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Summary
It is a repetitive verse, slow to build. Basch is glad the wall is rough. He finds holds for each hand, then pulls himself up on them and finds holds for his feet. The process repeats.
Once, as a boy, someone had told him the Viera had poems and songs that were dedicated to the sound of a place - some secluded corner of their wood. They could only perform these songs in a group, with each repeating the same line on a known interval, creating in verse an echoing sound, a slice of the wood in miniature to all that closed their eyes, wherever the group could stand.
He had never found a chance to ask Fran if it was true. He supposes it doesn't matter, he only thinks of it as an allegory for his climb.
Series
- Part 2 of Self-Portrait in a Convex Mirror