Michael Wolfgang Weaver

Andrea Rudy

Adam Engel

Strungbocks

Llamas cannot fly, but Mountain Climbers do climb mountains. This doesn't seem to be a surprise. Some Mountain Climbers play the strungbocks. Some Mountain Climbers—such as Wulka Red Hat of the Willows—did both. Years earlier, before he had removed himself in pursuit of peaks, his now absent fellows had dubbed him Red Hat, most certainly because of the hat he refused not to wear, which was indeed colored red. This also doesn't seem to be a surprise. One can decide for oneself, but the surprise seems to be that Red Hat was lonely.

Red Hat had climbed forty-one mountains. Number 42 was to be Mount Rain Hand. Its peak was three miles high and forever wrapped in clouds. At the foot of this mountain, forever wrapped in song, crouched the village of Singing Root. Red Hat found himself there on the eve of his climb.

Once in repose at the Flying Llama Inn, Red Hat drank hot cider and ate pumpkin bread, and met the Drum Maker and the Llama Lender.

"The strungbocks you carry looks to be of sweet sound," said the Drum Maker.

"It is," said Red Hat. "The ants brought it to me and taught me how to play."

"Ants will do that," said the Drum Maker and sipped his tea.

"Might I lend you a llama?" The Llama Lender scratched under his beard.

"Thank you, but no," said Red Hat politely.

"They know the way to Rain Hand's home," sang the Llama Lender—he had seen clearly that Red Hat was a Mountain Climber.

"I climb alone," said Red Hat. His nose caught some odiferousness from the rose and marigold candles.

"This doesn't seem to be a surprise," said the Drum Maker, and sipped his tea.

Red Hat pondered the strange comment, and pondered it still as he fell asleep that night in his odd shaped room at the Flying Llama Inn.

Before the morning birds could awake, Red Hat strapped his burdensome pack to his back and began to climb. He knew Rain Hand's home was at the summit and he intended to call upon her. He climbed all of the day. When the sun ended its flight, landing beyond the mountains far over Red Hat's left shoulder, he found a sheltered place to sleep. In his camp he made a fire, wrapped himself in fur and the old blanket White Bear had given him, and played his strungbocks. He wondered, as he played slow, what magic Rain Hand might be creating up on her peak.

When Red Hat woke in the morning, it was raining. This then transformed to snow by the time his pumpkinseed breakfast had ended. Moreover, the snow persisted. For three slippery days, the Sun did not come to admire Red Hat's climb. The world was either gray or black, and constantly throwing diminutive bits of ice.

On the third night, while playing his strungbocks before his tiny lamp—for there was no wood for fire—Red Hat heard a voice.

"Nice blanket," the voice said.

"Who's there?" Red Hat spoke to the darkness.

It was Llama. He hunkered down and the breath from his nostrils displayed ghostly in the lamplight.

"I haven't much heat to share," said Red Hat.

"I wish only to hear the music you make," said Llama. "To repay you I will help carry some of your burden as you climb."

"I climb alone," said Red Hat, and offered the Llama some flax crackers.

Red Hat played the strungbocks. The Llama slowly drifted to sleep.

When Red Hat woke in the morning, the snow had stopped and Llama was absent. Red Hat climbed alone for another four days. Clear-air days. Hidden-sun days. On the eighth night of the climb, as Red Hat played, Llama occurred again.

"I bring wood for fire," said he, "in thanks for your company."

Red Hat replied, "I have climbed before without fire, friend, but if my company deserves such kindness then my thanks to you shall be more company."

Red Hat played the strungbocks—with the sound of Spring—while Llama built a fire. The blazing cedar warmed their bones and their hearts. The cloying scent of the spirituous smoke made them sleepy. The Llama and Red Hat climbed together the next day, talking of other mountains, other villages, White Bear, and Raven. In the dark hours, before sleep, they talked of Rain Hand and what she might be like, but both seemed to have more questions than answers. Rain Hand was indeed mysterious.

Llama departed again, for business un-articulated, and Red Hat climbed alone again. The wood for fire lasted two more days. Red Hat played the strungbocks by lamplight for a further five days.

Red Hat celebrated his twenty-first day of ascending by sitting, not climbing, and imagining what the world might look like un-obscured by clouds. Llama became unobscured then. He brought no wood, but did bring Black Sparrow.

"I am near the peak, friend Llama,” said Red Hat. “I was hoping to see you again before I reached it."

"I bring Black Sparrow to talk with you," said the Llama. "She knows the way to Rain Hand's home."

"Is it not on the summit?" asked Red Hat.

"Not quite," said Black Sparrow, alighting on the curl of the strungbocks.

"The purpose of climbing a mountain is to stand on the peak." Red Hat scratched under his beard.

The Black Sparrow chirped: "When you play this instrument does your hand come all the way to the top?"

"No," Red Hat said slowly. "My fingers cannot touch the strings there."

Black Sparrow chirped again: "Would there be music if the instrument did not have this top?"

"No," Red Hat said more slowly. He was puzzled. "Without the curl, the strings could not be tightened."

"It is important for the music, but not touched for the playing." Llama closed his eyes.

"Do play," chirped Black Sparrow.

Red Hat played a song of puzzlement at first, but when the Black Sparrow joined in, the song again became like friendship and springtime.

Then morning paraded. The sun visited, but Red Hat’s friends were gone. He was glad to see the sun after many gray days. As he climbed, he found he wished for the company of Llama and Black Sparrow. Two more days of climbing and again the world turned gray, for Red Hat entered the cloud that forever clung to the peak of Mount Rain Hand.

Two days on again, climbing through the cloud, and Red Hat knew in his frosted feet he was very near his outcome. As he sat before his lamp holding the strungbocks, he pondered: should he find Rain Hand, or strive for the peak? Mountains were climbed to stand on the top, but somehow that didn't seem as important now. He was sure Rain Hand would be good company.

The Black Sparrow flitted into the circle of lamplight. “You are near the home of Rain Hand,” she said. “If you don't object to company while you climb, I will show you the way.”

"Delighted," said Red Hat quickly, and he began to play.

They did set out together in the morning. Red Hat climbed, Black Sparrow flew from rock to rock. They talked of the Seasons, the Llama, and the Valley Dogs. They talked of Rain Hand, but both seemed to have more questions than answers.

This wouldn't seem to be a surprise.

Suddenly, there was Rain Hand's home: a jagged space in the rock, invisible as a place of power but for two small figures, carved from stone, marking the entrance. Both figures looked to be winged fish—effigies Red Hat had ever seen before.

"My thanks for bringing me here." Red Hat offered Black Sparrow a pumpkinseed. "What do you suppose I do now?"

"You might just go in," said the bird.

"Not very polite," said Red Hat.

"No door to knock upon."

"No." Red Hat began to think it easier to continue to the peak and forego his visit with Rain Hand, when an idea struck him—struck him as the wind strikes the Belltree. He would play the strungbocks. And he did.

Not long did he play before a voice came from the craggy entrance: "Surely the someone who sits outside knows much of the ways of people," said the voice. The sound was like ice melting.

"Are you Rain Hand?" said Red Hat with a fading stroke at the strungbocks.

"Not only, but none other," said the voice. "You are welcome to enter."

Red Hat looked for Black Sparrow but the bird had gone. The entrance was too narrow and crooked for Red Hat to bring his pack. He set it near and entered with the strungbocks held before him. To the darkness, he explained his discomfort at leaving the trusted heft of the pack. The voice meandered to him: "Those who visit shall bring no more than the entrance will permit."

Ahead, three fires flared to life. One was near, the other two further back in the cavern. In the light of the first, Red Hat saw a stone pedestal. A huge leather-bound book rested upon it. On the book rested an ink well, a quill pen, and an alert white vole with red eyes and quivering nose.

"Rain Hand?" Red Hat inquired of the vole.

"I am not she, but she is me," the vole answered.

Red Hat approached and saw the name of the book. "Diction Aerie?" he said, puzzled.

"It is a book of exactness," said the vole.

Red Hat knew this, of course. "Why is it here?" was his question. "High up on this mountain?"

"Some definitions are harder to reach," said the vole, and she scampered down the pedestal. "If you would be so kind as to add to the book, Rain Hand bids you stay here for the night." The vole scurried out of the cave.

Red Hat withstood, bewildered for a moment, then set the ink and quill aside and opened the book.

Wulka Red Hat of the Willows:

That was all.

The rest of the first page, and all remaining pages were empty. Red Hat dipped the quill in the ink and wrote.

Mountain Climber.

Very simple, he thought, and went further back into the cave where the two remaining fires blazed.

There he found a fur-covered cot for sleeping, a wooden trunk, food and water, all sitting on a colorful tapestry rug that smelled softly of ancient tombs. That night, by the light of one fire, Red Hat sat on the cot and drifted to sleep staring at the rug. It reminded him of the sea—though he had never seen the sea.

Surprise or not, asleep or awake, there was Rain Hand, young and old. Red Hat talked with her in a room that was simple and complex, colorful and stark.

"Your demarcation is small," she said, "but it is also large. Do you see both?"

Red Hat answered but didn't know what exactly he said.

"You wondered whether to end your climb here at my home, or to continue to the summit of the mountain. Do you see both or one?"

Again, Red Hat was unsure of how he answered.

"You are a Mountain Climber, or you are not? You are alone. Or you are not." Rain Hand braided her long, brine-polished hair. "Both are important, and can be one. What is the definition of preference?"

"I can write much in the Diction Aerie," said Red Hat—he knew he said this.

Upon waking, he found he was in the cot in the grotto. Sunlight penetrated the entrance—and from somewhere further back in the cave. This light he had not noticed before. After washing and eating, Red Hat searched for the source of this light, and found a winding stairway carved from the rock. The sunlight descended from an opening high above. Red Hat climbed the steps, keeping time with the echoes of his footfalls, and emerged on the peak of Mount Rain Hand.

Clouds spread in all directions below him, cloaking all eight horizons, but sunlight illumed the peak. There, Red Hat stayed and played the strungbocks while the sun journeyed overhead. Then the Llama visited again—not climbing up the mountain, but descending from the sky. This doesn't seem to be a surprise. It did surprise Red Hat, however.

"How was your visit with Rain Hand?" asked Llama.

"It was both clear and confusing," said Red Hat, still playing the strungbocks.

"If you don't mind the company, I would gladly take you back down to Singing Root," said Llama.

"I would be glad, as well," said Red Hat and climbed onto Llama's back.

Down they flew into the clouds, making one stop at the entrance of Rain Hand's home to retrieve Red Hat's pack. It lay where he had left it. The Diction Aerie lay there, too, with Pallid Vole perched atop it.

"You nearly forgot your book," she said, and scurried into the cave.

Red Hat smiled, took both his pack and his book, and took to the Llama's back once again. He discovered then that flying is much quicker than climbing. Even so encumbered, the pair made it halfway down the mountain before nightfall. Black Sparrow came to visit and all three talked well into the night by the light of the tiny lamp whose pungent smoke told of dangerous adventures. Red Hat felt well rested in the morning, though he had gotten little sleep. He enjoyed having company, playing his strungbocks for them. He also enjoyed the knowing he now felt: the village held promise just as mountains did.

The trio arrived in Singing Root just after sundown. Red Hat thanked his friends and said good-bye, knowing he would see them again. He slept that night at the Flying Llama Inn, with the gentle odor of backed goods seeping up from the kitchen below. Dreams of the sea visited him that night. In the morning, he found the Drum Maker accepting breakfast, and asked to join in the next time the Drum Maker played for the village. Red Hat played his strungbocks and the Drum Maker, having remarked upon the sweetness of the sound, agreed.

Two nights later, Red Hat, the Drum Maker, and the Bread Baker, who had found recently that she liked to play the Belltree, gathered by the Singing Root Fountain and gave a concert for the whole village. As Red Hat played the strungbocks, he knew in his callused fingers the music carried to the top of Mount Rain Hand, and he knew, too, he would someday climb another mountain. Before that day, however, he would write much more in his Diction Aerie.

This doesn't seem to be a surprise.

Michael Wolfgang Weaver's interests extend from Australopithecus to Zoroastrians, with emphasis on mythology, history, Man's relationship to Nature, and investigations into storytelling. He lives in Ohio with his wife and their 3.5 cats.