The boy child stretched his five-year-old little hand to the face of the old man and stroked the deeply etched cheek.

     "Bompa," he asked, "why are there so many lines on your face?"

     "It's to give me more room for smiles," the old man replied. The boy nestled into the old man's shoulder and sighed a long, loud sigh. He looked up, his dark eyes troubled and thoughtful.

     "I don't want you to go away, Bompa," he said. "Who will know me?"

     "For heavens sake," his mother's exasperated voice broke into his pensive thoughts, "Bompa's not going anywhere. Grandpa, what in the world have you been telling him?" The old man looked at his grand daughter but didn't reply. Her son looked at her defiantly.

     "Bompa didn't tell me nothing."

     "Anything. Then who told you he was going somewhere?" The boy wrinkled up his forehead while he thought.

     "Nobody telled me . . . anything. But Bompa is going away." He slipped his hand into the hand of his great grandfather and curled himself more tightly into the old man's arms, turning his back on his mother and dismissing her completely. He turned the old man's hand over and inspected it. It, too, was wrinkled. It no longer looked big like it used to and the boy knew this was not good. It was part of the reason that Bompa was going away.

     The old man brushed the unruly mass of dark hair off the boy-child's forehead. "If you're not careful, you're going to have as many wrinkles as I do," he told him.

     "I will when I get old like you anyway." He squeezed the wrinkled hand. "I love you, Bompa," He said. The he looked up into the still piercing eyes of the old man. "You won't forget me when you're gone, will you?" he whispered.

     "Never!" The old man leaned close and said in his ear. "My great grand father has never forgotten me and I will never forget you. You won't forget me, will you?" He smiled at the boy. It was a rhetorical question. Both of them knew that the boy would never forget him. They were a part of each other just as the ancient great grandfather had been before them. They stretched back over the land with the wind. They belonged to another time and another place. The old man crooned the wordless tunes of the ancestors to the boy until he finally fell into a peaceful sleep. Gently he laid the child in his bed, covering him with a quilt. He reached up to finger the dream catcher hanging over the boy's head and smiled, thinking of the many wonderful dreams it had caught for him over the years.

     He slipped quietly from the room, listening intently to the thunder off in the distance. He should be able to make it up the hill if he started now. If he waited much longer, the pathway would be a river from the coming rain. The wind was already howling. Like a wolf, he thought. Like a wolf claiming what was his.

     He walked softly to the back utility room, took off his sensible Hush Puppies and slid his feet into his old moccasins. He retrieved the knarled walking stick from the top shelf and ran his fingers lovingly over the carved animals. He would like to leave this stick for the boy child, but he needed it to make the trek up the mountain. Perhaps the boy would understand.

     He opened the door and was pushed back slightly by the force of the wind. Taking a breath, he hunched his shoulders and stepped outside. The dogs came to the doors of their houses and solemnly watched him pass, their glistening eyes following him until he was out of sight and they curled up again in the backs of their houses, out of the reach of the storm.

     The stooped old man was merely a shadow passing over the land. He no longer walked tall. His step no longer bent the grass as he crossed the small pasture and let himself out the far side through the gate. Again he began crooning the wordless tunes of his ancestors but this tune was haunting, joining the moaning of the wind and the lashing of the rain that was now pounding down on him. The sounds joined in an eerie harmony which seemed to belong to the earth.

     Slowly he climbed the path which had already grown wet and slippery. He planted the stick carefully so that he wouldn't slip. If the boy were here, he would be impatient with how long it took him. Suddenly the old man gasped and clutched at his chest. At the same time, he heard again the howl of the wolf-wind. Claiming its own. As he became accustomed to the pain in his chest, it seemed to clear his head and he listened intently to a new sound. A rumbling from the mountain itself. The old man smiled and thought of the overhang of rock on the pathway just a hundred yards ahead. It would be dry under there where the tangle of roots was exposed. It was from a root like those that his grandfather had carved the stick which now supported him to the small earthen cavern. He remembered the first time he had gazed on those twisted roots. He had been about the age of the boy child and was fascinated with the way they protruded from the earth and wrapped around each other for strength. Little tendrils of root reached out toward him even then and his great grandfather explained how the roots protected the earth and held it in its place. Last year he had brought the boy child up here to tell him the stories. The stories of the root people whose arms twisted together to hold the earth. The boy had loved the roots and had come back by himself to talk with the spirits of the root people. Not like his mother who had always been afraid of the dark and earthy cavern alive with the souls of the trees.

     The rain was now blowing almost horizontally and the old man was having more and more difficulty walking against it as his breath came in short gasps with the pain in his chest. He propped the stick against the wall of the path and crawled, dripping wet, into the low-roofed cavern. He leaned back against the wall of roots and they enfolded him like welcoming arms. He sighed, contented. He could hear the rumble increasing and knew that the days of rain had finally loosened the rocks higher on the mountain; had turned solid rock into liquid waves. He envisioned them surging down the steeper slopes and joined by the heavy, wet earth. He could hear the escalating sound even over the wind and the thunder as the slide moved boulders and trees down the mountainside. It broke away the overhang which had welcomed the old man and it engulfed him. He was at peace. He was where he belonged. He was once again in the protective arms of his great grandfather who began crooning to him in the wordless tunes of his great grandfather before him.

     She opened the door just to check on him like she did every night. In the light from the hall she could see that his eyes were wide open. He should be asleep.

     "What's the matter, Stevie?" she asked softly, slipping in and sitting on the side of the bed. She gently brushed his shock of black hair off his forehead and could see tears glistening from the corners of his eyes as they slid down the sides of his face and into his pillow. "You're not afraid of the storm are you, sweetie? Did you have a bad dream?" He didn't feel feverish and she tenderly planted a kiss on his nose.

     "Bompa's gone," his voice quavered and he turned his head away from her.

     "What do you mean, honey?" she asked, confused. "Where has Bompa gone?"

     "He's gone to be with his great grandfather." She wanted to argue and be reasonable but she knew that what he said was true and she didn't know what to say. Or how to comfort him. She didn't even know where her grandfather was, but she knew that her son was right. She kissed him again and squeezed his hand. "Do you want me to sit with you?" she asked. He shook his head. "Just call me if you need me, then," she whispered and tip-toed out of the room. The howling of the wind made her shiver but in her son's room, he listened intently and finally smiled and fell back to sleep.

     In the morning, the storm had subsided and the sun was making a feeble attempt to warm the washed out land. They found the walking stick almost a half mile away at the front edge where the slide had finally stopped. The boy child accepted it formally and reverently ran his chubby little hand over the carved animals. He turned and took them to the spot where his great grandfather was buried. No one doubted his word and they chose to leave the old man there - in the arms of his earth. The child didn't want to go back to the house yet and his parents wisely left him on the hill. As they walked away, they could hear him crooning the wordless tunes of their ancestors. Tunes passed from generation to generation by the wind or the howl of a wolf.