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. There was a mountain goat,
foundered in a drift, its bleating protest wailing and lost in
the biting wind.
Tas drew a sharp breath, knowing that the deer would
soon go to its knees in surrender, that the mountain goat
would thrash and surge against its snowy restraints and
surely break a leg.
If his attention was a vagrant thing, his heart was a kind
one. Poor rabbit! he thought, poor brave deer! He wanted,
as much as he had ever wanted anything, to go out to find
them, to show them a way out of the storm. He wanted this
more than he'd wanted anything before. More, even, than
he'd wanted to find the magic in his little pipe.
In Tas's mind there was something dark and still. It was
a man - it was Sturm! And beside him knelt Tan-is! They
might have been ice sculptures so cold and motionless were
they.
Though it was no doing of his - and yet perhaps it was -
a long ache of sadness drifted through Tas's music when he
realized that they might be dead. Like the rabbit or the deer
or the mountain goat, there was no way to tell where they
were, near or far, no way to find them and help. There was
only the pipe. He played, then, with all his heart and trusted
to the magic that it would not be a song of farewell
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