[RP Story] The Highmountain Way

A Highmountain Tale (the full version of the story told at Tall Tales 9.5.19)

Long ago there lived a Shu’halo apart from any of the Highmountain Tribes. We were Bloodtotem, Skyhorn and Rivermane back then, and Huln had united us. “We are one”, after all.

It was no wonder that many thought it strange that one lived apart and separated from any of the Tribes.
They would see him hunt, but he would only hunt on his own. He would fish, but if others shared the river, he would move to the lake.

Now, ordinarily, Shu’halo would not press the issue… not force themselves upon such a one. Perhaps, he was a hermit, or even, dare I say, a sage, who saw things a different or undiscovered way from the Elders of the Tribes.

Whatever the reason, the Tribe would still look after the lone Shu’halo in case there was need.

And need arose. We are hardy, the Shu’halo of Highmountain, but one winter… Lohkawas shakes his antlers and sighs heavily. Yes, one winter…

It seemed An’she could not warm up enough to unfreeze the lakes his sister froze in the darkness. Many calves and elders took ill, the harshness of the storms made it hard to keep a fire lit, or tent flaps secure.

The Elders looked out from the village and saw in the distance the firepit of the hermit until a clap of thunder deafened the wildlife all around… and the firepit went out in a sudden downpour.

The Elders spoke quickly together and as one moved to assist their unaccompanied brother. Three Shu’halo together they braved the storms that filled the river towards overflowing. They slipped and slid along the muddied road, but staunchly helped each other make headway against the vicious wind.

No one spoke, not wasting breath on words that could not be heard above the howling winds.

As they neared the outcropping of land where the hermit stayed, a loud crack rent the sky, tumultuous rains were flung about by bone-chilling winds and the section of road where they walked, slid sideways into the river that had been clawing at the earthen banks beside the road. And with the road, one traveler ended up in the water, barely clutched to the muddy bank by his two fellows… and they could feel the mud giving way beneath their hooves… soon to send them plummeting into the river.

To his credit, the old bull in the water tried to break free from his two companions, not wanting to drag them in with him… but they held on determined to find a way to all survive.

One of the two in the mud jerked his head towards the hermit’s tent and grunted “go” to the third and alone, he determined to hold fast to the old bull. The younger bull pulled himself through the sloggy mud, until he reached more stable land and ran hard to the tent, calling out for help.

The hermit stuck his antlered head out of the tent and looked up in wonder, and though it took a second for him to respond, he held open the tent flap and invited his visitor to enter his small abode. The visitor shook his antlered head quickly and told the hermit of the road and the river. The hermit turned into the hut and grabbed a pack and then hastened past the young bull and led the way himself two where disaster seemed to wait close-by.

Seeing one in the water and the other about to slide in himself the hermit drew out a sturdy rope from the pack and looped it around a strong tree. He wrapped it around his waist and arms, and then motioned the third traveler to do the same with a second rope from the pack… the hermit plunged into the muck and mud and threw the end of his rope to the bull in the water, while instructing the other to wrap the last part of his rope around the bull still in the mud. Three secured, they now grasped the waterlogged bull and with the tree holding firm, they pulled the bull to land.

Exhausted from the ordeal, they walked carefully back to the hermit’s tent and he allowed them entry.

“What were you fools doing?” he accused them, not even offering them a chance to dry off.

“Coming to help you in this storm!” the young one answered sharply.

“With no rope, no walking sticks, a torch to see by, or did you lose those?” the hermit snorted at them.

“Are you not grateful?” asked the muddied traveler.

“To have fools in my home?” Again, the hermit rebuked them.

“Perhaps, we should not…” the waterlogged bull began.

“No, you should not have gone out in weather like this. Have you no sense between your antlers,” the hermit interrupted. “I have been surviving on my own for close to 60 years, you young bucks have no idea how to survive.”

“Who is to blame for that?” the waterlogged bull asked. “If you have these skills and have kept them to yourself, how have you helped the Tribes? We came to help you and needed help instead. Because you have kept yourself apart and not taught us.”

The hermit started to reply, but then he nodded instead. “Perhaps you are right. But, I wanted to be alone and to prove myself against the wilds. And you all follow and hound me.”

“Then perhaps we did not understand,” the old bull said, while his fellows fidgeted. “Again, who should take fault for that?”

The hermit began to stir as though angered, and then he sighed, and his head nodded. “Perhaps, it is on me, for I did not speak on it”

The old bull nodded and said, “Then we will take our share, as well. For we did not find a way to communicate and find out why you were apart. And now we have lost the knowledge and our lives may have been lost this night.”

“You have not lost it, for you found me this night and I am sorry to have kept what I know from the Tribes,” and that night the hermit and his guests told stories long into the night.

And they found that they were one, as is the way of Highmountain.

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