Had his face or head encountered a low-hanging rock? Yet he had thought of us.
“Are you hurt?” I asked.
“No, sir.”
“Did your head strike?”
“Arm, sir.”
Perhaps an inscrutable power had given him the sense to raise his arm and guard his head at the moment of peril. I finished my question to Beelo:
“What is in here the natives fear?”
“The voices that send your words back.”
“Surely they are familiar with the echo in the mountains.”
“Not this kind, Choseph.” He had never called me that so easily. I hugged him closer, and he nestled like a kitten.