In the center of the village was a high black rock surrounded by pines, where every morning the sorcerer sang up the sun. He would climb there by steps cut into the stone long before his time and spread his red singing-cloth upon the ground. Then he would sit cross-legged and sing the song of the houses of the stars: bull, lion, virgin, twins. The house would open its great doors beyond the east and the sun would awaken. Soft blue light would fill the valley. Then the sorcerer would fill his lungs with the clean air of Sky and the warm smells of Earth, and sing: sing the song of the rising of the sun. And, always, perfect, the bright edge of the sun’s garments would appear above the eastern hills, and the valley would turn gold with his light, and the sorcerer would bow his thanks before climbing down to eat his breakfast.

This was the way of the village. The farmers rose long before the sun at the crow of the roosters; the townspeople rose at the song of the sorcerer, and blessed the gods for him, for without him the whole village would be in darkness.

One morning, as the sun was beginning to stay in the house of the water-bearer, the sorcerer awoke in the dark and lay for a moment, listening. The wind was in the trees outside. And something else: there was a tightness, a soreness, in his throat, as if he had drunk too quickly a glass of very hot tea. He swallowed. It hurt to swallow.

He groaned and rolled out of bed, took his singing-rug, and laced up his sandles. Then he climbed up the stone steps to the top of the rock and sat there for a moment coughing, his throat seeming to burn. The valley was still and very quiet. Trying to ignore the pain, the sorcerer unrolled his singing-rug and sat himself on it. He took a drink of water from his waterskin, filled his lungs with the cool air of Sky and the warm smell of Earth, and sang the song of the water-bearer.

In the east, cool blue light began to fill the valley.

The sorcerer closed his eyes and exhaled slowly. The song still worked, though his voice was cracked with the dry pain of his throat. The Sun was merciful.

He concentrated, took another drink, and, painfully, sang the song of the rising of the sun. The bright edge of the sun’s garment appeared over the eastern hills. The sorcerer thanked him, begging forgiveness for his imperfection, and climbed down to eat his breakfast.

The village awoke and came to life. Donkeys brayed in the streets, and the water-sellers called their sing-song chants. The sorcerer, very tired, went back to bed.

He did not wake til evening, and sat up to find himself drenched in sweat. His lungs felt as if they were filled with coals, and his head burned with some unholy fire. The room, lit with the gold and red of the setting sun, seemed to move about him as if filled with demons.

It was a curse, he thought. Someone in the village did not want the sun to rise. He tried to get out of bed, to call the elders, but his body was wracked with pain and weakness. He fell back. He must collect his strength: the sun must rise.

The sorcerer hardly slept. He burned with curse-fever, and not even repeated prayers of deliverance to Earth and Sky brought relief to his agony.

Eternal hours passed. The roosters called in the distant dark. The appointed time came.

The sorcerer pulled himself out of his bed and staggered to the stone steps. His hands seemed weak as a child’s when he gripped the rock, and when he pulled himself to the first step his whole body cried against him.

Step. Step. Step. As he neared the top, his feet slipped and he nearly fell, but caught himself on the rock, praise the gods, his heart fluttering in his chest.

He crawled to his singing-place, panting hoarsely. He croaked the song of the water-bearer.

The valley filled with soft blue light.

The gods are with me, the sorcerer thought. Pain filling every nerve, coursing through him with every word, he began the song of the rising of the sun.

The bright edge of the sun’s garment appeared above the eastern hills, and the valley turned gold with his light.

The sorcerer collapsed, breathing hard, the brightening sky toiling above him. He lay there til afternoon, when, parched with thirst, he struggled his way back down the steps to his hut, where he felt well enough to drink tea before lying down to sleep once again.

The pain in his throat began to fade, but the fever-curse grew. He would feel chill suddenly like winter, and pull his furs from under his bed, and lay shivering—then, as if plunged into hell itself, burn with heat and kick them off, dripping with perspiration.

Night fell. The sorcerer tossed, tormented, all too aware that in a few hours he would again have to climb the rock and sing up the sun.

He slept. His sleep then was like a prison, full of darkness and heat and laughing demons in deep shadows. The sun, the sun, his mind said, echoing in the distance, but the sorcerer felt as if he was buried alive in hot sulfur-mud, swimming for his life but never breaking surface.

A wicked dark fell through the ceilings of his dream hell, suffocating, shifting, silencing.

Darkness and quiet. Heat, slowly fading, fading.

Slowly, the dark became cool, gentle, like the mother Earth, and father Sky blew a soothing breeze upon him.

Then, a golden touch on his forehead.

The sorcerer awoke in a panic—the song had not been sung, the sun could not—

But no. At his window, the sun sat low over the eastern hills. The valley was bathed in golden light, and in the streets the donkeys were beginning to bray, the water-sellers to call their sing-song chants.

The curse-fever was broken. The sorcerer rose and knelt in his door frame and wept repentance to the Sun for his failure, and gratitude for his redemption. Then, as the day opened, he ate a ravenous breakfast.

The next morning, the sorcerer awoke well before dawn. He climbed the high black rock in the center of the village, spread his red singing-rug upon the ground, and, as the village slept beneath him, sang up the sun.

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