Prologue

PROLOGUE

Rain beats down as the old woman struggles up the hill. She is weighted, heavy with the memory of loss. She has walked up and down this mountain so many times that her feet lead the way. Her eyes looking downward are lost in dreams and memories, the two intertwining to form a veil between herself and the beating rain. She is carrying a stone – a small stone which fits nicely into the palm of her hand. It is worn smooth with use or age, caressed by time. The memories she carries are really the memories of memories. The memories of mountains being born, of love being lost, of cultures defeated, of children aged. The memories are visible in the land itself, in these mountains, in the faces of the people, the pigs, the sheep. They are memories that breathe and move, that create balance and then topple it. She is speaking quietly as she ascends, eyes glazed, to no one in particular and to the rock specifically. It is the rock, which will finally carry these memories to rest. It is Pachamama who will ease her sorrows, who will finally give her the peace she has fought so violently for. It is Her tears which cleanse her as she walks and Her arms which embrace her everywhere.