There was once a very strange old man who had always wanted to live at the top of a mountain. He loved the rumbling sounds that came from the peaks, and he loved pine trees, and he felt it was time. He told his family, and — because there were many of them — they all agreed to go.
The climb took most of the day. When they reached the top, it was nearly dark, and everyone was hungry. The grandmothers and mothers set about making supper from what the mountain offered: moss soup, a salad of very finely chopped pine needles, nut pies made from the day’s foraging, and berries. They ate on low tree stumps, and the food tasted exactly like a mountain should taste.
Afterward, they felt energetic. The old man looked up at the sky, where a storm was building.
“Let’s help it along,” he said.
The older members of the family bellowed as loudly as they could, deep and rolling. The younger ones whistled and sang high above. The combined effect rose out over the edge of the peak and tumbled down the slope, and the people in the village below pulled their coats tighter and said to each other: “What a terrible storm tonight. Listen to it howl.”
But at the top of the mountain, the old man and his family were having a splendid time.
