The God of the Low Valley

Mythology

In the Low Valley, there was a servant. The servant walked the dust. The servant walked the stone. He bore a vessel of grey salt. He bore a mantle of wet wool. When the breath left the lip, he caught it. When the soul left the bone, he caught the sigh. He caught the sigh of the first born. He caught the sigh of the last born. He caught the sigh of the king in his gold; he caught the sigh of the beggar in his rags. Cold was the air. Heavy was the breath. He carried the sighs in the vessel. He carried the sighs in the wool. The vessel grew heavy. The mantle grew heavy. He carried the weight of a thousand regrets. He carried the weight of a million losses. The servant walked higher. He climbed to the passes. He climbed to the peaks. The weight pressed. The weight pushed. The weight became a stone in his chest. The vessel cracked. The mantle tore. And the silence became a sound. The sound became a scream. The scream became the wind. Now the wind howls in the pass. Now the wind screams in the stone. It is the weight of the Low Valley. It is the breath of the dying.