To his merit, he thinks the matter over, lip struck between teeth, gently chewed. Then, carefully, he chances, "I think... until a few years ago, with certainty, every time the mountain bubbled. But... more often. When they thought it might."

Preventively, as if the great yawning chasm of a mouth on this mountain could be tamed by shallow precautions. "I don't remember well. I was too young. But my mother said, whenever a child looked too bright or too handsome, you'd want to hide it. If they had a skill, and it weren't too important to the village to bear parting with, he or she would want to dull it."

If the village learned, the village took.