Gods of Green Mountain Read Free Page B

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