PRODIGALS

TWELVE

Early the next morning John Smith emerged from his ship wearing not only a suit jacket and a necktie, but his long brown coat as well.

Varna shimmered with approval.

The hike itself was not that far, distance-wise – Smith estimated less than two kilometers, but it was nearly straight up the mountain.

Varna was obviously familiar with the trail. "Watch out for this rock, it's loose," she'd cautioned him at one point. At another she advised grabbing onto a small tree as they traversed a narrow switchback.

It was a fairly challenging climb, and as the altitude increased it did indeed get colder. To his relief, Smith was not overdressed, as he'd feared he might be.

Yes, a challenging climb, but worth every step once you reached the end. The trail terminated at a small ledge that overlooked a breathtaking view of an enormous valley crossed by meandering streams and spotted with villages. And beyond the valley, magnificent, lofty, mountain peaks.

Varna sat down on the ledge and dangled her feet over the edge. "It's okay," she said when she noticed Smith's hesitation. "Come here and see for yourself."

Smith leaned over warily and looked down; there, a couple feet below where Varna perched, was a second ledge jutting out farther than the one he stood upon, thereby preventing most if not all bad tumbles.

"Don't worry, its quite safe. No one has ever gotten hurt here – at least as long as I can remember."

And it turned out, as Smith had discovered the day before, that Varna's memory covered quite a decent stretch of time. He'd calculated that she was somewhere between 250 and 300 earth years in age. In many ways it was confusing – Varna's "age" seemed to have no direct bearing on her personality. She took simple delight in many things as would a child, but then a moment later would say something as wise as any ancient sage. It was quite incongruous and Smith loved it – he loved it when the universe stopped making total sense and instead surprised him.

Surprises were good; he liked surprises – or at least most of them. Well… at least those that didn't try to kill him…

He settled down beside her.

"That," Varna said, pointing proudly to one of the villages in the valley, "is where I live. It's called Timmoch. Perhaps one day you would like to visit it?"

"Timmoch?" repeated Smith, rolling the word over in his mind. "It sounds a lot like a part of your name."

Varna looked down at the ground. Smith now recognized the gesture as a sign of discomfiture. "Yes, this is the truth," she finally answered. "My clan supplies the governance of the village. But, please, do not be alarmed, we are chosen to assume the responsibilities of leadership only when we are needed, which is very rare."

Smith looked at her in surprise, "Why would you think I'd be alarmed?"

"Because, John," she answered, still looking down, "I have learned from speaking with you that you sometimes disagree with authority. I do not want you to think less of me because of my clan's position in the village."

Smith wanted to reach out, almost did, but restrained himself. "Varna, I'm astonished and amazed that you understand me so well after so brief a time. You are extremely perceptive – and you are very correct. I sometimes do have a problem with authority, but only when it is wicked, dangerous or hurtful. I do not believe, knowing you as I do, that any of your clan or your race could be wicked or dangerous or hurtful."

There was another long pause and then Varna looked up at him.

"Does that mean you might like to come and visit?"

He looked at her and nodded.

She laughed in her wonderful musical way. "That," she said, mimicking his nod, "means 'yes', doesn't it?"

He smiled and nodded again, doing his best to imitate her shimmer, but probably failing miserably.

They both turned their heads to gaze out over the valley, and that's precisely the moment Refuge's sun Arianna disappeared forever, and was replaced by a roof of absolute darkness.