Chapters (102)
Bal and Awa come through the tunnel before Yari, who gets stuck. They each take an arm and pull. Yari tumbles out, laughing and jingle-jangling. The dog licks their faces and wags a bushy tail. The Goats jump over them, and they all chase each other around the terrace like kids. One Goat butts Awa into Bal. They stumble to the edge. Yari grips them and they sit with legs dangling over the mist. Everyone is laughing. The Goats put their heads on Yari’s shoulder. Vie scratches a neck and around the eyes. Yari gives everyone food from a bag. The dog gobbles his smelly treat quickly, some greasy, dead thing. The Goats get sweetgrass and herbs treats. Awa, Bal, and Yari eat orange fruit and berries. Red fire streaks across pale blue sky over distant mountains. Yari points, delighted. They sit quietly as bits of sky fall and land in Mama Zamba’s bosom.
“Do you think falling stars could land near us?” Bal says.
“They have already, don’t you think?” Awa looks around.
Yari nods. “The stars are our ancestors.”
Awa and Bal groan and giggle. “And there’s a bit of sky in everything.”
“Even in you two.” Yari plays a drum.
Awa shakes her head. “You say mountains, river, even dirt are ancestors.”
“Don’t you feel that on the mountaintop?” Bal stuffs a berry in Awa’s mouth.
“Always take a moment to feel who you are: star, river, dirt,” Yari says. Drumbeats match the words. Awa and Bal titter a second then close their eyes. Even the Goats and wild dog get caught in vie’s beats. When the song ends, Yari slings the drum over a shoulder and, full of sky and dirt, stands tall.
The sun sinks and eagles vanish to their nests. The Goats are full, but not enough time to chew cud. Cold seeps from the mountain and the Goats are glad for wooly coats. Awa and Bal shiver and bleat. The wind blows mist over their flimsy hides. Yari scratches everybody one last time. Vie slithers through the tunnel, singing. The dog nips at Awa and Bal, chasing them into the passageway. The mountain is full of music.
The Goats jump back over the peak and scurry along the knife edge. Still enough sun to see the way, but Yari lights a spark torch. Lightning on a stick. The Goats are used to this. Other creatures who prowl at dusk will avoid them. Awa and Bal cling to each other, sharing warmth. Their eyes glow in the dark. Yari’s glow too, like big-cat eyes. The Goats skip down the cliffs, singing to friends below. Bellies full, spirits high, their troupe prances into the enclave.