The Runes of Norien

  II

  Bliss. It was absolute bliss that seized them the moment the sea, with one final gentle push, deposited them on the shore of a place that could have been no more real than a dying world’s desperate dream. Shouting with uncontrollable joy, they pranced and danced and rolled on the sand – even Wixelor, having forgotten in his rapturous state about his wooden leg again, had broken free of the crumbling raft with an entire log still attached to it, dragging it along till Gallan and Raddia, laughing out loud as he did, hurried to place their bare hands round his leg, whereupon their Substances, made even stronger by their glee, caused the wood to disintegrate into a pile of wet sawdust, freeing Wixelor’s still-numb yet intact, majestic foot.

  Only after they had sufficiently rejoiced, and spent a few sad silent moments in remembrance of the girl who had saved their lives by paying with her own, only then did they begin to take in the details of the land they’d been washed up on, and notice how – though by no means a splendour to behold – greatly it differed from the dispiriting deadland they’d departed from.

  First and most prominent were the trees that surrounded the beach – whose sand wasn’t grey and hard but soft and yellowish: tall and curved, with huge drooping leaves amidst which hung brown hairy spherical objects, gigantic seeds of some sort, which, according to what Wixelor recalled from a dream, might be edible. Arguably, some of the trees looked more dead than alive, their wilted branches grazing the sand like the hands of a blind person struggling to stand up, and most of the clumps of grass that grew here and there had a withered, sickly look – but nonetheless they were green and orange and yellow, and after a seeming eternity crossing a bleak world where black and grey reigned supreme, to see these distinct signs of life filled them with new hope. But it was when they finally turned their eyes to the sky that another colour, even if no more than a hint of it, seemed the surest promise of the fabled Sun: for though a layer of pale ashen clouds covered most of it, there were small narrow rifts in the grey that opened up here and there as fast as they closed, through which they could glimpse a pale blue dome, its light faint yet certain as a stubborn spark in a hearth full of cinders.

  And after Wixelor had put his knowledge to the test, plucking the hard seeds, splitting them open and passing them around, and they had all feasted on their delicious white flesh and milk-like juice (and asked for seconds and thirds which Wixelor and Yonfi were more than happy to provide – the latter climbing on top of the biggest tree faster than a squirrel despite Yodren’s protests, and having a jolly good time throwing the furry fruits at them, oblivious to the fact that, unlike him, their bodies could still feel pain, and sustain injury) they were in such excellent spirits it seemed as though, for once, the legendary quest they’d undertaken might have some chance of success.

  But then, still from atop the tree, Yonfi – not giggling anymore – said, “Smoke.”