The child asked me, what is the myth? And I could not answer. I could only tell what the uncles told me: the grandfather tales of Indian hunters budding the hilltops; of missionaries slain; of sprites conceived; of wagers made.
I could only tell what I heard others say, about maiden daughters run-away for transcendence on the mountain. The mountain is the myth.
And the village. York state’s richest men wagered their principles while her poorest hacked life from a hillside farm.
I could only tell how the old men told me.