as not to waste his iron shot). He aimed at the whitewashed boulders that marked the pathway. He pondered how it was said that fairies do not like iron, or so the boy had heard from the aunt of his friends once. He was not decided about what he thought of fairies. The tales of them were ambiguous and general wisdom said to leave them well enough alone, but that they might always be providing unacknowledged boons to those that live near them. These gifts could become a matter of spiteful revenge if uncertain 'rules' were broken by the recipients, or the boons (whatever they might be) could become banes if mis-appreciated or mis-used.
The boughs and splayed branches of the first sparse outlying trees folded over him as the path descended more steeply, and between the trunks of these he saw glimpses, ahead and below, of the nine ancient standing stones that formed a close ring just above and west of the cross-roads. This waymeet was where the valley track intersected the High Path that ran all along the foothills of the mountains, sometimes nearer, sometime further, from the cliffs of the peaks. The High Path joined the numerous widespread homesteads of the uplands, and in the east, descended to the plains and turned south to the villages.