The old sorcerer breathes in, his medicine hot in his chest. He sits atop a mountain shaped like an ear, listening to the dreams that cross from the west when Sun goes to his sleep.

A child burns and is saved and burns again.

A man dices with gods.

A hollow mountain is aflame.

The old sorcerer is tired, but he knows an end finally comes. He has been called many names during his long life. Black names, evil deeds clinging to them with sharp fingers. Names bright with fire. Names wet with tears. But the name of a thing is not important, and he must do what he must do. He is ready for this end, whatever it will be. He is ready.

He breathes in, smells the smoke. Hears these things:

The wailing of an infant.

The rattle of bones.

The prayers of burning men.

The laughter of spirits.

The cry of lovers.

The drums, the stomp of feet.

The sorcerer holds the cut bones in his hands, feeling their warmth. They are a powerful part of his medicine, given to him in the long-ago, kept next to his skin. He casts them upon the ground, three times.

He knows that, just past the end of things, there is a beginning. That is the way of the Above Ones.

 

It is I who sings you this tale.

Breathe in, then.

Listen.