Ask a kurgan and he will recount, in a reverent voice, the tale of Daras and Darasson upon the lord of their mountains…
Long ago, in the lands of our fathers’ fathers, there stood Ku’anath, which was lord of the mountains of that land. Ku’anath was mighty beyond all reckoning. All about him a range of grand slopes spilled away, each a sky-foundation in itself. Elsewhere these peaks would be lords of their own ranges. Here they were only a humble flock gathered round the skirts of Ku’anath.
There was a road which wound along the western slope of Ku’anath to his summit, and another track which picked its way down the eastern slope. One day two kurgan from a village to the west of Ku’anath were following the road up his shoulder. These kurgan were Daras Mavakson, who was a shepherd of Ku’anath’s mountains, and Kurum Darasson, who had not yet met his spirit.
Darasson had never been on such a journey, and he was troubled. “Why must we follow the summit road?” he asked his father. “It holds no riches, nor food, and the flock will be restless at Ioten’s crook.” For his cousin, Ioten Guranson, had been left with their flock, and Ioten was no master at his trade.
“Ioten will keep the flock well enough,” Daras told his son. “And you will know why we climb when we have climbed.” So he led, and his son followed behind.
Ku’anath was an unforgiving lord, and the summit road did little to smooth his cruel slopes. The climb was hard and little water could be found. But the kurgans’ wills were strong, and they made their climb in the spring. They found along the way a few streams, and at each small waterway they thanked Ku’anath for his blessing. Surely his slopes were treacherous, but that is the way of a lord-mountain, and he had granted them a sufficiency.
“But why?” asked Darasson again. “Why can we not be at home, and drink from the sweet springs known to the village?”
“There will be more springs, or there will be rain, or there will not,” Daras told his son. “In any case, we must make the climb. You will know why we climb when we have climbed.”
Endlessly they climbed, and Darasson’s resolve was spent. But his father climbed on. Daras’ spirit was endless, for he was upon Ku’anath, and he was of Ku’anath. Where he went, so went his son. So they climbed further up the summit road, ever toward the sun. It seemed to Darasson that they must almost be near enough to trail their fingers in the Mantle of White Fire. But Daras knew the mountain, and he knew how much road there still was ahead.
Still his spirit drove him on, and his son would not be shamed by turning away. But as they climbed, and Darasson’s breath flagged, and Darasson’s legs conspired with Ku’anath to drop him from the slope in their weariness, Darasson asked one last time, “Why do we climb this road? What lies at the end to earn such hardship?”
“No hardship will defeat he who knows his spirit,” Daras told his son. “He who knows his spirit is a tireless thing, an endless wellspring of strength. You must find the thing which inspires the wellspring within yourself and master it. You will know why we climb when we have climbed.”
And, as the sun neared its rest at their backs, Daras and Darasson reached the summit of Ku’anath. There they stopped, and Daras showed his son Ku’anath’s flock. The mountains were painted by the sunset, a sea of purples and oranges and burning reds to match the blush of the sky. They were sublime, and endless, and impossible to capture.
As Darasson looked out over Ku’anath’s mountains, he heard his spirit. He understood the power of the lord-mountain, that he could hold dominion over such a court. There on the peak of the world he felt the cool might of the earth below and the cleansing fire of the sun above. Within him a wellspring opened, a wellspring that he returned to again and again in his life and which never ran dry. In that moment he was Kurum, not only Darasson, and he was the kurgan who would one day introduce his own sons to Ku’anath.
And the kurgan will tell you that the story’s lesson is resolve.
Long ago, in the lands of our fathers’ fathers, there stood Ku’anath, which was lord of the mountains of that land. Ku’anath was mighty beyond all reckoning. All about him a range of grand slopes spilled away, each a sky-foundation in itself. Elsewhere these peaks would be lords of their own ranges. Here they were only a humble flock gathered round the skirts of Ku’anath.
There was a road which wound along the western slope of Ku’anath to his summit, and another track which picked its way down the eastern slope. One day two kurgan from a village to the west of Ku’anath were following the road up his shoulder. These kurgan were Daras Mavakson, who was a shepherd of Ku’anath’s mountains, and Kurum Darasson, who had not yet met his spirit.
Darasson had never been on such a journey, and he was troubled. “Why must we follow the summit road?” he asked his father. “It holds no riches, nor food, and the flock will be restless at Ioten’s crook.” For his cousin, Ioten Guranson, had been left with their flock, and Ioten was no master at his trade.
“Ioten will keep the flock well enough,” Daras told his son. “And you will know why we climb when we have climbed.” So he led, and his son followed behind.
Ku’anath was an unforgiving lord, and the summit road did little to smooth his cruel slopes. The climb was hard and little water could be found. But the kurgans’ wills were strong, and they made their climb in the spring. They found along the way a few streams, and at each small waterway they thanked Ku’anath for his blessing. Surely his slopes were treacherous, but that is the way of a lord-mountain, and he had granted them a sufficiency.
“But why?” asked Darasson again. “Why can we not be at home, and drink from the sweet springs known to the village?”
“There will be more springs, or there will be rain, or there will not,” Daras told his son. “In any case, we must make the climb. You will know why we climb when we have climbed.”
Endlessly they climbed, and Darasson’s resolve was spent. But his father climbed on. Daras’ spirit was endless, for he was upon Ku’anath, and he was of Ku’anath. Where he went, so went his son. So they climbed further up the summit road, ever toward the sun. It seemed to Darasson that they must almost be near enough to trail their fingers in the Mantle of White Fire. But Daras knew the mountain, and he knew how much road there still was ahead.
Still his spirit drove him on, and his son would not be shamed by turning away. But as they climbed, and Darasson’s breath flagged, and Darasson’s legs conspired with Ku’anath to drop him from the slope in their weariness, Darasson asked one last time, “Why do we climb this road? What lies at the end to earn such hardship?”
“No hardship will defeat he who knows his spirit,” Daras told his son. “He who knows his spirit is a tireless thing, an endless wellspring of strength. You must find the thing which inspires the wellspring within yourself and master it. You will know why we climb when we have climbed.”
And, as the sun neared its rest at their backs, Daras and Darasson reached the summit of Ku’anath. There they stopped, and Daras showed his son Ku’anath’s flock. The mountains were painted by the sunset, a sea of purples and oranges and burning reds to match the blush of the sky. They were sublime, and endless, and impossible to capture.
As Darasson looked out over Ku’anath’s mountains, he heard his spirit. He understood the power of the lord-mountain, that he could hold dominion over such a court. There on the peak of the world he felt the cool might of the earth below and the cleansing fire of the sun above. Within him a wellspring opened, a wellspring that he returned to again and again in his life and which never ran dry. In that moment he was Kurum, not only Darasson, and he was the kurgan who would one day introduce his own sons to Ku’anath.
And the kurgan will tell you that the story’s lesson is resolve.