Korm and the Lost Library (Part Two)

 

     As fate would have it, a half-hour later they turned a corner down a tree-choked avenue, and there was the dome, a cyclopean skull resting on a bed of decay. The lower half of the domed building was covered in ivy, cracked steps leading up to its enormous doors, almost twenty feet high and still miraculously hanging closed on their hinges. Over the lintel, deeply scored letters defied wreck and oblivion to carry their message down the centuries.

     Instead of rushing forward, Korm was suddenly struck with a fearful awe. He staggered slowly towards the doors, his worn boots kicking stones and fallen leaves, eyes fixed on the writing, as he worked to decipher their archaic meaning. He felt like he was walking towards a tomb, the grave of a whole forgotten people, his own people perhaps, cousins lost to time. Gho followed stoically behind, claws gripping his spear warily.

Before stepping on the broad porch Korm stopped, where he could just still see the letters above.

“’Ra-Sel-Melniar’,” he breathed. “’The Court of the City of the Moon’.”

He paused, darting eyes squinting, muzzle agape, searching his memory. After a moment, Gho asked, “You know place?”

Korm shook his head.

“No,” he finally managed. “By the form of the letters and style of the words, though, it must be … at least seven thousand years old.” He swallowed. “Maybe older.”

“Hwa,” Gho snorted after watching the stunned scholar a while. “You gonna knock, or we just go in? Don’ think anyone still home.”

“What? Oh. Yes. Yes.” Korm seemed to wake up. “Uh. The traveler didn’t mention anything about these doors. I don’t know if he could have opened them by himself, either. They may be the only thing holding up this wall. Let’s … let’s look around for another way in, shall we?”

Gho grinned grimly.

“You learn, Morg, you learn.”

They nudged their way around the side of the building until they came upon a doorless passage, cracked and overgrown with the screening limbs of a tall rough-barked shrub. Chopping away at the whipping branches with Gho’s hatchet, they uncovered a gnarled and hacked stump from which all the live growth had sprung.

“This must be it,” Korm said happily. “The way he got in. Praise Mog! Though it was fifty years ago, we’ve found his trail.” He set his pack down excitedly. “Keep clearing the way, I’ll get the lamp ready.”

While Gho slashed and grunted away, the Morg carefully put together the brass and crystal lamp he had carried all the way from Tronduhon, wrapped up carefully in a fleecy sheepskin. It was a marvel of craftsmanship, but delicate, and he had feared to take it out before. His fingers trembled so much he was afraid he would break it now that the moment had come.

He put the last piece together and looked up to see the Ghamen watching him curiously. Korm grinned nervously.

“Watch this,” he said. He wound the little crank on the side. He looked up again and let the crank go.

There was a snap and a spark, and the clear globe in its brass nest suddenly lit up with a weird green firefly glow. Gho hissed in surprise.

“Magic,” he snarled, raising his weapon.

“No, no,” the scholar hastened to inform him. “Purely natural philosophy, I assure you.” He laughed nervously. “If it were magic, I surely wouldn’t be able to use it.”

The Ghamen glared at it.

“Where flame? Where oil?”

“It doesn’t need any,” Korm said in satisfaction. “It was put together by craftsmen who noticed certain properties of silk and crystal. You wind it up and it goes for an hour or so, then you just wind it again. No fuel. Look, no heat.” He prodded the globe gently and there was a tiny crackle. He pulled back his hand and sucked the nail but smiled up at the frowning scout. “Still bites a bit, though.”

Gho snorted.

“Like fire better. Many more useful.”

“Well, it’s not either or,” said Korm, standing up. He raised the lamp high. “Shall we go?”

Since he had the light, Korm went first, the Ghamen close behind, spear-point held forward warily in front of the Morg’s waist.

That first room was small, barely thirty feet square, and the floor was buried a foot deep in decaying leaves and pale plants that reached tendrils to the dim sun outside. Korm shuddered as his boots pressed crackling into the springy detritus and unseen things slithered and scampered away from his footsteps.

Luckily, they were not in that room for long, but stepped down the cascading debris that dribbled through the inner door and into a large curving corridor. The interior support of that hall was made of mammoth columns that upheld the broken dome. The lamp paled again in the sunlight that came streaming down the gaping hole. Korm looked up in wonder at the birds flying in and out, landing in what looked like generations of shaggy nests along a narrow ledge that circled the room.

“Well, whicha way?” asked Gho.

Korm tried to squint across the sunbeam, then back and forth on either side where the hall faded into darkness.

“I’ve never had any luck starting out with the right,” he grumbled. “Let’s go left.”

“Man never say?”

“No.” Korm wound up the lamp to top it off. “And when I wanted to ask him for more details, I found out he had been dead for nearly twenty years. Let’s go.”

They headed down the aisle to the left. There were doorways every fifty feet or so, some empty, some with shards of nearly petrified wood and rusty hinges still hanging on. The Morgish scholar stuck his head in each one they passed and found only emptiness and desolation, shattered vessels and chipped stone furniture still somehow defying time.

Gho snuffled at each room, as if he smelled a faint hint of something unpleasant, but said nothing.

After six or seven tries they started finding more intact portals but hanging open crookedly. The rooms inside were no less bare; if they had ever held any treasures, they were long since emptied. But at last, in the deepest, most sheltered shadows, they found a door standing upright in its frame. Korm held the brass lamp high. Even after decades since being broken, the snapped hinges still gleamed steely at the core.

In the dim golden-green light Korm, muzzle agape and eyes wide, turned to Gho. Slowly, without a word, he turned back and grabbed a corner of the door. The Ghamen leaned his spear against the wall and took the other side. Together they began pulling, walking it carefully out of its recess.

The door was heavy, made of several slabs of stone jointed together, which was probably the only thing that had preserved it against the centuries.

Korm stood a moment before the dark doorway and breathed in. The air from inside seemed to exhale must and dust and cold, but most of all, like incense to his quivering snub nose, the intoxicating, the enthralling, the unmistakable smell of old books.

“Well? What you wait? Look!” Gho snapped.

Korm came to himself and shook his head. Holding the lamp higher, he stepped inside.

The place was much of a size to the others. In the middle was a polished granite table. A lectern of the same material sat ponderous and immovable at the far end. Rubbish of what have might been chairs or benches at one time lay scattered on the floor. But the main feature of this room, that made it different from all the others, was the shelf that ran the length of three sides. There, behind the lectern, on the shelf facing the entrance, half-hidden behind a carelessly drawn rolling shutter of stone, was a tilted row of rectangular objects, their dark backs gleaming with half-familiar, archaic letters.

Korm approached the shelf in reverent awe, his cracked boots scuffling the dust of ages. In the wonder and glory of the moment a corner of his fussy mind still found time to scold that old human wanderer for not protecting this treasure more securely, then blessing him for at least doing what he did. He set the lamp high on the lectern, where it shed its eerie glow over the entire chamber. Gho followed, looking curiously around the place, but more concentrated on Korm’s reactions than interested in his objectives.

The Morg reached out one black clawed finger and touched the nearest volume, then drew it back as if afraid.

“Gho,” he said huskily. “Help me clear the table. I think we are luckier than I even hoped we would be.”

The Ghamen raised his eyebrows but joined the Morg in hastily swiping the table as clean as possible with their hands. Then Korm took out a brush and swept it again. He opened his pack and removed a soft bulky parcel he had never unwrapped on the whole journey and set it by the lectern. He wound up the lamp one more time, looked at the scout helplessly, as if he feared to proceed, then reached in and took out the first book.

“Oh, yes,” he breathed thankfully. “Look, Gho. Look here.” He held it out for the Ghamen to see. “This is not just a book, but a book inside a box.” He held it up closely to his face. “Cedar, if I’m not mistaken.” He turned, stepping softly, and placed it gently on the table. “These people knew how to treat a book.”

With infinite care he scrutinized the case with eyes and lightly probing fingers, until he thought he had the trick of it. He pulled tenderly on certain points of the box. It parted smoothly with a slight sucking sound, and a faint smell of ancient wood and ink. There, like a baby in a cradle, lay the book, its plain black leather cover hatch-marked with a traditional design that Korm recognized immediately.

“The Book of Home,” he said blissfully. “Every Morg hears bits of it read four times every year. This must be the oldest version in the world! Every town, wherever there are Morgs, has a copy.”

“What need this then?” grumbled Gho, stretching out as if to touch it. “Seems far to go …”

He stopped, astonished. Korm had lashed out, reflexively, and stopped his hand in an iron clench.

“Please don’t,” the scholar said mildly, not even looking up. “These should be handled as little as possible.” He unwrapped his claws from the Ghamen’s arm, uncurling each finger as if by a conscious act of will. “I won’t be just leafing through them myself after this.” He looked up at Gho’s wondering face, where he stood rubbing his wrist. “To answer your question,” he went on in a more normal voice. “There might be variations, lost bits, ancient words that can fill out our knowledge by comparisons … even this can be a feast for scholars.”

“Morgs got odd ideas about feast,” Gho said. “Gimme good meat any day.” He looked around and shuddered. “Hurry pack, yes? Maybe I even find fresh food, shoot birds, we celebrate, yes?”

“Yes,” echoed Korm, distractedly. “Sounds good.” He followed Gho’s glance around the room and at the gaping door. He seemed to wake up. “Yes. We should get out before dark, and it must already be getting late.” He chuckled uneasily. “We don’t want to wait around and see if the old owners object to our little raid.”

Gho shrugged.

“Dead folks least dangerous,” he said.

 

Korm opened no more boxes. He undid the parcel from the pack and took out a stack of little padded bags, closed The Book of Home in its box, carefully laid it in one of the bags, shut the flap and laced it up. He took out a scrap of parchment and carefully noted the title. He did this twenty-three times in all, tutting over more damaged specimens, crowing over unknown titles, puzzling over unfamiliar script and copying the letters down in painstaking, artistic strokes. He even brushed together two bags of anonymous fragments that he could only attribute to the carelessness of the wanderer.

Gho sat in the doorway through the entire process, even lightly dozing, ears twitching now and then in his tangled mane. He must have been aware on some level of what was going on, for as Korm had finished putting the books away in the padded chest in the bottom of his pack and clicked the buckles securely, the Ghamen snorted and rose to his feet.

“Done?” he grunted. He cocked his eye at the sunlight outside. “Hour or so till dark. Donkey chew again tonight, I thinks.”

“Never mind,” said Korm. He smiled and slung the pack on. The weight on his shoulders was oddly satisfying. He felt strong enough at that moment to run all the way back to Tronduhon. “Right now, I could eat stink-hen eggs and be happy. Let’s get to camp.”

Outside the fading light was almost blinding after the dimness of the room and fading gleams of the lamp. Korm was still squinting, trying to adjust his eyes, when Gho lay a hand on his arm and said quietly, “Somethin’ wrong.”

     The Ghamen looked around the hall, his snout snuffling warily, peering into the gray shadows around them. He started to slowly stalk forward, Korm following fearfully, his scraping footsteps sounding like thundering hooves in his own ears. They had almost reached the room where they had entered when suddenly the wind changed, and then even he could smell the rank stench that had alerted the scout’s attention. At the same moment there came a low, barrel-chested growl from above.

Their eyes snapped up. From the cracked lip of the dome, an enormous feline form with emerald eyes and bunched shoulders looked down at them. It was easily ten feet high, paused to pounce, and gazing at them like a cat that has seen two mice crawling over the kitchen floor. Its tongue, broad as a board, flicked out of its mouth for a fraction of a second, flashing a set of knife-like teeth.

“Oh, shit,” Gho whispered. “Oh, shit, shit, shit. Matta-kar. Matta-kar. Big Momma Matta-kar!”

“What do we do?” Korm muttered out of the corner of his muzzle, trying not to twitch even a fraction of a muscle lest it draw more attention. The beast’s shoulders hunched even higher.

“What you think?” husked Gho, then bellowed at the top of his lungs. “Run!”

Gho jerked the scholar into the crumbling room and they had barely time to scramble over the debris and through the cracked wall before the Matta blocked the light and poured like a shadow through the door, despite its bulk. The two stumbled as they passed over the lip of the fracture and fell to the earth, rolling on their backs, and a claw, wide as a shield, darted out and missed them by inches. They lay, unable to move as it swiped and swatted, until, after a flash of a gigantic green eye at the hole, it disappeared.

Gho was suddenly on the move again. He jerked the scholar to his feet and pushed him heavily forward. Korm felt that the books were now a thousand pounds, trying to anchor him to the earth. At the same time, he had no impulse to let them go.

“Where? How?” he spluttered at last. “We looked all around! There was no …”

“There,” Gho said without pausing. “Up there.” He pointed fiercely. “Clever, clever cat. Stupid, stupid Ghamen.”

Korm gawped overhead as he stumbled on, uncomprehending. Then he saw it: the network of tumbling bridges and aqueducts, leading from the forest’s edge right to the dome.

“Up there?” he gasped.

“Smelled something. Faint. Far,” Gho panted, never slowing. “Far. Hah! Far up!”

“Can they do that?”

“She did. Damn, damn, damn.” He tugged Korm’s arm fiercely.

“Where are we going?”

“Away.”

“What’ll we do?”

     “Tell me if idea come. She get out – and she will – she find us.”

     “Fire,” Korm stuttered. “You said fire – “

     “No time. She big. Can’le not scare, need bonfire.”

     There was a distant crash as of falling stone, a yowl, and then the sound of velvet, pattering thuds growing nearer. Gho, who seemed to have a map in his head of the confusing path they had taken, suddenly pulled Korm to the left. The Morg staggered but stayed with him.

     “We’ll never outrun the beast,” he finally managed. “Shouldn’t we stand and fight? Your spear – “

     “Stick pin in cat, just get mad cat,” Gho said, eyes darting. “Only one, maybe two spot … There!”

     It was a place they had passed more than once in their search. A vast stagnant fountain, at least sixty feet across, with a towering central pyramid, narrow but thickly carved in abstract floral figures and spotted with embrasures that must have once spouted or flowed in mighty streams, sat in the middle of an empty city square.

     They made a beeline to it, hopped the rim, and pounded across the knee-deep water, sending desperate sprays up behind them. Even in his panic fear, a corner of Korm’s mind was hoping that he wasn’t getting the books wet. As they struggled up the side of the fountain, claws clenching the crumbling stonework, he never once thought of dropping the heavy pack pulling him backward.

     They reached the top, a flat space about four feet across with a hole in the middle the size of a pie. Gho sat and Korm followed his example, glad to rest his burden after their breakneck flight.

     “Quiet now!” said Gho urgently in a low grunt. “An’ still!”

     They had barely settled themselves when the Matta-kar came oozing cautiously but inexorably into the square. For the first time Korm had a moment to really see their foe. He swallowed hard, his throat rippling his beard with unwanted movement. He was suddenly keenly aware of that.

     She was ten feet high, and at least twenty long, and broad across the chest. The muscles flowed like oil beneath her skin, rippling the dark stripes and spots of the tawny hide in an ever more confusing pattern as he watched. Her sniffing head was held low to the ground but with eyes level and darting, and she moved forward in a briefly hesitating motion that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with watchfulness.

     She came up to the coping where they had entered the pool, nose shrinking back disdainfully from the stagnant water.  The beast sniffed her way around the fountain, circled twice, then nonchalantly oozed back the way she had come. After three minutes or so, Korm spoke through clenched teeth.

     “Is she gone?”

     Gho’s voice, if anything, was even lower through his barely moving lips.

     “No. Waiting. She knows we here somewhere. No move.”

     “How long?”

     Gho squinted sourly.

     “Rest of life, could be. One hungry cat.”

     At that moment the Matta-kar padded back into the square, and they clammed up instantly. She strolled nonchalantly to within ten feet of the fountain and lay down on the dusty pavement. She squinted, yawned showing all her teeth and a gaping red gullet besides, then closed her eyes. She seemed to be basking sleepily in the last rosy rays of the setting sun, but her head never went down, and her big ears never stopped twitching.

     Up on their perch, Korm felt his rump growing numb. He longed to shift his legs even a little bit to get the blood moving but didn’t dare. Next to him Gho seemed to have entered a light but easy trance of watchfulness, his limbs relaxed but ready. In contrast the Morg could feel his own muscles quivering with the effort to stay still. Sweat beaded his brow, trickling down into his beard, his throat growing dry. Ever so slightly, he coughed behind his closed mouth.

     Instantly the beast’s head shot up, focusing gleaming green eyes exactly on the two where they sat.

     “Oh, damn,” said Gho. He reached behind his back and began stringing his bow.

     “I’m sorry!” Korm yelped despairingly. He watched in horror as the great beast, eyes never wavering, came forward and touched one reluctant paw to the water.

     “No matter,” said the scout. He fitted an arrow to the string. “Woulda happen, sooner later. Knew bad end sometime. Why I come.” He drew the arrow back. “Why I come wi’ stupid Morg.”

     The Matta-kar entered the water and began treading carefully through the green stagnation that burned like copper in the sunset. She seemed the embodiment of the dark realization that had suddenly come relentlessly stalking into Korm’s brain.

     “You … you came with me, expecting to die?”

     The cat was halfway across the water.

     “Oh, sure.” Gho released the arrow, and it struck one hairy flank. The Matta-kar flinched, hissing, but seemed undeterred. After a few seconds she continued her progress. “Stupid Morg, bad season, bad lands. Lucky made so far.”

     “But … but why if you knew it was so hopeless did you let ME go?” Korm spluttered, suddenly angry. “If you’re so Mog-damned tired of life, why make me a part of your suicide?” The Matta-kar put one broad paw on the base of the cone, looking up.

     “Not su’cide,” said Gho. He let another arrow fly, and managed to nick an ear, balking the beast for another few seconds. It started to climb. “Venture. No wife, no childs, no Chant go on.” He looked Korm in the face. “Maybe, maybe we win.” He took out another arrow. “Then Gho have story.”

He let the arrow go. It stuck in the flank next to the other one. This time the big cat didn’t pause as it climbed up the tower towards them, grim claws clicking on the crumbling stone.

“Hah! But who tell story now? Killed by one old lonely Matta, not even a pack left her.”

Korm’s jaw moved soundlessly as Gho nocked another arrow.

“I … I’m sorry,” he managed at last.

“Eh,” Gho said evenly as he released. The arrow went skimming off the Matta’s skull, making the beast hiss angrily and leaving a trail of red. “Ooh, she good ‘n’ mad. Tear us up quick now. That last arrow.” He spoke to the Morg scholar out of the side of his mouth, eyes never leaving the monster. It was ten feet up now, halfway to their perch.

“This don’ work – prolly won’t – no run. Only make longer.”

“If what won’t – “ Korm began, but at that moment Gho threw the bow in the beast’s face, snatched up his spear, and leapt bellowing down even as the Matta-kar sprang furiously upward with a deep coughing roar.

The clash of their meeting sent them reeling backward, turning over screaming in the air, limbs tangling and ripping, plunging with a thundering splash in the pool below that wet Korm even where he sat. He looked desperately through falling darkness and blinded eyes at the battering frenzy below that was striking claws and convulsive limbs churning black water. Suddenly, horribly, the sun’s last ray vanished, and it was darkest night.

A little more thrashing, and then the slapping water settling itself noisily against the rim of the fountain, and then all went still.

Korm peered in vain into the shadows below. Had the beast dragged the Ghamen off quietly to devour him? Could he possibly escape while she was busy – he shuddered – eating his companion? Or would she pounce the minute he was in striking range?

He sat a long while debating with himself. Finally, not knowing what to do but feeling he must do something, he opened his pack and took out the lamp. He wound it up. Its feeble light did not reach far. He felt dangerously exposed, but that, even so, he would rather see what was coming than be struck down in darkness. With trembling fingers, he fastened the lamp to his pack, then started climbing slowly down.

He knew he had reached the bottom when his boots stepped into water. Still facing the wall of the cone, Korm unhitched the light. He took a deep breath and turned. His foot struck against something bobbing in the water.

It was Gho. His lifeless eyes gleamed in the firefly light, and his snout was gritted snarling. His hands still held his splintered spear in a death grip, and the head of the spear was stuck deep into the brain of the great Matta-kar through one ruined, glittering eye.

Korm may have gone a little bit mad at that point. He couldn’t be sure afterwards, because there was no-one around to tell him so right then, and everyone he told later had different opinions. He didn’t lose any memory, and everything he did was meticulous and purposeful.

First he went and very carefully set his pack of books outside of the damp area around the fountain pool. He went back and managed to unclench Gho’s hands and pull him outside the fountain. He set him next to the pack. Then he laid down next to the dead scout, and in the dim light of the fading lamp, fell deeply, dreamlessly asleep.

His eyes snapped open the next morning, and he immediately sat up. Without a word, almost without a thought, he set to work, as if he had planned it all while he slept. He didn’t remember afterward if he had planned to do it. It just seemed the next thing to be done. And then the next thing. And the next thing.

He rolled the Ghamen’s body onto a blanket, then dragged it back to the library room. He got it up onto the stone table, his head raised up on the lectern like a pillow. He removed Gho’s pouches with all their tools and supplies. Korm would need those. He arranged the limbs as decently as he could. He stopped to gaze at the body a moment. It did not even remotely look like it was sleeping.

He returned to the fountain square. The Matta-kar still lay like a furry island in the water. Flies had started to gather.

Korm took out Gho’s flint flensing knife. It was a simple process. He had watched the scout do it dozens of times and had even helped.

When he was done, he slung on his pack of precious books, and picked up the dripping supply pouch in one hand and a new bundle in another. He had gathered up the bow and arrows as well. Using the broken spear as a walking staff, he went forward, and never returned to that spot again. Behind him the flies buzzed ever louder, then faded away.

He returned to the library room. He did what he thought was the next thing. Then he struggled and slid the stone door shut, and walked away from that, too. The last thing he saw before sealing the place shut was Gho, covered in a jagged square of raw Matta-kar hide, his name written in bloody Morgish runes on the wall behind him.

 

A few months later, the guards at the gates of Steepwater watched as a lone wanderer came limping out of the wilderness. He looked like an old peddler, bowed down by the weather-beaten pack on his back and leaning on a broken stick. His face was seamed and tanned by sun and wind and the teeth in his muzzle were red with chewing gogen wood. The long streaks in his beard were iron gray. Still, he carried himself with purpose.

He passed the guards without a word. He went down the crowded main street of the city. He didn’t seem to see the jostling crowds or streaming livestock but followed their flow into the Mercatus. The first outdoor eatery he came to, he sat at a table and slung down his pack. A curious barmaid came up to him and looked a question.

“A jug of tea, please,” Korm said.

 

And two months after that Korm stood on the stage of the largest auditorium in Tronduhon Library School, his beard trimmed, his clothes clean and new, the red sash of his Mastery cinched on his waist. In one hand he clutched a scroll, a new scroll he had been working on even during his trip from Steepwater, to read before the academy.

Behind and around him sat a crowd of dignitaries, scholars representing many different schools, Masters of many disciplines, and even a representative from the White Tower, in blue and purple robes. Grand High Master Belmok was there, almost hairless, unable to speak, and nearly a skeleton, propped up in a bed they had set on stage for him at his insistence, his one good eye still glittering like a star behind his monocle.

The Undersecretary of the school spoke. He spoke of the dangers Korm had faced, of his dedication to scholarship, of the priceless works he had rescued. He spoke of the inestimable treasure he had gained for them all, that many scholars were even now studying, and which would enrich the store of knowledge for years to come. The speaker was proud, in the name of Tronduhon Library School and Master Belmok, to award Korm the High Mastery. A roar of approval, stamping of feet, pounding applause, and even howls of delight from the younger scholars in the audience, as Korm bowed his head to receive the ribboned silver badge around his neck.

He raised his head again and looked around the thundering room. The Undersecretary motioned him to the podium to say a few words. Korm walked over to it slowly and stood silent, waiting for the noise to die down. His left hand briefly touched the badge, then fell to his side. The right hand gently placed the scroll on the podium, but never let it go. He looked around gravely until the noise had died away enough to be heard. Then he spoke.

“Masters, fellow scholars, and officers of the realm,” he said. “I want to thank you for the honor you bestow on me today. I especially thank Grand High Master Belmok, who set my feet on this path.” He cleared his throat.

“But I did not walk this path alone. I had a companion, without whom I would not be here today. I speak of Gho, the Ghamen. He got me to the City of the Moon. He died there. He saved me. I could not have made my way back here, climbed cliffs, traversed forests, even found the food to live, if it were not for the things he taught me. As much as you honor me, I honor him, and the things I learned from him.”

The audience were completely silent, gripped. This was not an academic speech.

“One thing he taught me was that the Ghamen reverence history as much as we do, in their own way. They have their Long Chants, their family histories. He told his over, every night. As long as a Ghamen’s name is spoken they -” His voice broke. He cleared his throat. “– they never truly die.”

He unrolled the scroll and bowed his head. He raised it, and his voice went echoing firmly throughout the packed chamber.

“There was Gho the Matta-kar Slayer, son of Nar Who-Leapt-the-Canyon, son of Rel …”

 

First Draft 2/8/2019 12:30 PM