What is there is what there is, Mountain told himself, contemplating it with a sigh. All may be understood. Mountain lit a candle and opened the book to write was to come. Mountain laughed, a booming fire in a pillar of cloud, and where he looked the night faded, a light opera in flowers, glowing in what it portrays: colors of covenants that are and all that comes from man. Moses got it wrong, he said; there are only four. Unite with every one. They faded a window appearing to eyes becoming used to light, night overexposed by each moment. To be, live in them. They faded like photographs out in the sun, in fields of flowers, candlelit. You have to believe. They faded a birth of shadow, flickering for the time that they were where they were.