Even now the name runs along my spine, squeezing every muscle - undulates from the ear, and slips past all rationalisation - and I hunger to make something of it.
This is not a new story. Someone who vaguely knew Plato, and Socrates before him, had as his talent the seeking of honey - an unlearned aptitude he would or could not share. None of us ever knew where he went once his figure sank below the crestline of the nearby ridge; but he always came back with the combs, always.
Even if I have the will to reach the crest, I know, only trees will be visible to me - all lined up and ready to be used, by one beast or another.