The Call across Caervallen

Somewhere I believe there is a man who, having ascended to that height, stands still a moment in the gathering darkness to make a call across Caervallen. When he does so I feel strangely comforted, because his cry does not demand an audience, and therefore loses nothing if no one harkens to return it. The cry does not need to be heard for it to be understood; it assents within itself, a context wrapped up as a message; everything else, when you look inside, is just the shape of sound. Perhaps this is the only way to reach across Caervallen, if there is anything there to reach, and this is the only way the other side of Caervallen could answer back, though even by day it is too cold to wait long for that answer.