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Third Chapter

The Summer Solstice Festival

*

Arthur stormed forward, his feeble little heart racing as he - as always - had found himself between a rock and a hard place. Don't drop the pie, don't drop the pie,don't be late, he thought for himself. Oh! Why such a cruel fate!

It was not that he feared Claudia - he _wished_he would have had a mother like her! Oh how he had prayed to the Goddess that he in his next life would have a mother like Cinnie had! But maybe it wasn't Arthur's mother that was his problem.

Maybe it was Arthur himself.

The only thing he was good at was running away from things. No wonder he tried to find so much peace that he just could watch the clouds rolling past the skies, or see the breeze play with the grass, or why not watching the purling streams of Bruckebrook? Things like these made him forget about his pathetic existence, made him forget who he was. What 'A deplorable, broken little thing', as Cynthia had called him more than once.

That was when his mother was on her cheerful mood. When things did go very wrong, like when she was late for a ceremony, or when Arthur had forgotten a key, or when she had been unable to indulge in her afternoon naps, she could say things that were... very hurtful to little Arthur.

To little pathetic Arthur.

Another fear had gripped his heart as he ran from the community bakery towards Owin Sal's shop - what if he thought of the things his mother used to say when she was being mean to him? For a moment, his heart jumped almost up to his throat and he felt dizzy. Oh sweetest kindest Lady of Summer, he thought, don't let me faint here again, please no!

He inhaled air, closed his eyes, raised his head on the narrow little neck - on the narrow pathetic little neck, oh so 'snapable' as his mother had called it - and then turned his snout towards the deep blue skies. Luckily, there were no moons visible above. The big blue one would be visible in the south-east, so he avoided looking at that direction, and instead turned his attention up.

Not a cloud today. Just a great blue vault above.

His heart started to calm, the rhythm and breathing turned regular. Oh, sweet, sweet sky, he thought. Things will change, but you'll remain the same. Please always remain the same!

The Sun burnt bright today, casting many rays. Arthur watched an irregularity emerge underneath the Sun - a brightly shining ray, that sort of stretched out from the Sun, and left it, shining stronger than a star, with its own tiny beams. It glowed like gold, and seemed to travel as far away as the eagles. It was very beautiful to behold.

He smiled for himself. Sun, tell me. Have you birthed a child?

Arthur felt happier by what he had seen, and could finally continue towards Owin's shop. The next challenge was when he stood outside of the shop's door. Why had he agreed to do this once again? Well, because Cinnabar had failed - not to his own fault no! - to provide Owin with the pots. Cornelia had baked the pie, but following Julian Sal's participation in the assault on Claudia's son, Claudia had forbidden her children to make amends with Owin, since it could be interpreted as post-hoc fear. And Rusks were never afraid! Yeah right!

So, Claudia had approached him with a 'delicate' mission. A mission of honour. He had felt so proud - oh so proud - that Claudia, his best friend's mother, had wanted him, little useless Arthur, to do something. That she needed him. She had said that it was a simple but important task, and that he would help Cinnabar immensely. She had said that he would be her little hero if he did that, and she had patted him gently on the head.

He had nearly started to cry of joy. Claudia could never have any idea how much this meant to him!

And thus, he - Arthur Rusk - had agreed to go with the pie to Owin Sal, and tell Mr Owin that Cinnabar and Cornelia apologised for the broken shelves with a pie, and that he - Arthur Rusk - had been sent to deliver the pie! 'That is a very, very easy task, Artie-boy', Cinnabar's mother had said with just a hint of threat in her voice, 'even you would be able to handle it'.

Yeah, right.

Now he stood there before the egg-shaped wooden door, wetting his incisors with his tongue, holding on to a sealed copper form with the carrot pie safely inside, and his right hand raised to a shivering little fist. And it did not at all feel like an easy task.

You only need to knock, Arthur.Do it!

He closed his large eyes, wiped away tears from his cheeks, pressed the cake form close to his chest. He could not knock! Owin would certainly become mean to him, call him names, mock his size! Cinnie was with his family on a ceremony, which meant he was not here to protect Arthur!

Cinnie is not here to protect me...

No one else was there on the same plane in their conically shaped colony. There were only the door, the sun-dried wall, the blue skies and little pathetic Arthur, standing frozen like a shivering icicle in spring. He was grateful that he was alone. Then no one would see whether he peed himself again or not.

He knew that the other youths had made a betting game. 'Will Art run, pee or faint' it was called. There was also another, fourth option.

Will Art die of a heart attack?

Five years ago, Cynthia had mated with Archibald Rusk, a pure-blooded Rusk since sixteen generations. What had been meant to be a happy occasion and a strengthening of the Rusk bloodline had turned into a subject of ridicule, when poor old Archie had died in... well, a 'most delicate' situation with Arthur's mother. It was told that Cynthia had to endure the humiliation of her relative, doctor Celeste Rusk (who luckily enough was present at the union ceremony) to be able to dislodge the limp body from Cynthia.

Three months later, Cynthia had had a litter of five children. Three of which had been stillborn. Another one, a girl named Allie, had lived for almost one year. Then her incisors had grown, and crossed with one another, locking her mouth and preventing her from eating. They would apparently grow like that for the entire life, and would be unusable.

Cynthia had two choices in the matter. The first one had been to simply let the poor girl starve to death. The second had been to allow the doctor, the aforementioned Celeste Rusk, to make sure the poor little life had been dispatched quickly and painlessly.

She had made a much tougher decision, and had taken an ancient path which had gathered her respect amongst the matriarchs of Ruskebó. Nobody spoke of it, since it was unmentionable and dark.

And...once again Arthur nearly faded away, the only thing preventing him from sagging down was his head thumping into the pinewood of the door. Allie, he thought, Allie has never existed.

He straightened up, looked towards the sky again. The shining sunray which had separated itself from the Sun was gone now...

It was then that the door opened up inwards...

*

The first thing that Arthur noted was that he had not ran away. Jippie!

The second had been that it wasn't Mr Owin standing in the door. Instead, what he saw was a young girl wearing brown trousers made of sack, too large for her but held in their place by suspenders dragged over her narrow shoulders. She was very tall - at least twenty-two inches, and also very slender and gracile. Everything about her was elongated and slim. Her snout however, was very short, her face thus being long and flat, with a cute little chin. The big light-green eyes were dreamy, sleepy and inquisitive at the same time. The mouth was very small, and the incisors barely visible behind her narrow pink lips. She stood leaned against the opened door-frame, one of her arms held against the back of her head and pressing with the elbow and shoulder against the frame itself, the other resting with the thumb against her pants.

"Becka," she said, stretching forth a long, slender arm with graceful fingers. Art noted the colour of her short fur, almost ecru in its tone. The front of her snout, her chest and the underside of her arms were wheat-coloured. The hair on her head was also like wheat, but a curly and somewhat unruly bowl that divided in two fringes over her forehead. Two large, inquisitive ears stuck up from the mop of hair, one inflexible and still, the other constantly moving around, as if it was taking bearing on every vibration in the air.

She was beautiful, but in a disproportional, slightly unsettling kind of way. What worse was - Arthur had never seen her before!

"Becka," the unfamiliar girl said again, with a hint of irritation in her bright voice. Bright like a purling brook of water.

"Eh... Arthur," Arthur presented himself.

"Very nice to meet you, Arthur. You don't want to shake hand?" she asked him, a bit puzzled. "Well, if you don't want to, I won't make you. I am happy to see you anyway. Are you seeking Mr Owin?"

Becka looked straight into him. Arthur stared down at his feet.

"Ehm... yes..," he mumbled.

"Mr Owin isn't here today, he's so fed up with 'those snobby Rusks' that he's going to Valenhém to celebrate the Solstice with his sister. He asked me to take care of the store."

"W-w-why he'd done so? I've n-n-never..."

"Never seen me?" Becka noted. "I'm from Hasselbó. My mom sent me here to spend some quality time with my relatives here."

Becka leant with her head and gave Arthur a mischievous little smile. "Us between," she started to whisper, "I think it was because I was being very naughty!"

Then she winked, opened her mouth a little and playfully licked her upper incisor teeth with her tongue. Arthur's legs started to shiver.

"H-h-how you... m-m-M-mean your relatives?" he asked, not without a hint of suspicion. Strangers were unusual this far north, and Becka definitely would stand out from a crowd.

"Ah... my family. Well," Becka said and looked down, smiling beautifully, "I'm Becka Sommer. My family's big in Sommerkrone, but my mom migrated to Hasselbó and mated with dad, a Sal, so I'm half-Sal too. I was staying with my cousin Julian, but now I'm alone at Owin's apartment." Another wink, another whisper. "Julian got into a fight, so his mom is a bit angry with him."

"Uhm..."

"And you, what family are you belonging to, Arthur - may I call you Artie? Or Little-Big-Ears? For you are little, but with big ears," she smiled kindly.

Arthur realised one thing. He liked Becka. It was not that she wasn't scary - all girls were - but there was something strangely tantalizing about her. He looked at her, looked into her big green eyes - and felt something run through his blood.

Should he tell her that he was a Rusk? She hated the Rusks! She would hate him, and no matter if he lied, she would find out. He looked down, and looked up at her again.

"Excuse me," he mumbled.

Then he placed the pie before her feet.

And then he ran away as fast as he could, leaving Becka to stand and watch him disappear away from the colony.

*

Cinnabar had left the Dawn Pyre Ceremony immediately after Cynthia had finished serving the assembled Rusks the ladle of 'sacred honey', in truth birch sap wine mixed with just a fraction of honey and fresh water from the cold spring which only the priestesses of Ruskebó knew the location of (not true, Cinnabar knew the location of it, if only because Art had shown him). He had discarded the silly red gown at the wardrobe of Cynthia's apartment, and then proceeded to collect the poem he had been working on - parchment was a rarity so he had been writing 'My eternal vow of everlasting adoration, promised under the fleeting shadow of the majestic and venerated old birch widow' on the backside of an old document which he had used to train his handwriting when he had been a child. Using sealed tar as ink, he had spent four or five hours perfecting his poem, using discarded pieces of wood to scribble on until he felt that he had perfected the poem. Then, for the last two hours, he had painfully slowly compiled the finished poem on parchment, wanting to ensure that every single calligraphic letter was perfect in every line. Luckily, in this time of the year, there was daylight all the time of the day.

He put the scroll in a fibre canister that he hung over his shoulder. He also placed master Quothinos' chronicle there, intending to read in it under the Sun, this beautiful Solstice day, trying to avoid the locomotion in the festival area. Then he went out, towards the 'waterwoods', a small and cleared forest area to the west of the Pfilerhém colony. It lied in a bulge around which the purling stream of Bruckebrook cascaded and foamed around wet stones, dividing and joining together in numerous low waterfalls. Around twenty birches grew there, their bright leaves dancing in the light breeze. At their black roots, a bed of soft green moss covered stones, roots and tree stumps. In the middle of the area, there was an open grove. There was no medium vegetation, but the crowns of the tree provided both shadow and protection against eagles and falcons, while offering the opportunity to gaze at the endless skies.

Cinnabar almost found it a little sad that most of Naeria, the Blue Moon, was concealed behind the eastern edges of the Rim Mountains. He liked to peer at the moons, seeing the details such as the landmasses, mountains and dark patches.

He and Art had agreed to meet up at this grove later, but first Art had to run from the communal bakery down in Ruskebó towards master Owin, bringing him Cinnabar's apology in the form of a pie. Cinnabar disliked that his mother had dragged his best friend into it, but her reasoning on why he couldn't possible go now and apologise was flawless.

It would take some time of course, because Art was Art, and sometimes frustratingly indecisive. If things went too quick, Art either froze or could go livid and faint. Thus it was nigh impossible to set Art up for a task that required adaption and flexibility. Luckily, giving a pie to Owin and listen to Cinnabar's poem were easy tasks which did not demand much intelligence or spirit.

Poor, poor Art, Cinnabar thought as he lied down on the moss.

As he looked up to the skies, he saw something quite special. It shone like a bright star, and moved over the skies quickly in a straight line. The rays varied and almost blinded him at one point - so strong were they, despite that the object was very small. Was it a meteor?

Most meteors fell down in the south, and were rumoured to originate from the giant hazy arc which was composed of a dozen large lines and hundreds if not thousands of small lines which were only clearly visible at night. Sometimes however, starfall could happen this far north too.

But this glowed differently than a meteor. Instead of frisky flickering, it glowed brightly but coldly, yellow-white rays magnifying and changing as the object passed by in great speed. And it did not move down in a diagonal trajectory, but rather followed the horizon itself.

Whatever it was, it wasn't a falling rock from the skies.

Cinnabar's thoughts moved towards what he had seen when he had visited his father in Glennenmór last autumn, and stayed there for a month. His father had taken him to visit the workshop of the Metal Appliances Guild, a government-owned facility that produced tools and appliances of copper. He had seen hundreds of brand new copper kettles blazing in the sunshine, and reflected the light in almost the same metallic way as that stone had. Maybe it was a metal meteorite, of the kind that the legendary Elvish sword _Haëth_had been made of.

Well, if one of these rocks fell down in the vicinity of Ruskebó, he maybe could retrieve it one day - but not today. Instead, he would seek the one who was his beloved, after Art had approved his poem. Then he would fall on his knees before her, like an Elven prince, take her in his aching arms to this very place, and wash her feet with water and crown her head with a wreath of lilies.

He tumbled over on his round belly, opened the leather canister and took out the parchment.

' My eternal vow of everlasting adoration, promised under the fleeting shadow of the majestic and venerated old birch widow

Not since the reign of Ellëthair Goldenhair and when Zir's doom

Laid the world barren in perpetual gloom

_ Ancient aeons passed since_

Any such creature of feminine perfection has wandered the fair lands

of Ayrien

Having travelled the entire wide world, from Ruskebó to Glennenmór,

he who wrote thee this very poem, oh how unworthy to mentioning thee name,

has never seen thine equal amongst the representatives of thine sex

And if he had to sacrifice his legs for thee, then make him lame

Naeria will be given to thee, and Fayria forlorn too

For I will raise thee a tower to and beyond the Moons

And bring thee beyond the void

For I'm your Elëthyr, and you are my Ellëacathaëlle

Tell me yes please your heart sing, and his heart'll be joyed'

He read it through three times. The first time, he noted that some sentences maybe could have had alternatives. The second time despaired, as he suddenly found the poem heavy and... 'swollen', maybe a bit simple and vulgar. For a moment, he panted and struggled with an impulse to rip up the parchment and spread it. Then he steeled himself, after all - wouldn't his performance matter more than the words, which were more like a frame of the painting of his emotions? He read it through a third time, and he imagined himself using a deep and warm baritone to make Lyra swoon for him. His mouth moved silently to the words of the poem, when he suddenly came to the realisation that he felt watched. Peering over his right shoulder, he sensed a shadow standing between two trees.Art would have done his chores by now, it ought to be him.

"Art!" Cinnabar let out with an encouraging voice as he moved up and turned around. "You did it well, I look forward to read the..."

He turned silent, as struck by lightning.

Before him, with slightly crossed arms and her head leaning a little stood Lyra Mársk, smiling at Cinnabar and shaking her head. The day to honour, she was garbed in a blue tunic with golden insignia which evidently was new and probably bought in Glennenmór (Lyra's father was a travelling merchant from the Lange clan who often visited Ruskebó). Her fur was really silver, but in the sunlight it shone white. She was nearly as short as Art, but had a perfect shape. Her snout was pointy and aristocratic, crowned by a little pink nose. The azure eyes were almost almond-shaped, with a thin line of black fur around. Her ears were rounded and had a few black straws at the top, with a short spurt of white hair in between, over her head, which was combed forward over her forehead. In her snow-white hand, she held a picnic basket.

She was the most beautiful being in the world.

"Ehm... Lyra," Cinnabar greeted her and looked down. "What brings you here?"

Lyra took a little step forward, her white feet turned slightly inward and the basket she held on swinging back and forth as she hummed on a little song, seemingly demonstratively looking away from Cinnabar. He stood up, stretched out his arms to show off his chest in all its magnificence, and raised his chin towards the skies.

"Ah!" he grinned. "Nothing as good as a little stretch!"

Lyra took out a chequered blue-white cloth and placed it on the soft ground, before placing the basket on it and then sinking down softly and elegantly, in a half-lying pose over her right thigh. Her tunic had skittered up a little bit, revealing a bit more of the perfect, strong thighs and hips of the young doe.

Cinnabar stood there, uncertain if he would dare to approach her or not.

"Ehm," he grunted and looked down, "what are you doing here, Lyra?"

"Oh!" Lyra let out with a disappointing sound. "Did not know the 'waterwoods' were your personal belongings, good Mr!"

Her voice was very bright and clear, and it purled very much like the brook that passed by. She prepared herself to stand up again.

Cinnabar moved his hand forward. "No! Don't go... I mean, no, I don't think I own the waterwoods. I wonder 'why' are you here?"

"Didn't know I needed a reason?" Lyra teased him and leant with her head against her shoulder.

"Everyone usually has a reason," Cinnabar grinned and crossed his arms.

Lyra lowered one of her ears. "Tell me something I didn't know, big boy?"

Cinnabar looked away, trying to not look indignant. Big?Am I... big?

He sat down, looking away between the trees, over the fields. He pretended to pay more attention to the moss than to her.

"Well, actually..," Lyra said and looked down on her toes as she moved them over the blanket in a circular motion. "I wanted to ask you what you were doing... or more specifically, if you were... reading?"

Cinnabar leant his cheek slightly up (since he couldn't raise his lop ear), signalling that he was listening.

"Yes?" he answered, with a voice cold as ice. I'm in Love with you, Lyra, he thought, but don't insinuate I'm fat.

"Will you come and sit down with me, or do you rather stand?" Lyra wondered.

"It was you who asked me if I was reading. I won't oblige your request, milady, if you don't tell me why you asked me if I was reading?"

Lyra sighed. "Guys! Why you're always so complicated?"

"Well, yes!" Cinnabar said and waved outward with his arms so his chest almost seemed to thrust. "I was reading. You happy now!?"

He did not know why, but she annoyed him.

Lyra looked towards him, observing him with glimmering eyes. Is she testing me? He thought for himself. I'll better not reveal my emotions for her.

"You've observed me for long," Lyra seemingly changed subject. "I've heard lots of things about you. That you're dangerous, that you're a fighter. My friends - I won't disclose their names of course - say I should be afraid of you... that you're weird. Are you?"

Cinnabar puffed up his cheeks with air. "What is that for a nonsense! I? Violent? Who are those who're spreading that hogwash bout me!?"

Lyra looked away from him, towards the flowing streams of the broad brook. She looked calm, but there was a hint of disappointment in her eyes and in how she held her chin.

"They say," she said with a melancholic voice, "that you poked out the eye of Roland Thál. Is that a lie too?"

"Of course it is!" Cinnabar let out and stomped with his foot on the ground, to illustrate his anger.

"You look pretty battered though, did they beat you up?"

He had almost forgotten that he still wore bruises and a black eye from yesterday's fight.

"I've dealt out some battering myself, milady! If the gendarmerie hadn't come to their rescue, I would've hunted them all the way down to Valenhém!" he grunted and crossed his arms.

Lyra stood up, looking at him with an inscrutable expression in her face. This situation had started to become really dreadful. There was a shattered sense of awkwardness through the air.

"Why are you here?" Cinnabar asked her. "To make fun of me? To see 'the freak'? Or you've made a bet with your friends?"

Lyra lowered her shoulders. "You want to know the truth?" she asked.

Cinnabar steeled his heart. He forced his gaze away from her, looking towards the same foams that she had rested her eyes on too.

"Yes," he finally answered after a long theatrical break, a break so long it had lost its suspense. It felt like both he and Lyra communicated around one another, and that they both had misjudged who the other was. The emotion in his heart was still love... but now mixed with anger. "I want to hear the truth," he said.

Lyra scratched herself behind the ear and yawned, showing her incisors, thin and sharp. "Yes," she said. "Glen and Eswena made me a bet, that I wouldn't dare flirt with you in order to see whether I... could trick you. That I would find you too disgusting, that I was too posh to do it. So we made the bet and..."

Cinnabar shook his shoulders and upper body, demonstratively turned his back against her, and started to walk from her.

"Wait!" Lyra let out, bouncing after him.

"No!" Cinnabar established. "I don't want to know what you were betting towards, and refuse anyone to make a fool out of me!"

"But you are... you are... interesting!"

He stopped.

"I'm... I was mistaken," Lyra said. "About you. I want to know... what you are reading?"

Slowly, Cinnabar turned his head around.

*

"So, Arthur Rusk, what on all of Ayrien's green lands is the reason? Why are you late? ANSWER ME!!!"

The pain was near unbearable as Cynthia twisted his little arm behind his back and forced him forward, pressing his snout against the ground, almost as if she tried to rub it. Finally, she released him by kicking him right on the kidney so he fell on his side. He strangled an impulse to run - his mother was faster than him, and if he resisted it would only get worse.

"I... I'm sorry, Priestess Cynthia!" he finally let out between the tears and the yelps, shielding himself from her with his arms. "Please! Don't hit me!"

"'Don't hit me'?" Cynthia repeated. "'Don't hit me'!? You was gone for all the time I was blessing the fields, and then you_dare_ - DARE - blame it on Claudia! LIAR! YOU LITTLE, WORTHLESS PATHETIC WORM! AND DON'T CRY! DON'T CRY! TRY NOT TO CRY!"

She flew over him, flailing with her arms. Wrestling him up, she then gripped him around the throat and smashed his head repeatedly against the ground, before she started to box at him, as if she wanted to _obliterate_his face. He tried to turn around and run away, but she pressed him down and continued to batter his face and chest...

He screamed.

She released him, and he stumbled away, before crawling towards a nearby tree to take cover in its shadow, placing himself in a foetal position, shaking and crying for himself.

"I'm so sorry," he squeaked. "Forgive me, Priestess Cynthia... forgive me."

A few other Leporians stood and watched the scene. They were mostly elders moving from Pfilerhém to the Festival Area, some of them holding on to grandchildren. They shook their heads, and one elderly grandmother covered the eyes of her grandson with his own ears. Cynthia looked around, her stature for a moment confused and nervous. Then she stretched her neck, and looked indignantly around.

"My son," she said, "has wronged me very much. It is a matter for me, and now we're turning home. As it is said in the 'Book of Wisdom' - 'woe to the son who is not chastised by his mother, for he evil and wrongfulness would embrace, and live his life stirring trouble'." She wet her incisors. "And this; 'A child shall be reared by his mother and by the cane, to learn respect and obedience before the elders'."

The murmur ceased amongst the elders, and they turned away. Little Arthur stood up on shaky legs, his snout covered with blood and the fur on his face and chest in disorder. Lumps of hair fell down from him. His mother took his ear, twisted it around - the pain was immense - and started to drag the crying boy home.

They returned to the festival area an hour later. Arthur had struggled to bathe his mother's feet and hands in mint water, to adorn her in the white robe with purple fluff around the neck and the sleeves which ended at her elbows. The nails on her fingers and the claws on her toes where meticulously painted with orange paint extracted from pollen. A wreath of a thousand and one wild pansies were placed between her ears. Then, Arthur slowly adorned her feet with the wooden shoes, with soles of hollowed cork-wood three inches thick, so the Priestess could be ready for the Solstice ceremony in one hour. Arthur prayed silently to the Goddess while he made his mother ready for the ceremony, afraid of doing even the slightest error.

When he was done, he washed his face clean from blood, garbed himself in a white robe and proceeded to lead his mother by the hand out. She looked serene and calm, her eyes detachedly looking over the wavering fields around Ruskebó, now bathing in showers of golden sunlight, reflected through the Southern Arc, which stood over the horizon. The twelve lines making up the Arc divided the sunlight into radiant showers of light. It was so beautiful - the world was so beautiful - that little Arthur almost started to cry. In his heart, he thanked the Goddess of Summer that he was deemed worthy enough to live.

Thank you, he thought, thank so much that I am allowed to live, to live to see this beauty.

He wanted to sing as they walked to the festival area. Sing a hymn to the birds which swirled around the tree-tops, tweeting and displaying their colourful garbs of feather. To the butterflies that hovered above the grass and flowers. To the striking caterpillars that crawled over roots and branches. To the multitude of flowers that made the fields dance in an orgy of colours and smells. To Becka. To her eyes, her little smile, her beautiful curly hair. But no! He kept quiet, he had to.

His mother hated his voice.

Especially when he sang. He feared her.

Feared that she would kill him one day...

The festival area had been meticulously prepared by Cynthia, with the help of the councillors and all the workers and volunteers that had worked under what she perceived to be her leadership. Those which had prepared the wooden amphitheatre, the stands, the dancing stage, the fluttering banners and the garish kites, the green bread and the Solstice Cake had all been happy with letting the Priestess of the Summer Goddess believe that she was the boss. After all, had not poor Cynthia suffered enough? Had she not lost three of her new-borns? Had her coupling-mate not dishonoured her by dying during the coupling and then having to be forcefully dis-mounted with the help of a doctor?

Arthur knew his mother, and he knew that she knew why they had appointed her the Priestess of the State Cult. And he also knew that she hated that the reason she was the highest spiritual authority of Ruskebó was that the councillors thought that 'poor Cynthia Rusk' had gone through so much.

He led his mother down through the crowds - between two and three thousand Leporians garbed in gowns and tunics, crowned with wreaths on their heads, their ears eagerly moving around above the crown-flowers. They had raised arcs of twigs bound together, spiral patterns of flowers adorning them. Seven giant pyres had been prepared for the Goddess, the largest of them displaying an ugly wooden statue of the Thief (whom Art had used to be scared almost to death a few years ago). He tried to avoid to look at the statue, but noted that this year's Thief had an owl's face with a terrible beak. The sculptor, Curran Thál, used to follow his own inspiration instead of theological convention. Cynthia had chastised him a few times, and other times showered him with the highest of regards.

A few children ran before them, holding on to their kites which almost dragged them helplessly forward, far up the skies that they were, their tails waving for the wind. They passed by this year's Solstice Cake - a large thing towering above the festival area, almost six feet in height. It was covered in green cream made from mushed flower stalk and sap juices, consisted of hay bread. The various segmented levels of the cake each contained different titbits - berries, flower petals, twigs and leaves, all arranged in complex patterns, vines leaping down the sides of the cake, beds with leaves containing red berries spread out like jewels, the top level coroneted by a crown of rose heads.

Volunteers were rolling the tables - blocks of timber - on carts to the area, while the musicians were setting up the drums and testing the flutes and string instruments. They had travelled all the way from Iskér. And there, on the flattened grass in the middle of the festival area, the councillors were mingling.

"Ah!" glittery-eyed Magda Rusk, the Elder-doe of Ruskebó, greeted Cynthia and took her hands. Magda was short and plump, with greying fur and a pair of round glasses resting on her snout. Her robe was sky blue with light blue embroideries - matching the wreath of clear blue lilies on her head. "Welcome to our little... hick... toast convention, Priestess Cynthia!"

Cynthia smiled as she respectfully looked down on Magda. "Elder-doe," she said. "You look younger every year!"

"Oh!" Magda let out and turned towards Arthur. "And this is of course little... ehm, Angus... my, my, what you've done!?"

Cynthia's nostrils widened. "He was in a fight yesterday. Of course those frigging Tháls that sneaked up on him... Arthur! Greet the Elder-doe now!"

There was an implied threat in Cynthia's shrill voice. Arthur greeted the chair of the local council, and Magda laid her hands on his shoulders and kissed his snout. Her breath stank of sap-wine and Arthur had to steel himself not to shrug back. Not that Magda would mind it or even notice it, but his mother definitely would.

Evelyn Wahl, a brown-speckled doe with nervous tics on the left half of her face joined the conversation. She was another one of the councillors, though not of the dominant Rusk clan.

"C-Cynthia," she lisped, the tics around her left eye making her look suspicious. "You say this year's harvest's g-going to be bountiful?"

"Ah," Cynthia nodded, neither her mouth nor lips smiling. "Councillor Evelyn! How wonderful to see you here! Regarding the harvests of this year, only the Goddess knows - though however fortuitous the day has been till now! Though I advise the good councillor to remember that 'the Goddess blesses the elders who seek to work hard and fill their granaries for incoming winter'!"

Evelyn looked up with a defiant look over her twitching face. "Yes..," she said slowly, "I-I d-distinctly remember t-this year's expenditures for t-this festival... has b-been extravagant, Priestess Cynthia. The granaries are empty... both the spring harvest and the first summer's crop gone to this, on your advice that is. I certainly d-do hope the Goddess is generous!"

"She won't be if people are questioning her generosity," Cynthia smirked, her yellow eyes glittering.

"I am just saying, it's... unlike of this council to not b-be frugal. And remember y... we've not had to borrow food supplies from other d-districts for almost twenty years... and we're g-going to send t-tribute to Glennenmór t-this year t-too!"

"I would say," Claudia said and joined the fray, smiling gregariously, "that this year's the five hundredth anniversary of the settlement of this our bountiful Flower Valley. I am sure the Summer Goddess expects us to show gratitude - and to be happy such a beautiful day as this!"

"I want to d-discuss this issue at next week's meeting, w-we're g-going to have a food d-deficit!" Evelyn continued her protest, spitting out saliva as she tried to hold control over the muscles of her jaws.

Claudia put her hand on her colleague's shoulder, calming her. "Well, I will look to it that your concerns will be brought up on the meeting, Evelyn! Now is not the time however to illuminate matters on the local budget... here take a cup of birch wine," Claudia said and gave Evelyn her cup, made from half a shell from a nut.

Cynthia let out an angry shriek as Rudder Knapp and two of his riders came stumbling in on their capercailzies. The Priestess almost lost her balance and was only saved from an embarrassing fall by Arthur placing his little arm against her thighs. That was his function. Preventing his mother from unfortunate accidents. His shoulder burnt, and she angrily pushed him away when she had regained her composure.

"Oh hoy!" Rudder let out. His nose was swollen and he wobbled considerably on his saddle, a certain sign he was drunk.

"Up the ante!" Magda giggled and raised her cup in a cup, winking at the captain. Evelyn twitched even more and grimaced angrily, while Claudia purposefully ignored the legendary captain of the northern Rim Corps Division.

"Rudder Knapp!" Cynthia exclaimed with indignation. "What on all of Ayrien's green lands are you doing here with your... your... bird lizards!?"

Claudia sighed. "Weren't you supposed to... you know... assemble your bucks in the exercise area?"

She was still not looking at Rudder. Her voice was colder than ice, and she kept her arms crossed.

Rudder laughed. "My ladies!" he said. "Pardon, pardon me! But I went here 'cause I've need to talk to the council!"

"Why you would need t-that? C-couldn't you wait t-t-to t-tomorrow?" Evelyn blubbered out, she too crossing her arms.

"Not a good idea, fair lass!" Rudder grinned. "I need to tell you something now, ladies!"

"What?" Cynthia asked. "What you possibly need to tell us today! All you should do is to prepare for the parade! Outside of the festival area!"

"Yes!" Claudia supported her relative. "You shouldn't ride around with these things around in here! You can trample the little ones!"

The capercailzie which Rudder sat on started to thrust violently around with its neck when hearing that, almost as if it was insulted. Rudder patted it over the mane.

"So, so!" he said, with a sudden sternness over his face. "Well, I was spending this morning at my office lasses, and then I've got a hunch..."

"Your bucks need you, captain!" Claudia said.

"Most of 'em are parading much better than I am, but I need to ride out. I need to patrol... something's fishy!"

"Why you t-t-think so?" Evelyn wondered.

Rudder looked dazzled for a few moments, then he shrugged. "Just a hunch! And I haven't seen old Hare... me and him are always goin' to the pub the day 'fore Solstice's Eve!"

"You are drunk, captain!" Cynthia objected.

"Yes!" Claudia peppered him. "Go home and sleep your fuddle away!" Now she looked directly at him for the first time.

"You - hick - you civilians... you don't know how... happy you are!" Rudder protested. "If not for us old war bucks, you'll all be shudderin' underground in makeshift burrows while the dogs and worse roam around 'bove you! Shame on ye! You pimped up whores!"

"I... I beg your pardon!" Cynthia let out. "Take that back, Rudder!"

Claudia just looked at him and shook her head. "Rudder..," she said with an uncharacteristically calm voice, "...you know we have to send general Haythorn a letter because of this. We will have you retired... you have no respect for the local government!"

"That's - hick - because you lasses think you can behave like you own this place! You Rusk does are so full of... full of pellets!"

"And wine!" Magda smiled.

"Elder-doe, though bear witness to my word - you do not live up to that epithet one bit! Please release me from my social duties, and let me patrol the woods!"

Magda peered at him through her round glasses. She swayed as she took a drunken step forward.

"What is this about?" she wondered. "Don't you want to parade? Or come for the party this evening?"

"I'm afraid not," Rudder said. He seemed considerably less drunk now, more alert though he still wobbled. Arthur guessed that much of his state was really a form of acting, though it was unclear _why_he did so, unless it was to annoy Cynthia and her friends.

"Oh!" Magda pouted with her mouth, lowering her ears. "But you're coming back for the dance? I really need a chevalier tonight - hick- when the Sun's going to be young all the time!"

A certain glimmer was visible in the eyes of the old captain.

"Ah my fair council chair!" Rudder exclaimed and jumped down from his steed, kissing Magda's chubby hand. "Your wisdom is legendary, though not half that of ye beauty! Grant this old war buck his request, and he will not turn his gaze away from lady Magda Rusk during this evening's dance!"

Magda gave out a giggle, and offered her other hand to Rudder, while spilling some of her birch wine.

"Of course! Of course! Captain Rudder... off ye go!"

Rudder let out a war scream as he flew up in a clumsy binky, landed on the saddle of his bird and then pointed with his whole arm towards the backwoods.

"Let's go boys!" he let out a drunken war-cry and moved his heels at the sides of the capercailzie.

"Promise to dance with me!" Magda cried out after him, standing broad-legged and with alcoholic sap-water spilled all over the bosom of her blue gown.

"This is such a scandal!" Cynthia clicked discreetly towards Claudia.

"Well," Claudia said. "At least he's not here to ruin our ceremony."

Arthur stood between the two powerful Rusk ladies, listening attentively to them but keeping his gaze lowered. He still held on to the gown of his mother.

Cynthia turned towards Claudia. "I think the time has matured," she said, then throwing a wry glance at Magda, who had gone back to the small table next to the mountain-like evening cake. The Elder-doe was looking around in what she probably thought was a discreet manner, then took up a jug with sap wine and drank directly from that.

"I don't know," Claudia answered, looking down with a worried expression.

"Oh come on Claudia," Cynthia smiled. "You need to come out as leader soon. The Lily Party will need your leadership in the elections in two years. It has been too long a time since a Rusk sat on the Oak Chair!"

"Cynthia," Claudia whispered, "have you've been stealing from the sap wine too?"

Strangely, Cynthia let out a little laughter. It sounded forced, and Arthur would be surprised if it looked convincing to anyone.

"Claudia, honey!" the Priestess said. "Your shadow is too tall for Ruskebó! You should really serve the entire people!"

Claudia turned towards Cynthia, smiling. "Well," she said, "in this year's opening council, you may vouch for what you like, Cynt... but now I have to go and attend my duties, Priestess."

The two next-cousins smiled towards one another, and Claudia kissed Cynthia's robe before leaving. Arthur was left with his mother, trying to make sense of the conversation he just had overheard.

He received a slap over his ears, making him shrug down. His mother looked down at him.

"Eavesdropper there! It's soon the time - the time of the Solstice Sermon! So help your poor old mother up on the platform, so she may bless the flock!"

Arthur obliged.

*

"So," Lyra said, "you are saying that elven-king... Ja... Jaf..?"

"Japhaël," Cinnabar filled in.

"Never mind, you're saying he ruled for a thousand years?"

"A thousand and one hundred years, yes."

They were lying on the moss right now, shadowed by the leaves of the birch trees far above, their heads next to one another but their feet pointing in opposite directions. The Sun stood in the south, partially shielded behind the Silvery Arc, which lead to the rays being split into ever-changing sprinkles of radiance which fell down on the wood floor, illuminating the moss. He had told Lyra that the light showers - which she had said were 'beautiful' - were due to the sunlight being filtrated through the millions of rocks which built up the Arc. This was why light seemed to rain at the hours around midday.

She had asked where the Silvery Arc had its ends. Cinnabar had smiled, telling her that there were fairy-tales about fearless adventurers having reached the eastern and western ends of the Arc, but that these tales were just blabber - the truth was that the Silvery Arc was a ring which stretched around the Earth of Ayrien. Lyra had been thoughtful for a while, stating that it would make sense that the Arc would continue beyond the corners of the Earth.

Cinnabar had decided to not tell her that the Earth was round. It was not just politeness - for some reason people tended to take offense when he mentioned it for them ("What has Duncan now told you, nincompoop? If it was round, wouldn't it roll around uncontrollably?").

Cinnabar could hear how Lyra twitched her lovely pink little nose.

"How come him... Japhaël... could live for over a thousand years? The oldest person I've ever heard of was Kathryn Mársk, and she lived for fifty-five years. Are you sure you aren't telling lies on me, Cinnie?"

There was a tongue-in-cheek accusation in her voice. Cinnabar chose to ignore it. He was so close to score now.

"Japhaël was an Elf," he explained. "Elves are immortal."

Lyra was quiet for a moment. "You say he is immortal," she said, "yet you talk about him in past tense. So he must have died, wouldn't he?"

"Yes," Cinnabar answered her. "Japhaël is dead, and has been dead for thousands of years. In fact, I think he's been dead for nearly six thousand years."

"I don't believe you, Cinnie! You're just telling me that to impress on me!"

"It says so in the book written by Quomert Quothinos, the great historian from Mírra!" Cinnabar defended himself. "Japhaël, son of Caël Conqueror of the House of Aëgyr, reigned for eleven hundred years - during which the Elven High Kingdom never flourished so much - but then upon the loss of his beloved daughter Aëlle, whom he had placed in an enchanted vale, he became ill with heart-break, and faltered, leaving the throne to his grandsons Amaël and Aphaël. Amaël became mad with envy however, and drowned his brother when they were taking a bath in the lake of Cirien at the shadows of the royal towers. Thus he reigned alone, but the southern Houses rebelled against him, and he was overthrown - a law amongst the Elves state that his name must never be mentioned, so he is always referred to as 'ephiqua', meaning 'space between words'."

"How do you know so much? How do you trouble yourself knowing so much?" Lyra asked.

"Well, I'll guess I'm having a knack for it?" Cinnabar answered with false humility.

"But why do you learn things which aren't meaningful? I mean, that the Silvery Arc should consist of grains of dust? What is the relevance for us? And why on Earth do you stuff the area between your ears with the annals of fictional Elvish Kings? I do not understand you, Cinnabar!"

Lyra sat up and looked at him, both puzzled and amused. "I would laugh at you wouldn't it so that I'm so impressed... and troubled. Answer me, Cinnabar!"

He sat up to. For a moment, a sunray blazed through the jewel hanging over his chest, making it glow in a dampened red, with a corona of gold, before it turned crimson and so dark it almost was black.

"The Elves are not fictional," he replied.

"That was not the answer I wanted to hear, Cinnabar."

"If you only want to get the answers you want to hear, Lyra, then I suggest you only talk to the mirror."

"That was rude," she said, lowering her ears theatrically.

"I'm sorry, but I'm serious. The Elves _are_real."

She looked down, then peered at him mischievously while laughing a little. "How you know they are real? Cause you read about them in a book?"

"Yes. And because my uncle, Duncan Rusk, has travelled far and wide throughout the entire world. And he has met them - he has met the Elves."

Lyra's eyes turned big. "You mean that he has travelled... beyond the Rim?"

"Yes."

This was going better than expected. Cinnabar had never experienced that he had a girl so mesmerized by his voice - someone who loved hearing him talk as much as he himself. Art did not count, because Art was not a girl.

"I've heard the lands beyond the Rim are wild, desolate... and very dangerous. That there are Canaeans and Vulpeans there... and lots of other dangerous creatures. But no Elves. They are either fictional, or extinct I've heard."

"There are still glorious Elven cities," Cinnabar affirmed. "Towers shimmering in all the nuances of the rainbow, streets laden with azure stones, palaces underneath lakes, enchanted shrines and pillars of light, always shining during darkness. And there the Elves are living."

"Liar."

"It is not I who had said that," he defended himself, "but my uncle."

"Then your uncle is a liar!"

Lyra started to sound irritated now, not a good sign.

"Ehm..," Cinnabar said, bowing forward a little submissively, "what are you usually up to?"

"That's - one - not interesting, and that's -two - none of your business, matey-boy. What interests me is that uncle of yours. Have he told you all these tales?"

"No, I've read and affirmed a lot of them in the book. My uncle mostly have told me of what happens outside in the world."

"Sounds like Corvin chatter to me to be honest," Lyra said and shrugged her shoulders. "And the Corvins are barred from entering the Valley for several reasons, one of them being lying."

Cinnabar whistled. "Thought they were barred 'cause they abduct the little-ones?"

"Whatever... but this uncle of yours, he isn't living here is he, so how could he tell you?"

"He travels around a lot. Sometimes, he comes back and stays for a few weeks. He promised he would come this Solstice in fact, last winter when I last saw him."

"He does?" Lyra said and lowered one ear inquisitively.

"He usually does."

"You expect him today?"

"I do."

Lyra's eyes turned thin. "He is rather short, with a sunken chest, much hair around his snout, square glasses and one sixth of his right ear missing, right?"

Cinnabar raised one of his eyebrows and rolled down on the ground. "You know my uncle Duncan?"

"I've seen him... I wondered what your mother was doing together with him."

"She's his sister, for the sake of the Goddess!"

"We speculated they were lovers," Lyra smiled and chewed on a little yellow flower.

"That is not funny. Respectable people are not speculating about us Rusks, Lyra!"

"Respectable people are boring, as we Mársks use to say," Lyra winked, "don't you agree, Cinnie? But now I know why your uncle Duncan is only visiting occasionally, that's good to know."

Cinnabar used a twig to scratch his neck. "He's been a lot to Mírra, where all the merchants of the world convene. He has met Elven merchants from the West, from Avërrele, and from far-eastern Theng. Even the proud Estereans he has met, those who build temples to the stars and still wage wars. And... I must say this... he has even - even - met the Council of Light itself!"

Lyra did not seem impressed. She looked away demonstratively, pretending to smell on a flower.

"The Council of What?" she asked.

"The Council of Light," Cinnabar answered. "They... well, they are kind of like the Thing of the Republic, but for all of Ayrien. They consist of thirteen Elven ladies, all radiant in their beauty and agelessness, their skin like the sweetest blossoming lilies, their eyes shining like stars! All the nations of the world hold them in the highest esteem - they are well-versed in the magic arts of the Cathaëlian and Galatean Elven Mages, but yet they love and care for even the smallest creatures of all of Ayrien. And so they have done for thousands of years!"

Lyra wrinkled her nose, but kept her blue eyes focused on Cinnabar. "How come I have not heard of this 'Council of Light'?"

"They convene in far-away Caëlion, the greatest of Elven cities. There, at the Thousandth-Illuminated Halls of Lorëspheleth, they meet at the Highest of Seats, sitting on thirteen stone seats, around a round table of crystal. From there, they watch over and protect the balance of our the fairest of Earths - the Earth of Ayrien."

"And your uncle Duncan has met with them?" Lyra said and leant with her head.

"He has not merely 'met' with them. He has _worked_for them."

Lyra crossed her arms and started to tap her foot against the mossy ground. "With what?" she asked.

"Missions," Cinnabar said, crossing his muscular arms, "in Mírra and elsewhere, in the swamplands inhabited by the lizard people! Where he once saved a Mermaid Princess!"

"You know what," Lyra said and turned her blue eyes towards him, "you used to be funny, but now you're just tragic, Cinnie! A good liar knows where to end - you really think you've got a chance to couple with me by lying...?"

"I have no such intentions!" Cinnabar let out and placed his hands indignantly on the sides of his belly.

"Why would a boy otherwise try to woo a girl that much?" Lyra teased him, making faces.

"Don't be so cocky now, my little friend!" he protested against her. "It was you who wanted to talk to me!" he half-lied.

Lyra smiled. "Only because you've spent the last three months stalking me around all of Ruskebó District!"

"That is not true," he informed her, "Ruskebó District has precincts on the other sides of the Bruckebrook and the Lingenwassern, and you forgot the backwoods..."

"Not funny, Cinnie-boy!" Lyra objected with a shrieking voice, tapping her hands over her ears. Then she calmed down. "I am very curious," she said, "about your uncle Duncan."

Cinnabar peered away, burying his disappointment over how his strategy had backfired. "The Midday Solstice ceremony will soon begin. Cynthia's going to hold her sermon."

Lyra responded by throwing herself down on the moss. "I think I'm going to stay here," she purred, stretching her legs and kicking fallen twigs around.

"Why?" Cinnabar inquired. "Everyone loves the festival."

"If you love it so much, then for all that matter, leave."

"I am not counting myself amongst 'everyone'," he grinned and sank down in a lotus position. "But Cynthia's going to begin her sermon in - ," he squinted towards the sun " - around five min. Certain you're not going to hear her out, or would you miss me that much?"

Lyra laughed. "Don't make yourself any illusions, Mr Romantic. I'm rather avoiding that dreary sermon."

"Heretic! Pagan!" Cinnabar teased her as he lied down and looked towards the Sun.

Lyra crawled towards him. "You're not at her sermon either, are you? She's your aunt, isn't she?"

"My mother's next-cousin, through my great-great-grandmother Sebastienne, who founded Pfilerhém. My mother has told me that it won't do anything if I don't come."

"Why?"

"Have you looked at me?" Cinnabar said and moved over on his side to give Lyra the opportunity to study his bruises.

"Thank you no!" Lyra called out and jokingly moved away her face. Cinnabar turned his face towards the skies. He managed to catch yet another three of these piercing bright radiances moving far above the trees. What on all of Ayrien's green lands are these things? They were also flying towards the Sun, from the north.

"I'm sorry," Lyra suddenly said, "did you take offense, Cinnie?"

"No, I just wondered what these things are... you know these things in the air."

He pointed up.

"What things?" Lyra looked up.

Cinnabar wrinkled his nose and shook his head. "You know, shiny things... somewhat cold?"

Lyra gave him a push and giggled. "Now you're soon going to tell me that fairies exist too!"

"But they do!"

"Touché!" she laughed so she fell over on her side and rolled away from him.

He decided to not dignify her with an answer, instead standing up and peer towards the great blue sky, trying to see what those things were. The girl of his dreams moved her knees close to her body, placing her arms around them. Her tunic continued to slide up, a little bit more.

"You are a very irritating person, Cinnie," she said, "you know that, right?"

"That's because everyone else don't make sense," he replied.

"But by my ancestors, you are interesting!"

"Mm," he agreed with her.

"I am very bored, by this," she said. "I mean, this valley."

"How you mean, Lyra?" Cinnabar looked at her.

"Don't you ever want to get beyond this Rim, Cinnie? To see the world, to see what's beyond?"

For the first time after they've started speaking, her voice was passionate.

"I imagine you're bored too, and you would want to follow your uncle Duncan out in the world soon. I know I would've asked him! Wouldn't you?"

"Yes," Cinnabar said. "Maybe one day. We'll all have to expand over the Rim one day anyway... unless we want to starve to death. You know, population growth."

Lyra did not seem to know, or to mind. Instead she continued. "I don't care if your Elves are just a figment of imagination running wild - I want to, I need to see what is on the other side!"

"The world out there is very dangerous," Cinnabar puffed laconically. "If one is to believe the Rim Corps, it's mostly woods around us, and then Canaeans trying to sneak into the Valley occasionally. Most often, they're just passing by to the east."

Lyra crossed her arms angrily. "Don't you have any lust for adventure!?"

"I have," he said, tapping on the cover of Quothinos' book. "That's why I'm reading. Maybe I would join the Rim Corps the next year and..."

"You're too fat!"

Did she just call me fat?

Lyra stood up. "You become like that because you are only reading... what is it... are you afraid?"

It was like a cold slap right over his heart. He flew up, stumbled and gazed at her, his lower jaw shivering. No words were uttered. She looked at him, not with contempt, but with an inquisitive curiosity.

"I am... I am not a coward."

"Then, why no run away? To the Rim? And maybe beyond? Just a little?"

"I can't," Cinnabar said. "Mother would kill me."

Lyra grunted theatrically and started to walk away. Cinnabar began to follow her, he placed his hand on her shoulder. She turned around, her face filled with tired sadness.

"Nothing fun ever happens here! You are boring, Cinnie!" she accused him.

"Lyra, I..."

...RRRUUUUUUUUUUUMMMMBLRRRRRR...

Their gaze turned north, towards from where the rolling sound had been heard. It had sounded like thunder, just a hundredfold stronger. They fell into one another's arms when a shock-wave made the earth shake. As they stood up again, not even moving away from one another, they stared in awe and terror at what had just happened.

"My Goddess... I..," Lyra said.

"Oh darn!" Cinnabar let out.

A giant aperture had appeared in the purplish grey mountain wall, a cloud of dust rising up above the horizon, shaping like a giant mushroom before slowly dissipating before the wind.

The northernmost part of the Rim had collapsed, leaving a visible gorge.

*

Arthur was helped up by Baldwin Krage, another one of the altar boys. The earthquake had been so sudden that he had not even had the time to faint. Instead, he had just fallen over the wooden platform on which his mother performed the ceremony by burning a fox made of flowers on a pyre devoted to the Summer Goddess.

One of the tents had collapsed in the festival area, as had the upper-most level of the Solstice Cake. A quick glance recognising over the area revealed that everything was in order. The crowd was frozen in a worried murmur, but surprisingly calm. Some of the young ones had panicked and ran away a few steps. Now they stood still, their chests puffing from their breaths.

Cynthia had fallen right over the pyre, her usually vanilla-furred face black with ash. Now she lied on the floor of the platform, kicking her legs and flailing her arms - to no avail. Her shoes effectively prevented her from standing up again.

"Arthur! Arthur! COME AND HELP YOUR MOTHER!"

He prepared to run towards her, his ears still aching from the rumble he had heard before the earthquake. It had been as if the dark clouds of a thunderstorm had been approaching, letting out their anger, but just far more louder - as if it had filled his head. Have I missed something? He thought. Turning around to the north again, he looked at the cloud that arose over the Rim at the horizon.

Over where the Rim had been, that was.

A part of the ring-shaped mountain chain had collapsed, leaving a visible hole.

Art sagged down, fainting, just as Baldwin helped Cynthia up.