Master Suku was travelling with three novices in the snowy
mountains, en route to a distant temple. The trail wound
dizzily up the face of a great cliff, and as the sky grew
dim they contemplated the long night ahead and began to seek
any place that might offer some refuge from the wind.
Eventually the group came upon a deep fissure in the rock
face, just wide enough for each of them to squeeze through.
It opened into a narrow cave, but when Suku lit her lantern
the travellers discovered that they were not alone. A
corpse, ancient yet well-preserved by the endless cold, sat
huddled at the far end. One mummified hand clutched a
stone, and the sloping wall opposite was covered in columns
of deep, unfamiliar scratches.
“What do you see?” Suku asked the others.
“Markings,” said the first novice, “made by the stone.”
“Words,” said the second, “carved by the dead.”
“A message,” said the third, “expecting no answer.”
Suku shook her head as she rummaged through the pockets of
her travel coat. “A last request, meant for us.”
“Can you understand the letters?” asked the first novice.
“No,” said Suku, producing her cellphone. She aimed its
camera at the scratches. “But I have unpacked source
directories from many strange lands. Though the form differs
from place to place, still I can tell when something is
crying out README.
