When the sun was up, I entered the cave. It was damp in there. I could here water running down one wall, and I felt a wind on my face, which was strange, because there was no wind inside the mountain.
In my mind, the cave would be filled with gold. Bars of gold would be stacked like firewood, and bags of golden coins would sit between them. There would be golden chains and golden rings, and golden plates, heaped high like the china plates in a rich man`s house.
I had imagined riches, but there was nothing like that here. Only shadows. Only rock.
Something was here, though. Something that waited.
I have secrets, but there is a secrets that lies beneath all my other secrets, and not even my children know it, although I believe my wife suspects, and it is this: my mother was a mortal woman, the daughter of a miller, but my father came to her from out of the West, and to the West he returned, when he had had his sport with her. I cannot be sentimental about my parentage: I am sure he does not thing of her, and doubt that he ever knew of me. But he left me a body that is small, and fas, and strong; and perhaps I take after him on other ways -- I do not know. I am ugly, and my father was beautiful, or so my mother told me once, but I think that she might have been deceived.
I wondered what I would have seen in that cave if my father had been an innkeeper from the lowlands.
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