Farther Than The Eye Can See

Once upon a time a young girl lived with her parents high up the side a mountain.

Nemonee loved her parents and the windy beauty of her mountain home. She loved
the way her reflection sparkled in the mountain stream so she never felt alone.
There was only one thing Nemonee did not love: she did not love her parents’ goats.
They made her sneeze. And, it must be said, the goats did not care too much for her
either. “She will grow out of it,” her mother said when Nemonee was five. “She will
grow out of it,” her father said when she was ten. “She will never grow out of it,” they both agreed when she was twelve.

One day her father returned from a rare and arduous journey to the valley
far below. He called Nemonee to him. “You are old enough now to begin your own
life,” he said, “and this mountain offers few livelihoods that do not involve
goats. The silversmith in the valley is willing to take you on as his apprentice.
But I worry that you may not be happy living in the shadow of the mountain.”

“Does he have goats?” Nemonee asked.

“No goats,” her father assured her.

“I will be happy.”

“Then go, learn all you can, and make us proud of you.”

Nemonee set out the very next day. She followed the stream as it wandered toward the valley.
Smaller brooks and rivulets joined it along the way until the stream bulged into a river. The
river grew immense, dark, and dangerous, yet remained beautiful in its darkness. The land on the
far side of the river changed, too: the near side was sheltered by the mountain from the sun and
the hot, scourging winds. As the river darkened, the land beyond grew lighter, brighter–and more mysterious.

By the time she reached the flatland of the valley, the river was so wide and fierce that it could be
crossed only at a single point where a ferry plied between the two shores from late spring until early
autumn. The distant land was no more than a bright haze on the horizon. Nemonee stopped beside the
river before entering the village. She gazed into the rushing water. “Are you there?” she whispered,
not quite certain whether she called for the stream or her reflection. The water stilled enough to
show her herself mirrored there. “As long as I haven’t lost you, I will be fine,” she told the watery image.

The silversmith proved to be a master of his craft, but not of his temper. It was true he had no goats,
he seemed, rather, to be a goat, with the same stubborn disposition. Sometimes he even made her sneeze.
“You will begin with tim,” he told her. He waved a hand toward a dark corner bench. An intriguing
hodgepodge of half-finished lamps, boxes, and candleholders awaited completion. A thick layer of
dust attested to the importance the smith placed on tin. It was a soft metal that tended to rust.
“From time to time I have requests for simple tin pieces. It is not worth my while to work such a
low metal: that is why I have taken you on. If you are not a complete dullard, you may move on to
copper and brass when you have mastered tin. If not . . . well, there are always goats to be tended.” The smith laughed.

To find out what happens next
order your own
hand-bound copy of Farther Than The Eye Can See or send an email request for the text.

Farther Than The Eye Can See by
Lisa Wright

© 1998