"So it was told, so it is prophesied, even now, among those who remember."
"I have not heard this prophecy," Duwan said.
"No, because it is safe here," his grandmother said. "Because there is no war. Females hold the tales of old. Females prophesy. And it is females who weep when their sons die in war. We choose to forget."
"And when I am through the land of the fires?"
"The time of the long light has just begun. You are strong. You will be in the land of snows while Du is long, but you must hasten until the small, scattered brothers become a great congregation, and even then you must not pause for rest, for the cold will be on your heels, chasing you from the north to bury you in snow. You will pass through a land of many waters, and if your pace has been swift, you will swim the iceless waters of the smaller waters, skirt the larger. Through dims and darks you will pass the congregated brothers, and there will be days shorter than the nights in the land of many waters. There you will first encounter the Enemy, but, perhaps, he has forgotten. You must remember that it is our difference that he hates and fears, and you must hide your abilities. When Du is just to the south of the zenith, and his rays are stronger than you have ever felt before, in a safe place, concealed from the Enemy, become one with the soil and let Du's power restore your limb."
"I will consider," Duwan said.
"Yes," the old one said. "Now I faint, I tire."
"I will help you to your house."
"Thank you, my son, but I am not yet helpless," she said stoutly, as she tottered toward the door.
"Mother, is it true?" Duwan asked, when the old one was gone.
"So it is said."
"Counsel me, Mother. You have always been wise." There were tears in her eyes when she spoke. "I can offer only mixed counsel. My heart says stay, my son. My love for you, and my best wishes for you say go, and return to us whole with news of what has happened in the Land of Many Brothers during our exile."
He had never heard their condition called exile. He looked at her, wanting to ask questions. He was still, however, trying to digest the information he'd received from his grandmother. He knew that the old one and his mother were direct descendants of Alon, who had led the Drinkers to the valley, a man of renown, a leader of leaders.
"Exile?" he was forced to ask.
"A term," she said, waving it away.
"Exile, mother?"
Her eyes hardened. "Once we were a great and populous people, living in prosperity and peace. The Land of Many Brothers was ours, and we became lax, became soft in our life of plenty. The Enemy from the south struck us a mighty blow before we could prepare, before we even suspected his existence. It was too late. Our warriors regained their old skills in defeat after defeat as we were gradually pushed to the north. For generations we fought, and grew weaker, and less numerous, until only a few thousand remained, pushed into the lands north of the waters into seasons of deep snows and bitter cold, and even then the Enemy was to be satisfied only by our total extermination, for he had found that we were different, that we could drink of Du, and communicate with our fixed brothers. It was your ancestor, the Great Alon, who explored to the east and the west and the north to find a great sea and the Enemy spread from coast to mountains and to find a hope, a small hope, here in the valley. The Enemy had not the secret of the way through the land of eternal fire, and presumed that we had been consumed."
"I will see this Enemy," Duwan said.
"I fear so," his mother said, with resignation.
"Perhaps, now, he has grown fat and weak."
"There is much preparation to be done," she said, "and each moment counts if you are to be south of the killing cold and impassable snows before the end of the long light."
"Guide me," he said.
Chapter Three
Having fed and drunk until every cell of his body seemed ready to burst with stored nutrition, Duwan inspected the travel kit prepared for him by his mother and his grandmother. A pack, woven of feathers and fibers, rested snugly on his back, secured by woven belts around chest and shoulders. The pack bulged with the skillfully designed, padded, insulated clothing that would be vital to survival once the long light had passed and the ice sent its frigid breath southward. There was little space for food. A hollowed nut sealed with wax held an emergency supply of water. Dried tubers filled any small available space in the pack. At his left side rode the shortsword, at his belt his knife, and over his left shoulder the longsword. He would have no need for his bow, but aside from that, and his supply of arrows, he carried his total life possessions as he stood in the square and let his orange eyes appreciate the faces and the forms of his friends, his family. Alning was not immediately visible, but, at last, he saw her, back at the edge of the crowd of villagers who had gathered to wish him well. Duwan the Elder, his father, came to stand before him, extended both arms. The entwining was incomplete, for the son had no left forearm, but it was warm and lasting, limbs twisted together in the age-old symbol of regard, loyalty, brotherhood. Then, one by one, he entwined with the warriors and the old ones and brushed his one hand against both hands of the females, except for Alning, who had disappeared.
"Hear me," said Duwan the Elder, when the ceremony of parting had been completed. "The way is long and harsh. To outdistance the wings of the great cold will test you to the utmost. Strong warriors died during our journey to the north, their cells crystalized and ruptured by the ice. You must never rest, my son, not when the cold of the north is upon you, for to rest, although it seems sweet at the time, is death. If the brothers are in retreat, if there are no life organs visible, cold is there or will come. Move onward, onward, until tender life organs are green with health, and then rest."
"I hear," Duwan said.
"Flee the Enemy," The Elder intoned, his pale eyes, dimmed to weak yellow, fixed on Duwan's own. Duwan felt himself stiffen. "Yes, flee, until you have been restored, and even then remember that you are only one Drinker amid hosts of the Enemy and govern your decisions with wisdom, not rashness, no matter how great the temptation, how hot the blood. For your journey is more than a personal seeking for renewal and restoration, my son, it is for the Drinkers. The information you bring us will be of vital import, and will have a decided effect on the future of the ones in the valley. That is your primary mission. Your mission is not to kill one, or a dozen, or a score of the Enemy, but to observe, to learn, to accumulate wisdom and live to impart it to your valley."
"I hear, father," Duwan said, bowing his head.
Duwan's mother stepped forward, two pairs of sandals fashioned from the skin of the needled brother in her hands. She lashed them to Duwan's pack and pressed her petal fresh lips to his cheek before stepping back.
"Soak the sandals well," said his grandmother, in her aged, croaking voice. "Remember, soak them well."
"I hear, Grandmother," Duwan said.
The minstrel had written a new verse to the Song Of Duwan The Drinker. His resonant instrument rang out, and his voice began to sing as Duwan, trying in vain to catch a glimpse of Alning, turned his back to the gathering in the square and paced away toward the southeast and the far tip of the valley. He felt swollen with his intake of nutrients, and his spirit was heavy, for he was aware of the dangers that lay ahead, and sore in the heart in his loss of Alning. He did not turn, nor did he look over his shoulder. He adjusted his pack for comfort and took long strides and the song of the minstrel faded, leaving echoes of the words in his mind, words telling of the courage of Duwan, words of the long way ahead. He was young, and he was hopeful. His heart could not stay heavy long. The time of the long light was too glorious, the birds too colorful, all the brothers of the valley too lush and green in their long light flush of health and growth. Alning was waiting for him, half hidden in the heated, soft steam of a spring. At first he wasn't sure his eyes were being true, afraid that his desire to see her gave rise to visions, and then she stepped toward him, black eyes bright, hair moistened by the steams, her yellow green skin dripping attractively with moisture. He halted, and could find no words.