Another lucid moment.

Now I hear birds chirping as they greet the sun.

A new day is breaking.

The smoke has cleared, but the mist filling my head keeps me from waking.

You must follow Kasamarchi on his whole journey, up to your meeting. Not until then will I let you go, a strange voice tells me. Each of his words leaves a short, melodious echo as if the speaker was creating his own music, accompanying himself. This music grows louder, drowning the subsiding voice until I no longer hear the words, only the tune. And…and I understand its meaning. So weird.

Who needs words if music can get the point across just the same? The tune is so familiar. Where have I heard it before?

And why did the massacre Kasamarchi’s Angel created in the Handwalker Hollow stir no emotions in me at all? What had happened seemed so natural. Maybe because I knew it was just a dream.

Or…or was it Kasamarchi? And me seeing that carnage through his eyes?

Hush you bye,

Never mind,

Never mind that carnage,

A carnage way down the Hollow

A lullaby? Is that why this tune is so familiar?

Lapsing back into the dream, I hurry to complete the intricate pattern of his memory.

***

I walked away from the Peak of Spirits, peace in my heart, a rolled-up- vulture’s feather in my bag.

The feather.

In reality, it was a thin, hard-bodied, bristly worm almost biting at my finger.

In my mind, I heard the words Father had told me as we stood on the banks of the Lizard, in the old Bayleaf’s shade. “Vultures from the Peak of Spirits are not your regular birds. Or rather not birds at all, though they look like them. They never lose their feathers, as they have no feathers at all. You will have to try your best to get even a single one. But if you can’t do it within three days, turn around and go home. Don’t stay there any longer. On the fourth day, the spirits will reach your Core and turn you into another vulture.”

That said, Father looked straight in my eyes and added, “My son, reaching the Peak and returning is hard. Obtaining the feather is much harder. But that’s how you become an Asper. A boy who comes back without a feather will still be a warrior. But a boy who dies trying to get the feather will just be a dead boy. Do you understand, Kasamarchi?”

I nodded, unable to take my eyes off the fervent gleam in his. For a couple of moments, he peered at me, looking for the signs that I understood him. Then he smiled and clapped me on the shoulder.

“All right. If you do get the feather, loop it immediately, but take care not to touch the tip. This way.” He twisted a young, flexible twig into the shape of a ring, bringing its ends together.

It wasn’t until now that I began to get the meaning of his words.

…On the tenth day, I reached the Pupil—a narrow arch between two rocks at the bottom of the Snake Eye Canyon, the last obstacle on my way to the Peak.

I squeezed myself through the Pupil, overcoming the howling wind. Finally, its stone grip released, letting me through. I looked at the vast openness sprawling at my feet, the dry wind of the plains caressing my face. After the endless hollows and canyons, this sight was so unusual it made me dizzy.

The plain was a broad, round plateau surrounded by a rocky crevice, then by an encircling wall of steep rocks. Once, this vast plain had probably been level with mountain tops. Over time, it had sunk deeply, becoming something like the bottom of a giant cup separated from its walls by a crack running around it.

Far ahead, in the very middle of this sparsely wooded plain, the lone Peak of Spirits stood, prodding the sky like a giant bony finger.

The opposite wall of this giant cup was hidden by blue haze in the distance.

The only way down to the plateau was a winding path starting at my feet, the Pupil behind me being the only gate connecting this area with the rest of the world.

No other way in.

Or out.

I stole one last glance at the Snake Eye—split by a pitch-black crack across the middle, it actually looked like a pupil. I strode along the path, crunching the stone dust and glancing at the Peak of Spirits. The lower I descended, the higher it seemed. A stone finger, probably belonging to some giant who had incurred the wrath of the heavens. Hitting the giant’s head with his fist, God drove the whole of him into the ground except for this finger, raised to point at the source of his misfortune.

Reaching the Peak took four more days, although each morning, I woke to the stone finger appearing close enough for me to reach by dusk.

This mountain had seen many young faces but far fewer young backs. Not everyone left this place on their own feet, and there was no way to take the bodies back. The Pupil was too narrow for any adult or any animal larger than a fox to get through.

So the bodies of the children who failed their Passage remained here, at the foot of the Peak. Approaching the bulk of the stone finger, now as vast as half of the sky, I saw their skulls among scattered daggers, leather bags, and remnants of clothing.

These children must have fallen off trying to climb the steep rock. Or maybe the vultures knocked them down.

Bone and metal were dark with age. Very few Aspers remained in Crealia; no more children came here for their Passage. Once upon a time, girls used to come here too, but, as more Asper families were destroyed, the survivors would only send their sons to the Peak.

Glancing over the scattered daggers, I saw one very similar to the one dangling from my belt. Did my parents have another son?

The next moment a vulture’s shadow passed over me. Jumping away and pulling out my dagger, I forgot my elder brother. Time for the younger brother to focus on his own survival. Or…or the middle brother? Why not?

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From this distance, the vultures looked like huge, dirty-white birds. As they descended in broad circles, I turned my head around, my dagger ready. I wondered why Angel would not appear by my side, trumpet in one hand and whip in the other.

The vultures landed a dozen paces away. Slowly, they walked towards me, the unwanted guest, scrutinizing me and exposing themselves to my eyes.

I retreated towards the rock, my uneasiness mounting.

I had seen many odd creatures in my short life. On my way here, I had avoided some of them and killed others.

But these things…

They weren’t real birds, certainly.

Once, they used to be human. Boys of seven, I could see no girls among them. Now they were walking corpses, blind and overgrown with sparse feathers. Each one had a couple of wings covered in more feathers.

With their ashy faces like masks, these dead boys seemed to obey an invisible puppet master. They descended to the ground because he dropped their strings. At his command, they would soar into the sky again or…or attack me.

So that’s it. There are not only those who come back and those who die, their remains scattered at my feet. But there are also those who lingered here for too long, trying to obtain the feather. The spirits took their souls, turning them into a bunch of puppets, forever stuck between life and death.

I stole another glance at the cleanly picked bones of the fallen children. Who was luckier? They or…those other boys?

The Whistle remained on my neck, even though the first vulture had almost reached me.

My Angel was silent.

Backing up another step, my back ran into cold stone. Nowhere to retreat.

What’s wrong with this Whistle? What should I do? Wait or…?

Desperately, I lunged at the closest dead boy, ready for anything.

The vultures recoiled.

Pushing off the ground clumsily, they flew up, their wings fanning foul air at me. Their puppet master must have commanded, Enough.

I stepped away from the wall, following them with my eyes. The dead boys circled through the air, flying away and looking more and more like just some strange birds until, one by one, they started to vanish into the dark caves in the cliff.

Suddenly the ground lurched from beneath my feet, tilting slightly. I heard a noise in my ears, dirty-pink circles spreading before my eyes.

To keep from falling, I rested my hand on the rock, suddenly warm. Like a living thing. The rough stone surface vibrated beneath my hand like a shivering giant.

My breath was taken away by a sudden feeling of unity with this mountain. I wanted nothing more than to lie down at its side, cuddling up in a ball, and fall asleep.

The rock beneath my fingers gave another shiver, my eyes closing as I began to drift into sleep.

I looked around for a spot with thicker, softer grass to lie down on when I heard Father’s voice. The spirits will reach your Core and turn you into another vulture.

Jerking my hand away from the rock as if it were burning hot, I shook my head and blinked, opening my eyes as wide as possible.

I’ve barely arrived here! How loud could they call me in an hour? In a day?

I was too scared to imagine spending even a single night at the Peak, with its evil magic trying to take over my mind, let alone three days.

My desire to sleep was gone, my mind pulsing, a rushing train of fearful thoughts.

Time is working for them. It’s me who must hurry. I must come up with a way to get the damn feather.

I shook my head.

Really, really high.

I’d better not attempt to climb—a scattering of thin childish bones at the foot of the cliff spoke of the reckless stupidity of this decision.

So…

…I must get the vultures to come down here!

What can I lure them with?

Fresh meat, definitely.

Lure them and attack, hoping that Angel would come to my aid this time. He hadn’t failed me before—not at the initiation when he destroyed those handwalkers, nor any time afterward, like when he swept the Stone Demon’s horned head off its shoulders and killed a dozen agile Poisonous Hoppers in the Snake Eye Canyon. He hadn’t woken at my first encounter with the vultures because they were not going to attack—that was the only sensible explanation.

Getting fresh meat was no problem for a seasoned hunter, even if he’s only a boy of seven. I’d seen lots of game on my way here.

The feathers were more of a concern—there was something wrong about them. I saw them stirring, not from the wind but on their own accord, each one separately. As if they were alive.

Or was it just me?

Whatever. I’m not going home without a feather.

…The last wave of agony ran over the doe’s body, smoothing out the tight knots of veins beneath its short hair.

As the doe stopped moving, I dragged its body out of the thickets. Leaving it out in the open at the foot of the Peak, I hid in the nearby shrubs. I hoped that the vultures would reach my bait before any large predator came from the plains, drawn to the smell of blood; that would complicate my task greatly.

I was in luck; I did not have to wait long.

The edge of the setting sun had barely come out from behind the Peak when winged shadows fell on the grass. Gliding through the air, the vultures landed silently, spreading a vile stench.

I froze in the shrubs, jumping distance from the bait, my sweaty palm clutching the dagger’s hilt.

Once they touched the ground, the dead boys collapsed on all fours to tear the doe’s warm flesh with their teeth.

An eternity passed before their growling started to die down. The first vulture lifted its bloody face from the doe’s remains…

…then the second…

…the fifth…

…the eighth…

One after another, they pushed off with a heavy flap of huge wings, beginning their ascent.

…until the last one remained on the ground. Fortunately, its back was turned to me.

We jumped at the same time. It pushed off the ground, flapping its wings, and I leaped from the shrubs onto its back.

A moment before jumping, I clutched my chest. The Whistle was not there, to my immense relief. At last!

My dagger sank up to the hilt in the back of the vulture’s head, but it didn’t seem to mind. Still flapping its wings, it didn’t even bother to shake me off or look back at the obstacle pressing him down to the ground.

Having killed the doe only an hour before, I could still feel the death convulsions rolling over its agonizing body. Such a stark contrast with this mechanic doll clapping its wings monotonously. It challenged my sense of reality.

A flap of wings.

A dagger strike.

Another flap.

Another strike.

Another flap…

Raging, I struck again and again, my blade sinking into dead flesh, but the vulture’s wings kept flapping in stubborn attempts to take the double weight off…

The feathers!

Remembering my goal, I gripped at the dead boy’s neck with my dagger hand, freeing another to tug at a few hard stalks covered in whitish hair.

The feathers remained in my hand.

Releasing my grip on the vulture’s neck, I jumped off.

The flying puppet, unstirred, made another flap of wings, taking off to start a slow ascension.

…when the feathers stirred in my hand.

It was so sudden I unclenched my fist and dropped them. Falling on the ground, they wriggled towards the rock like giant, hairy caterpillars.

Noticing winged shadows returning, I looked up and was terrified to see the vultures descending. They had probably been told to collect the feathers.

I turned around.

Angel stood behind me, his blind wooden eyes staring up, his whip ready in hand.

His trumpet was most likely useless this time—no way to paralyze these dead creatures as he had the handwalkers. But I believed he’d manage without it.

I seized the last escaping caterpillar, crumpling its whitish hair. At the “end,” I saw a tiny black mouth with three crooked, yellow teeth sticking out, probably used by this creature to hold onto the dead boy’s body.

The “feather” wriggled frantically, trying to bite my hand. Again, I heard Dad’s voice. If you do get the feather, loop it immediately, but take care not to touch the tip. This way.

Dropping my dagger, I caught the other end of the caterpillar’s body to jab it into the three-tooth mouth. In an instant, the tiny jaws closed around the tail.

So that’s what he meant by looping the feather.

Tossing my trophy into the bag, I picked up the dagger and ducked into the shrubs behind Angel’s back. In a moment, I heard the boom of his whip, like a lightning bolt hitting the foot of the Peak.

I walked away without looking back, my back feeling the warmth of the setting sun…and the Peak’s regretful stare. This mountain would rather have me stay.

My heart was calm and empty.

Four days later, I reached the Snake Eye, concerned that it might not let me through as I’d grown up a bit over the past week. Nonetheless, I made it. Entering the cool semi-dark of the Hollow, I inhaled its damp, still air, rejoicing at my triumph.

The Whistle was on my chest, and my dagger’s identical twin lay in my bag, next to the “feather.” I was going to ask my parents about it when I got home.