"—-sat with his back to a tree and looked out over the water, which was lipped by the wind comming south, and stripped with light catching on the wave tips. It could make a home, he thought; pretty enough to tolerate, and no one around. The beyond of the beyond. Nether How, he named it, how being a useful old word for a hill. And how pompous that is, to name a place just because you rested your own nether how there for a while! But he closed his eyes and drifted into a sort of walking dream, as he’d done once or twise before. He saw himself sitting there, almost nodding off, more a man then when he had started out, but still lost, like most young men, and more lost than most. With no sence of a trade, no native skill except to make mistakes, no one to learn from, no one to trust, and no innate virtue uppon which to rely….and no way to see the future. He rose the the height of the leaves of the pillwood trees, which were beginning to turn amber, a first hint of autumn. He saw himself below, the ill-cut hair- what a botched job!- and the knees, and the feet turned out as if planted there. If he could just stop breathing, he’d become part of the Nether How; sink capably into the grass. When his offensive spirit had left his body, the mountain sheep or the lakeland skark or whatever animal fed here would eventually overcome its fear, and nibble the grass right up to his limbs, keeping it shorn around him.”

"—-sat with his back to a tree and looked out over the water, which was lipped by the wind comming south, and stripped with light catching on the wave tips. It could make a home, he thought; pretty enough to tolerate, and no one around. The beyond of the beyond. Nether How, he named it, how being a useful old word for a hill. And how pompous that is, to name a place just because you rested your own nether how there for a while! But he closed his eyes and drifted into a sort of walking dream, as he’d done once or twise before. He saw himself sitting there, almost nodding off, more a man then when he had started out, but still lost, like most young men, and more lost than most. With no sence of a trade, no native skill except to make mistakes, no one to learn from, no one to trust, and no innate virtue uppon which to rely….and no way to see the future. He rose the the height of the leaves of the pillwood trees, which were beginning to turn amber, a first hint of autumn. He saw himself below, the ill-cut hair- what a botched job!- and the knees, and the feet turned out as if planted there. If he could just stop breathing, he’d become part of the Nether How; sink capably into the grass. When his offensive spirit had left his body, the mountain sheep or the lakeland skark or whatever animal fed here would eventually overcome its fear, and nibble the grass right up to his limbs, keeping it shorn around him.”

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