epilogue
The schoolroom emptied as it usually did, with a din of perky voices and dozens of stomping footsteps, as the children hurried outside to kick the ball or go to the river to fish and swim or simply do nothing except enjoy the rest of the day’s freedom.
And with a sigh of contentment, Yodren sat behind the desk, resting his head on his elbow and closing his eyes, the better to appreciate the loud yet marvellous music of the children’s shouting and laughing. Another good day, he said to himself.
Another day of teaching the little ones the ‘language of the Sun’ – as the common tongue of Lurien, Feerien and Ienar Lin was called by the villagers – and of instructing them in the History of Norien, such as he knew it from his years as a Scribe and from Wixelor’s great wealth of knowledge. But, more importantly, another day of being taught by his students, just as he was by their parents, the instinctive, practical wisdom of Erat Rin: the simplicity of the Divine Language if one merely immersed oneself in it through speech, without overthinking every minute change or potential double meaning, and the equally – if not more – astounding way one could sustain oneself with a little hard work and patience: knowing when, where and what to sow, how long to wait before reaping a harvest or plucking ripe, edible fruit from a tree, when to collect honey from a beehive and the uses of animals at various ages, as well as the proper way to kill, skin, pluck and bleed them without becoming too attached to the fact that they were living things.
Thus by a twist of fate he’d never have imagined possible, he, Yodren Kobold, a weak, sheltered creature till only a few months ago, a man who lived exclusively in and through his head and feared the brutal world, was now fast becoming a Farmer just like his father, learning all the things poor Yern had never had the chance to teach him.
Yodren’s thoughts turned often to the family he’d lost twice in his life, as he was sure Yonfi’s thoughts did, too. Presumably, by saving Erat Rin they had also saved the rest of Norien, but there was no way to tell for sure; even Wixelor, in an apologetic way, said that Feerien was too far away for the dreams of Feeres to reach him. Whatever the truth, Yodren chose to believe his father was still alive and well, and that perhaps some day, just as wondrously as they’d been separated, they might be together again. Besides, he had his little brother, who more than sufficed to heal and warm his bruised heart.
Just as the land and its living creatures had been flourishing ever since the Sun had returned, so had Yonfi thrived almost impossibly, as if he weren’t a boy but a young tree, or some singular, mythical beast. Within a couple of months he’d shot up at least a head, and his skinny frame had filled up with muscle from working long, tireless hours at the statue’s building site; his pale complexion had taken a light brown sheen, the blue of his eyes had darkened, and even the pitch of his voice had dropped, alarmingly, save from some shrill notes that still escaped him, betraying the fact that, although to look at him one might easily say he was a youth of twelve, he was not yet seven. As to the village children, they worshipped the ground his bare feet walked on, as much for his powers as for the fact that he never used them to hurt, taunt or cheat in a game – only when fishing did they ask of him to perform his magic, never tiring of seeing the trout leap out of the water and into his beckoning hands. So wherever he went he was always surrounded by a throng of friends and playmates, sticking out by his height and white-blond hair.
And in the meantime Dwanar was on its slow but steady way to recovery, aided by a mission from Iabi’s village on which Gallan and Wixelor had gone as well. Taking with them sacks of seeds and saplings, cattle, sheep and fowl, they planned on visiting as many populated areas as they could find along the way, and help the people make their land once more a source of sustenance. The two Khum-Rah had offered their assistance, which might prove of very high value to the mission; besides their imposing appearance, Gallan could speak to the minds of people and help if a change of Substance was needed, while Wixelor was extremely knowledgable and, from their dreams, he knew what most people truly desired. There was no telling how long the mission would last, (more than a year, maybe) and Yodren’s heart had tightened at the thought of being separated from Gallan for so long, even though the attraction between them had never been acted upon or even openly acknowledged; moreover, it was unthinkable to join the mission himself and leave Yonfi alone, even if he was certain his brother could manage just fine without him, and Gallan, until the time to leave came and he shot Yodren an intense, melancholy gaze, hadn’t spoken a word about their separation, either silently or aloud.
But now was no time for useless brooding; this afternoon he was to take his first lesson in camel riding, a thing he dreaded and had thus put off for a ridiculously long time; and then it would be time to head home for supper, lovingly prepared by Raddia, whose kindness and companionship Yodren had come to regard with infinite gratitude, as that of a caring, dutiful wife he didn’t think he’d ever done anything to deserve.
Suddenly, Yonfi’s manly-boyish voice was heard above the children’s prattle.
“Hey, brother!” he shouted. “Leave your precious parchments for a moment and come kick the ball with us! I promise I shan’t take advantage of your clumsiness!”
Yodren let out another sigh of satisfaction, and rose from the desk with a smile.
“That’s what you always say!” he called back.