Few men were a part of the mighty Earth. The Master was one. He
knew her secrets, his joy was her joy. He knew when the snows would
come, he watched the mountain tops, smiling, knowing that soon the
rugged peaks would wear a white blanket of snow, a blanket that would
stay in its position until the first day of spring. The Master watched the
clouds, knowing each one, like the faces of school friends that change,
yet are always the same, impregnated on the brain like an old scar. He
would watch them drift across the sun, change colour and shape,
forming and reforming, the gaseous vapour creating the faces of Gods,
then the black, overcast look of the devil. They would rest for a while on
top of the mountains, then move on, new lands, another sun to block,
another endless journey to start.
Kuma leaped back on to the cart, beat the tired horse with the leather
thongs and raced off into the fading day like one of the riders from hell.
Great pain gripped the girl's heart, the dam of pent up emotions
suddenly burst as she gave way to violent sobbing, the tears flowing like
rain from her cloudy eyes. She buried her soft face in the delicate hands
that had weaved the most beautiful carpets in the world and prayed that
a saviour would come and save her from the terrible fate that Kuma
would no doubt have in store. In her mind she saw a great lord in
shining garments, his silver sword flashing in the sunlight, his hair
hanging long as he dashed to rescue the maiden. She saw wild tigers
leaping at the tiny wooden box, the cell in the sand dunes, but then the
great lord would wade in without fear to beat down the savage beasts.
He would lift her upon the white stallion, her pauper's clothes were now
fine chiffon, pure white silks and brocades. Together they rode off as the
sun slowly sank.