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women who had been children when Gaia had first gone into the temple had never seen her before, and they gasped at her ethereal beauty, their voices tickling Gaia’s toes. She looked across to the younger women and smiled broadly at them.
    The Priestess motioned Gaia to step forward and hold out her wrapped hands. She anointed each of Gaia’s fingertips with balsam oil in a blessing to the mountain for Gaia’s safe passage before handing her the head-shaped pouch, which Gaia accepted with a curt bow. Then, with the help of another Cuari, Gaia slipped the pack over her shoulders with great care, balancing its weight against the tilt of the sword in the sash across her chest. As a guide, Gaia knew she and the Priestess were the only living beings who could have any direct contact with the deity from the heavens. With all her heart, Gaia prayed he was the one – his presence among them, his return to them, would allow her to bring an end to her suffering without bringing dishonour to the Cuari from the gods.
    Before Gaia and the elders began their ascent to the mountain’s flat top, one of the village women passed Gaia a pouch filled with water, two warm tortillas and a lump of goat’s cheese. Knowing they would not be stopping until they reached their destination, Gaia tore into the sparse meal as she led the procession up into the canyon towards the billowing smoke.
    For anyone else the climb would have been a difficult one, but the Cuari had spent their lives on this mountain and they were as agile in their movements and as skilled in their climbing as any mountain lion, especially Gaia. She kept a safe distance ahead of the elders so that their odours and the low hum of their conversation caused her as little discomfort as possible.
    When the narrow pass began to flatten out towards the plateau and a field of ice was visible like glass on the horizon, the temperature dropped drastically. The cold chimed in Gaia’s ears like distant goat bells. Despite the wax plugs, Gaia could hear a long low moan of anguish in an outcropping of rocks directly up ahead. Gaia tasted saltwater and her fingers tingled. She knew they were close to him.
    Gaia raised her hands and stopped the elders, pointing up ahead to the sagebrush and the rocks where the man’s mangled legs and twisted feet were visible, twitching against the ground.
    The Cuari stopped, not shocked at the sight of the shattered body and broken limbs caught between the rocks – they had seen enough slaughtered animals in their lives – but at the feral moaning that was emanating from the man. It was terrifying . If this man came from their gods, one of the Cuari elders thought, he was not happy about leaving.
    Gaia was about to run forward when the same elder reached out and grabbed her from behind. Gaia flinched as if she’d been struck with a whip.
    The elder pulled away her hands immediately. ‘Forgive my touch,’ she whispered. ‘But he may be dangerous.’
    ‘He will not be,’ replied Gaia. Her own voice tasted like ginger root on her tongue. Gaia was far too curious to see what the gods had sent to wait any longer. The elders drew their swords and formed a horseshoe round the rocks, making sure they could not look upon the man, but they could assist their guide if she needed protection quickly. Gaia tiptoed closer to the body. The mist had lifted from the mountain and the sun was at its peak, long shadows poking like curious fingers between the rocks.
    Gaia untied the pouch and set it on one of the larger flatter rocks, halting a few paces from the soft brush where the man had landed. She stared down at him and prayed he was the god who would be the mountain’s salvation. And her own.
    He was broken in too many places for Gaia to count, his body lying at odd angles, his arms dislocated from his shoulders, his head lolling to one side on a pillow of blood. The back of his skull had flattened in the impact. His face was so swollen that his eyes were slits