“Not too … old to … climb,” another man panted.
“These hillfolk … hop uphill like … mountain goats,” a third soldier rasped.
“Halt,” the sergeant said.
Alea didn’t, but she could feel the relief from his men.
“We’re chasing … the wrong … travelers,” the sergeant gasped.
“There’s a … woman…” a soldier wheezed.
“Not … worth it…” the sergeant told him. “Other women on … the road…”
She could feel their silent agreement. “Back to … the horses,” the sergeant said. His men were glad to start back down. “Keep going,” Gar grunted.
“You didn’t … have to … say it,” Alea retorted. Then, suddenly, their feet struck level ground. Gar climbed up onto a mountain ledge and stood staring at it in disbelief. “It’s a … path!”
“You didn’t think… we were the only ones … ever come … up here … did you?” Alea was grateful to climb up onto the ledge, though.
“Frankly … yes,” Gar said. “At least … I didn’t expect … anyone who wasn’t … born here.”
“They need paths … too.” But Alea saw what he meant. The path was six feet wide at least and had clearly been hewn out of the rock; she could see the original track had only been three feet across. Someone had widened it—but why?
“Must be something … worth seeing … up there,” Gar said. “Perhaps at least … someplace to … spend the night.”
“Let’s look,” Alea agreed.
They set out, and since the path was flat and slanted upward across the curve of the hill, it was nowhere nearly as steep as clambering up the hillside would have been. The going was much easier, allowing them to catch their breath. They followed the track around the curve of the hill—and came upon a man sitting at the side of the road.
He sat cross-legged, back perfectly straight, hands on his knees. He had close-cropped gray hair, a lined and weatherbeaten face that was clean shaven, and wore a robe like a longer version of a peasant’s tunic, made of the same homespun material.
Alea stopped, staring in amazement. The last thing she would have expected on this mountainside was an old man, and certainly not one who had come all this way up just to sit and admire the view.
On the other hand, any man of his age who came up this path must have to sit down and rest frequently—but looking more closely, she saw that his gaze was unfocused.
Even as she looked, though, his eyes came into focus and his face tilted upward, smile widening. “Good afternoon, my friends. What brings you to this mountain?”
“Refuge,” Gar replied.
“The roads aren’t terribly safe just now,” Alea explained.
“Not even on this mountain, alas.” The old man sighed. “Still, if we wished only safety, we should never have been born, should we?”
It struck Alea as an odd thing to say and she could tell from the polite mask that slid over Gar’s features that he thought so, too, but he only said, “Some of us didn’t have all that much choice in the matter, sir.”
“Indeed,” the old man agreed. “We live because our parents insisted—or mistook. Still, before we were born, we might have had some choice in the matter.”
Gar gave him a thin smile. “If so, good sir, I don’t remember it.”
“There are very few who do,” the old man told him, “and it takes a lifetime’s discipline to achieve that.” He rose with a fluid grace, amazing in one who had been sitting cross-legged for a long period, and said, “You must not stay your journey for a silly old man, though. Come, let us ascend the mountain together.” And he set off as, nimbly as a teenager, giving a stream of talk to which Gar listened bemused, and at which Alea marveled.
Then, suddenly, she realized that the old man was listening, nodding encouragement, while she and Gar did the talking. Little by little, he had led them into answering his questions. She tried to stop talking, but his eyes were somehow both compelling and inviting, and she found herself telling him of her parents’ deaths and the confiscation of their, property, including herself. Near tears, she took refuge in bitterness.
The old man sensed it and turned the question to Gar. “You too have learned to harden your heart, my friend, as a wound develops the hardness of a scar. What cut so deep?”
Alea was suddenly very intent on his answer, not even stopping to wonder why.
“A witch,” Gar said, “a woman who enticed me, then humiliated me.”
Well. That explained a lot. But why would he tell this to a total stranger and never to her?
Because she was a woman, of course—and because she had touched his heart.
No! Impossible! She turned her attention away from it, or tried to—but the old man had turned to her, no doubt detecting Gar’s uneasiness. “And you, young woman? Painful though it may be to be given away as a chattel, there is some deeper hurt within you—and I pity you deeply, for such a pain must be profound indeed!”
Gar turned to her, wide-eyed.
Suddenly self-conscious, she said, “When men treat women as objects, sir, that is surely pain enough.”
“Indeed,” the old man agreed, “and much more severe it must have been to be so much worse than enough.” He turned back to Gar. “But pain that belongs to the past, my friends, must not poison your futures.”
“Easily said, sir,” Gar said slowly, “but how do you prevent it from doing so?”
“How can you keep yourself from treating new acquaintances as old ones have treated you?” The old man smiled. “Ah, my friends, it is therein that we must have courage, the courage to trust!”
“And to let ourselves be wounded all over again?” Alea was surprised at her own bitterness.
“We must take the risk,” the old man said, “or live forever within the shell of ourselves, enclosed and alone, like an oyster who guards his pearl—but what use is that pearl if it is kept always in darkness, never given to the light which alone can show its luster?”
Gar winced; that had touched a nerve somewhere.
To hide it, he accused, “You’re saying that we must always expose ourselves to attack.”
“An attack that may not come,” the old man corrected.
“Or may come indeed,” Alea said with some heat, “and be worse than any we’ve known!”
“Therein lies the need for courage,” the old man agreed, “but there is never any gain without risk of loss. If we would win friendship, even love, we must open ourselves enough to receive it.”
“That is hard to do,” Gar said slowly, “when one has been hurt again and again and again.”
Alea felt the truth of the statement within herself even as she recognized that Gar’s words verified her suspicions. But what hurts had he received?
“You mean that there is no love without trust,” she said, “but trust always risks hurt.”
The old man nodded. “Therefore love requires courage. An ancient prophet said that if someone strikes you on the cheek, you should turn your face and expose the other cheek for another blow. I think this is what he spoke of, the need to always be open to love no matter how we have been hurt.”
“Easy enough to say,” Gar said with precise politeness, “but how do we dredge up such courage?”
“By waiting until we find someone else who needs to prove that people can still be trusted,” the old man said, “then be patient as they hurt us again and again, ever fearing that we will lash out, ever hoping that they will not.”
Alea shuddered. “No human being can have such patience!” She wondered why Gar glanced at her so oddly.
But he turned back to the old man and said, “We must allow someone else to hurt us because they need to learn to trust?”
“Only if they still have the potential to love.” The old man raised a forefinger. “It is very hard to tell, because one who can love but who has been hurt guards his heart well behind armor.”