5. Epilogue: Adrift
He was in that forest again. The wind was obscurely lifting loose, twisted strands of his hair. All around the trees murmured at his presence, in the language of shuffling leaves and tweaking branches.
I know this atmosphere, he imagined himself think.
He felt words smoothen his tongue, recurring and winding metaphors and promises which only a greater power could keep. After years of conversing with Father Titus, uttering the long strain of prayers felt coldly redeeming. But even now, as he let the adoring words distil into the air around him, he battled his rebellious urge to shed tears. There was a time for grieving, he reminded himself. And it's already over.
The final stanzas he said aloud: "God knows the truth. To Him we return." And instantly the atmosphere seemed to fragment into normalcy. He became aware of other people nearby.
He marked the memorial with a linen shroud; anything else more elaborate, and he was certain the townspeople would find reasons to desecrate it out of their blind spite. They were justified, considering their cathedral had been levelled completely. Still, he kissed the mound of earth and, with a huge blank blindness in his mind terrifying him, turned to face the mourners.
As expected, none of them were crying. Not even Aestee.
Reynard earlier offered to lead prayers, but he overrode him: this was his responsibility. He felt the weight of obligation for his wife's soul, whether that soul was a human one or not. He did, though, allow Father Titus the blessing to perform a generous eulogy – to the forest, trees and the mountains. Because – beyond his wife's children and these two friends – the final member of the audience was his lone brother-in-law Usman. His presence made him painfully aware of the absence of the rest of the family. There were so many questions he needed to ask them.
But they would have to wait. He needed to settle one thing first.
He walked away, not wishing to face any of them now, and finally acknowledged the patience of three others, standing not too far off, barely camouflaged by the forest. In his melancholic disarray, his senses recognized a familiar, contradictory soothing presence.
He shut his eyes, but Clare occupied every space in his visions.
And here we are again. At the ultimate culmination of his fifteen years of dreams and fantasies – back to this hideous, desolate forest and cornered on all sides by the southern hills. Back to where Clare and he left off: face-to-face, wounded, the world threatening to sink in on them.
But there's one distinction: it gripped him as he caught Clare's eyesHe imagined himself staring at his own reflection. A ghost, drained of all idealism, grieving because of a lost commitment, while Clare returned his gaze with an unquestioning ferocity, the quality of the guilt at her act of attempted redemption unknown.
All the while, her words were hurting in his ears: I'll swear I'll come looking for you – so stay alive.
He spoke before Clare could make an offer or Miria could interrupt: "I know what you're going to say," he said, even though uncertainty still filled the void left by his sadness. "But my place is with my children."
He caught Clare's line of sight veer away; he traced her attention to the three youngsters who he believed were being spoken to by Father Titus. Does she realise it too? He wanted to tell it to her straight, but the gap between his words and thoughts discouraged him, his few words prompting her to self-realization.
She spoke with her eyes closed: "I should have known." A deep pause. "Then will there be place for me among them?"
Raki noticed a bleak relief brighten Clare's face, even if it was for the shortest instant. It was his turn to look beyond her to her comrades. Miria's hard stare did not relent; with Clare's the words carrying over to her easily, she softened her glare, before turning aside to speak to Yuma, who in turn nodded. And these two simple gestures Raki took as their consent to stay.
But with the sounds of his children approaching from behind, and Clare before him, Raki felt – surrounded – by two opposing ends of his conscious life. So this is it – his mind knew that once he and this company trudged down this mountain to the plains, things would, for once, be finally irreversible. Once they reached the bottom of this mountain, he would have chosen to partake in everything that accompanied Clare and those of her kind: mobs, rejection, a struggle to survive and a blood debt still unresolved.
All around him, the crushing, pressing barriers of forest, sky and mountain wrapped themselves around his mind. The very scent and feel of this setting diminished him. It reeked of a tucked-away sorrow, a buried despair, a troubling memory.
He half-wondered if, for the remainder of his life, his dreams would be saturated with this tormenting moment, a deep limbo between pulling away and moving on from his pain.
Even his thoughts were in tandem with his discomfort: More promises, Clare?
She turned to wait for him.
But he took a final glimpse at the mound of earth, and then at his motherless children. But at what cost?
What have I dragged them into?
NOTES:
I know a lot of people will not be satisfied with the ending, which is more open-ended than concluding. I wrote an alternate ending where Clare leaves and Raki is left by Sabeena's grave still uncertain, but I found that a bit too depressing for me. I wanted a conclusion that would reflect time-dulled grief: after mourning a loss, everyone feels an uncertain period of holding on and letting go – this chapter was meant to mimic that. I hope it worked.
Credit must go to my beta, Dragon-Slayer 2026, who worked with me tirelessly on the editing. I'm thankful for his advice. Thanks also to all my reviewers, especially Zoey. I will admit that turning Sabeena into an awakened being was my only way out of a very difficult plot. I could've turned this into a novel-length story & went on 10 more chapters on Raki, Clare & his family. But this was meant to be short and sharp. There needed to be an antagonist – and it seemed the most convenient at the time. I apologise – I'm sorry – because it was a cheap trick. I should've known better.
I'm not planning to write a sequel. I want to move on myself. This story began as an idea in the exam hall, and I laboured with it for 3 months. You decide whether it was worth the effort.
I have other stories planned. Now I hope for discipline to continue writing. If all goes well, I'll have another one posted here soon (1 weeks' time).
And as always: all glory, honour & praise be to the Lord. Who gives all things. To Him we return.
Finished: 16.01.2008. Edited: 11.02.2008