Little Boy Of The Mountain N
--N--
He crossed the little bridge, though this was not strictly necessary, since the river could be passed over in quite a few places here and there, by leaping to large rocks that peeped out of the water. Only when the rivers ran very strongly after heavy rains were these rocks submerged, and the bridge a requirement. The path of roughly laid flagstones led now northward and entered the shaded area of the lower pool. The happy waterfall sprayed down from on high, cascading over a wet cliff face in a corner of the great mountain boulder. A wide hall-space was created here, by the great trees overhead and the close-walled, fern-lined valley sides. The water bubbled and foamed gently, and while the soft rain was lessening now, rainwater dropped still from leaves high above to tinkle like diamonds upon the pool and splash upon the undergrowth. He had not spotted any salmon in the pool, but there were some small dark fish darting about below the surface.
He walked around the little foaming lake and passed his fishing tripod, which stood where he had left it. There the boy put his sling-staff down against it, for he could not continue the journey onward carrying his prop. It was too large and awkward, and he needed both his hands free. He moved towards the steep rock cliff that seemed to bar his further progress up the valley. Here there was a great old tree, riven partly in two - perhaps by a lightning strike long ago. It had wide-groping roots that were seated in the angle of boulder, pool, and valley floor. The larger part of it's divided trunk ascended just to the right of the waterfall itself. Some of it's great curving branches had grown into and around the mighty rocks, and the tree seemed to be resting against them, and reaching over them, while with the lesser half of it's sundered bole, that split off to the right, seemed to be holding onto a protrusion of rock two-thirds of the way up. The tree reminded the boy of a gigantic stick insect trying to climb the wet cliff. On previous journeys he had found a way to climb this tree and sneak up to a secret spot above the waterfall, where another hidden pool lay, and that also was covered over by tall trees with dense foliage. It was the place where his favourite berry bushes grew.
Now this secret upper pool was nigh to the glade wherein was found the burial mound of his great grandmother - the mother of his father's mother, whom he had never met for she had died many years before the boy was born. That glade used to be easier to reach from the north, almost directly from the High Path - the opposite direction from which the boy now came. For a landslide and treefall had completed the long-threatened blockage of the valley from above, but for a short section where the river ran underground. That final closing of the upper valley path had occurred on the same night the storm ravaged the old reservoir of the stone circle. How old had he been then?
He climbed the great cliff-side tree beside the waterfall, which would have been much more difficult if he was a full-statured man, given the overgrowth of vines and closely twisting branches. He had a sudden sad thought of the possibility that at some point, as he grew up, he would no longer be small enough to get to the upper glade...
He reached the top and squeezed beneath a horizontal branch, scraping his belly somewhat on the granite rock. He had to worm his way through a thick grove of wet ferns overgrown by a tangle of vined branches of the tree that he had climbed. This leafy tunnel was right next to the stream where it tumbled over the cliff. He got through, huffing and puffing. Then he stood up in his familiar escape. He was standing beyond the top of the waterfall and overlooked the upper pool from which it's waters fell. This glade was even darker, as only a small section of the sky was open through a gap in the tree cover high above. When it was sunny, a great beam of sharp light fell upon a small mound in a flat, raised grassy area above and to the right of this upper pond, where the storm waters could not reach. That was the mound of his great grandmother.
The berry bushes were near where the stream entered the little lake, on the other side of the shadowy dell from where he stood. The rain had stopped entirely now, and a diffuse glow of light teased upon all he saw. There was a small brightly shimmering green bird with a red crown flitting down at the waters edge. He slowly ambled around the quiet pool. The water here was less deep, and it could be easily waded except at the far bank where the berry bushes lay. There was a little island rock in the center of the pond, where a crude stone seat had been constructed, facing the mound. It was covered in leafy creepers. Beside it grew a small rosebush. He had never sat in the old chair. It felt somehow ominous, and it reminded him of the scary tales of the plight of Old Mr. Horn. But also it provoked a strange yearning and sadness within him. His thoughts strayed to the mound. He peered over his right shoulder at it now, but he could not ponder it too long, or he would get depressed.
The boy reached the center of the glade to the right of the still waters, and observed the entire scene for a while, turning slowly on his heels, he took in all the sights and sounds and fine details. He heard the gentle buzzing of a bee-hive somewhere nearby. Honey!
First however, he went to fetch some of his favourite berries. The little boy was famished now. He knew not to over-eat however, for they were strong of flavour and could curdle an empty belly in large quantities. He walked to the northern-most section of the glade, where the stream sprung out from between tall and thick ferns and bushes that lurked in the shadow below the tall trees that surrounded them on all sides. There were impenetrable thickets on the far (western) side of the lake, that barred any from reaching the other stream and it's stepped waterfalls, while the steep sides of the valley on the right and east were not scaleable unless with ropegear, perhaps.
His tummy grumbled. He turned to the berry bushes, which grew just out of reach on the far bank, and hung just over the still waters. To reach these he had to get down on his knees and stretch out over a curving bay of the pond, reaching across to an almost-submerged boulder in the deepest part of the water. With this he could support himself with one hand, and with the other could (usually) reach some tasty growths of the dark cherry-coloured berries. This he did - after emptying his upper pockets in case something fell out, as had happened once before. He had lost his flimsy old sling that time. Now, as he leaned out over the dark waters he looked down, and he saw mirrored in them his own face in silhouette, and above that (or was it below?) were echoed the great limbs, branches, swaying twigs and leaves of the huge valley trees, through which a grey light filtered.
The light slowly changed, or the waters seemed to clear a little. Though he had made this journey quite often, and performed this balancing act over the lake almost as many times, he saw something then he had not noticed before. On the sandy bottom of the lake, he could see a dark glass bottle. He peered at it, trying to judge it's size and contents. It appeared to be too deep to reach without getting very wet.
It was just then that he heard a strange sound. It was a low rumbling hiss. He heard some cracking of twigs and a soft scraping noise, like that of bark chaffing. There were some heavy reverberations in the air and his ears popped as if with pressure changes - as though he were running speedily downhill. He wondered if he saw then, as he looked downward, reflected in the waters, the branches of the trees above him seeming to move and writhe. Or was that just ripples disturbing the mirrored scene? Quickly he shoved himself upwards from the wet rock with his one hand, and found himself kneeling on the bank and staring straight into the eyes of...
What was it?
It hissed at him. He was in sudden marvelous shock and he held his breathe, yet this was after some delay in attempting to resolve what exactly he was looking at. It was outside of all experience.
It was the head of what appeared to be a gigantic serpent, bright emerald green with highlights of almost-yellow in places. It's scales were enormous and smooth as glass. It's head was upon the end of a long neck that looped down from the trees above and beyond, went underneath the ferns and berry pushes and popped out from beneath them at the lake-edge opposite him. The neck barely skimmed across the lake surface and then rose to meet him. Its mouth was closed. It hardly moved. It's huge eyes, somewhat oversized in it's great head, were unblinking. It was only four or five feet away. Suddenly the little lad realized his peril, for he could not move, though the impulse to flee burst from within him.