— If you'll allow, Sir Leyont, give me a word for thought. While I'll wander the slopes—I have your pouch with me, remember? An empty head is a poor companion in the mountains.
Leyont smiled a bit wider.
— The pouch came in handy? Glad. Listen: better to be one who stumbled and, gritting teeth, rose, feeling the pain of every bruise, than one who never fell—only because they feared to take a step. The one who finds strength to correct what's done, even with shame and awkwardness, isn't just stronger—he's more alive than the one who hides from life itself. It's like choosing between a scar and emptiness.
— Thank you, Sir Leyont. You gave good ground for reflection. I'll return by evening not empty-handed.
I headed to the mountain that rose away from our old spring. On its slopes, hidden from idle eyes, grew those very berries. I didn't remember the name, though Mother repeated it more than once. But the taste I wouldn't confuse with anything! First a tart sourness to the point of puckering, and then, when you're ready to wince—a wave of tender sweetness. The color special—sunny yellow, like drops of frozen light.
Climbing the path, I involuntarily froze, gazing at the opening panorama. In the mountains, the most beautiful view—it's not just words. Peaks piercing the sky, valleys in greenery, ribbons of rivers sparkling in the sun... And a strange question: am I the only one who feels this wild beauty so keenly, or does it touch everyone who dares to lift their eyes?
I infinitely love our mountains, nature, the very spirit of Monaria—whimsical and multifaceted, like patterns of ancient carpets. And the people are special: mischief dances in their eyes, greetings sound so sincere that you can't help but smile, even if cats are scratching at your heart.
Amazing: on harsh rocky slopes, where only unpretentious moss can survive, grow such juicy, full-of-life berries. Winding along the narrow path, I keep picking them and popping into my mouth. Each bursts on the tongue, showering with either sour freshness or sweet juice. In this battle of opposites, it seems, lies the whole essence of life in Monaria.
The air slightly rarefied, with a mix of herb aromas and melting snow—the most native, real in the world. Sometimes it seems I hear the whisper of leaves on lonely trees clinging to rocks. Even if deaf, I'd recognize the native mountains by this inner whisper. By the special, multivocal echo, as if mountain spirits are conversing.
We have a belief, passed down like a precious relic: if you truly feel the spirit of the mountain, if it responds in you, then you're "Elgerd"—a true protector of the mountains. A cynical mind whispers that I'm exaggerating, that it's imagination's play. Probably every second boy in Monaria imagines himself "Elgerd." But the part of me that hasn't unlearned believing in miracles desperately wants it to be true.