“You did a decent thing,” Tunsley said, amazed.
“I try to be a decent guy. But it left me without a bride. So I came here to try for this mountain spirit, who I think is even more lovely than the other.”
“My daughter knows her,” Tunsley said. “She’s no lesbian. She just doesn’t want to settle for the backwater village life. Can’t say I blame her. She could’ve been a star, if she’d lied one day about her age. I have to respect that.”
“I have to respect it too,” Heroe said. “If I win her, I’ll do what I can to enable her to shine.”
“I’m curious, as there has been no news from Bog. How did your mountain solve your village’s problem?”
“I can’t tell you that. It put a magical geis on me forbidding me to tell until after Mt. Miracle has been dealt with. But I can say the mountain came through. So will yours, if I win through to the peak.”
“You know that no one in centuries has ever made it to the peak?”
“Yes. But I hope to be the first. It’s a tough but honest challenge. The mountains don’t like to be bothered by weaklings any more than they want imperfect girls as offerings.”
Tunsley considered briefly. “I like you, Heroe, and hope you will succeed, though I fear you will die as so many have before you. Therefore I will help you, to the extent I can.”
“I had a premonition that there was something good for me here at the turnip farm. I suspect your help will be invaluable.”
“I have spent many years exploring the mountain slopes, admiring Mt. Miracle, and it has come to tolerate me in a manner it does not do for strangers. It allowed me to make a map of its features, some of which are beautiful, some dangerous. I will show you that map so that you may be guided in your challenge. But I must warn you that there is no way to the peak that does not pass by one or more threats. The odds are still against you.”
“I thrive on challenge,” Heroe said. “It gives my restless life meaning.”
Tunsley reached into his shirt and brought out a hide parchment. On it was drawn a crude but accurate map of the mountain, as seen from above. “This is it.”
Heroe studied it briefly. “This is exactly what I need. Thank you.”
“You may take it with you.”
“There is no need. I have memorized it.”
The farmer pursed his lips. “You are remarkable.”
“Not really. The mountain I conquered gave me certain gifts, such as premonition, minor magic, and eidetic memory. I did not appreciate the need for the third until you showed me the map.”
“Your mountain is helping you with this one?” the farmer asked, surprised.
“Yes. I believe it concluded that none of your local boys will succeed in ascending to the peak, and since I did not take the woman I won, it is helping me win another. It’s a matter of mountainly honor.”
“I am still learning things about mountains,” Tunsley said.
“They are to be sincerely respected.”
“They are indeed.” Heroe glanced up the slope. “I must get moving. I have another premonition.”
“But you’re heading right for the avalanche area!” Tunsley protested.
“Yes, as your map informs me. Thank you muchly for it.” He strode onward.
The turnip farmer watched him go, bemused. The challenge he faced was formidable. Was he a hero, as his name implied, or a fool?
Part Three: Adventure, self-explanatory
Heroe forged directly to the avalanche area. This was a moderately steep slope strewn with rounded rocks. It did not look too bad. But he knew better than to trust it. He stood at the edge, waiting.
Another young man arrived, walking an intersecting path. He had a hiking staff and a loaded backpack. He was clearly one of those challenging the mountain. “Get out of my way, jerk,” he snapped.
Heroe stepped aside. “By all means. But I feel it only fair to warn you that this is an avalanche area, not to be treaded lightly. It is better to bypass it.”
“Too bad for you, chicken. I have to make it to the peak before some other lout does, and this is the shortest route. You can wait forever for all I care.”
“I will wait,” Heroe agreed.
The man tromped on across the slope. When he got fairly into the zone, there was a warning rumble, as of stones being jarred loose. Instead of sensibly retreating, he hurried on forward. Heroe, watching, winced.
The rumble increased in magnitude. Rocks began to roll.
The climber broke into a lumbering run, but there was too far to go. A rolling slide of rocks came down, catching the man and burying him. His hiking staff flew up into the air, then clattered on the stones as if marking the place of burial.
The motion slowed, and the stones settled into their new places. The avalanche was over.
Now Heroe started across himself. The rumble resumed, but was powerless to restart the avalanche; the rocks were already moved. He came to the staff and took it; its owner would no longer be needing it.
He made it safely across the zone, thanks to his timing. He regretted the fate of the other climber, but the lout had refused to heed common sense.
Beyond the zone the slope developed a thicket of small dry bushes. Heroe paused again. His mental map indicated that this was a region of chronic fires. If he got in the middle of it, he could be trapped by a spontaneous blaze. But there did not seem to be an alternative route. How should he handle this?
He explored the mental map more carefully. Beside the dry bushes was a steep river channel that was now dry, the water diverted to an adjacent channel. The mountain could probably switch them back and forth to catch unwary climbers. Could he somehow make use of this? Maybe.
Heroe returned to the avalanche to fetch some rocks. He carried several to the stream bed and dropped them in, blocking it somewhat.
Now he went to the channel. “I’m going to climb through this to get around the burning field,” he announced. He wedged his feet in crevices and started climbing.
The water shifted. In a moment the stream was pouring along this channel, soaking him. Heroe scrambled out of it. “Or maybe not,” he said.
The water continued to pour, making sure he couldn’t change his mind. It coursed to the more level river bed below, encountered the block, and quickly overflowed, spreading across the dry field and sinking into the earth.
Heroe started across the slope. Fire sputtered, trying to ignite, but couldn’t get properly started, because of the water. One menace had canceled out the other. He could feel the mountain seething, but it was unable to get him.
Now he came to a jagged crack, a small chasm, too wide to hurdle, too deep to navigate. He would have to bridge it. Naturally there was no loose wood nearby for construction.
Heroe took down his backpack. He brought out heavy gloves and a length of stout cord with a small anchor on the end. He stood at the brink and whirled the anchor around and around in widening circles, crossing the chasm, until at last it caught against the trunk of a tree on the other side and wrapped around it, the anchor catching on the cord. Then he put his pack back on, tied the near end of the rope around his waist, and dropped into the crevasse. He smacked into the opposite wall, then hauled himself up hand over hand until he reached the ground and the tree. He was across.
The mountain rumbled angrily. Enough with this passive resistance; it was time to get serious. A vent opened not far up the slope. Brightly burning lava welled out and flowed like the liquid fire it was directly down toward Heroe. He dodged to the side, but the advancing tongue changed direction to follow. The mountain was no longer trying to make it seem like coincidence; now it meant to dispatch him directly.