CHAPTER SIX

"The world is made of Song. The soil and the sky, the mountains and the rivers, the trees and stones, the bears, the deers, and all people are made of the Song. Some of us may add to the Song through the Art. The Art comes in many forms and through many people. I am a flutist. With my flute I can change the world. Listen and watch. This is the Song of the Snow."

Slim Rowon played a slow melody on his flute. It seemed lonely but beautiful. The warmth of the tent sank away and Davram could see his breath fog in the air. Snowflakes began to fall inside the small tent.

"I saw this at the top of the mountain. It was cold and turned to water when I touched it."

"This is snow. It is water in a different form. It can become as hard as stone if cold enough. Even harder. This song has the power of cold. I learned it from my grandmother, who played a yuurgot. Watch this."

He played the flute again, looking at his cup of beer. The song flowed forth. Davram saw the beer ice over. Slim Rowon stopped the song and cracked the thin ice with his knuckle and drank.

"Cool and refreshing," he laughed, "You try now."

Davram sang the song of snow. A great chill swept through the tent, the fire went out and icicles formed on Slim Rowon's eyebrows and beard. The beers froze solid.

"Stop! Stop! I'll freeze to death!"

Davram stopped singing and looked at Slim Rowon with surprise.

The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

"Your singing is powerful! Far greater than my flute. Wondrous!"

Slim Rowon clapped him on the shoulder and began flinting the fire to get it going.

"You do not know the song for fire?"

"I know many songs but not the one for fire. Perhaps one day we shall find it, you and I. What a day that would be."

The flint caught and Slim Rowon began melting his beer.

"Do you know other songs?" Davram asked.

"Here's a good one. This is the Song of Little Avayada."

Slim Rowon played a happy tune, skipping, swinging, alive. From the ground small circles began to grow and pop up. They were green and blue. A handful of small mushrooms. He picked them.

"These are Little Avayada. Eating this much will give you spectacular visions."

He ate them, chewing the mushrooms and drinking the ice cold beer.

"You should not eat them yet. You are too young. I will tell you when to eat them when the time is right."

"Ivishinai."

"What is that?"

"Ivishinai. It is as it is."

"I don't know the word. Ivishinai."

"Somei taught me the word."

"I know many tongues, but not that one."

"What are tongues?"

"This flap in your mouth. But also language. Different places have different people who use different words for the same things. I know fourteen languages from fourteen places, including my birth place. Fifteen if you count Brakan, but I am rough in its grammar."

"You know many things."

"I know very little, for the world is immense and there is always more to learn."

"Ivishinai."

"Ivishinai."

"It is as it is."

"Ivishinai. I like this word of yours. Its meaning makes me think of myself and the world. A good word."

"Do you know more songs?"

"I do, but let us go slow. These mushrooms will begin to work their magic soon and I will have to lie down. You may sleep anywhere, eat anything. Before the mushrooms come, I will teach you a song without power. It is still a good song. Listen."

Slim Rowon played a gentle song. A song like a prairie, wide and green. Davram sang along, and he could feel the person who had written the song, how she had felt looking across her land. So long ago. Years upon years, and here he could feel her heart.

Davram sang softly through the night as Slim Rowon laid back and let the mushrooms wash over him.