Until one day, a young boy got lost in the woods and arrived at the foot of the mountain. It was singing to me, he said, it was calling to me in song.
Not a growl, nor a rumble, but a song. And so we knew he was the one, he was the one the mountain was waiting for, whose absence was driving it mad. We prepared him for the journey ahead, one he had to face alone, and we sent him off to see the wonders none of us ever would.
Ten days and ten nights – that’s how long we'd wait for his return at the entrance to the pass. As he disappeared from our sight, the growl faded away. But this was not calm before a storm, there was no avalanche to follow. Only a gentle tune, borne on the wind.
The days passed and the nights passed along with them, and there was no sign of the boy anywhere. He had not belonged with us, and he never would again. The mountain summoned him and took him in; the mists were his home. We called the mountain Mount Mirceas, in his name.
From then on, the boy would guide the travellers through the storms and shelter them from the falling snow, allowing them to cross to the other side alive.
The mountain’s growl quieted, and we never tried to climb the peak again. A truce between us.
And there was no more death in the mountain pass.
