One evening, some months after the incident on the mountain, John and his father were sitting quietly reading. John put down his book and stared for several minutes into the fire.
“Something strange happened to me on that mountain, dad,” he said.
Peter looked up.
“Strange?” he echoed.
“Yes, I can’t explain it.”
“I don’t understand, John. Strange — how?”
John made a wry face and shrugged. Peter was tempted to be brusque with his son but something in John’s manner cautioned him that an inappropriate action would frighten away the timid spirit that was struggling to appear. He closed his book softly and laid it on the floor, then he leaned back in his chair.
“Strange is a strange word to use, John,” he said with a slight smile. “Frightening I could understand, perhaps even exhilarating
