Yag-Morah sighed and carefully removed her father’s head from her lap. She rose to her feet, towering over Solomon, her brilliant green eyes filled with sadness.
“It’s not your fault, Gan-Solomon. It’s whatever is wrong with this world.”
“I should have made it here sooner.”
“Did you tarry unduly on the way? Did you stand idly by and wait for our attackers to finish before you came?”
“No, of course not.”
“Then how could this be your fault in any way? You didn’t bring this evil here and you tried to come and warn us. You have done more than most would have.”
“Not sure about that…” Solomon muttered.
He appreciated what Yag-Morah was doing. Even in her grief, she was taking the time to try to set his mind at ease. A fact that made him feel selfish.
“You’re right, Yag-Morah. I am sorry that I wasn’t in time to help when it was needed, but what can I do now?”
Yag-Morah looked around the camp.
“We need to clean up and bury our dead, both those of the Mar-trollid and the cows that were our friends. After that…we’ll see.”
“Then I’ll do that.”
For the rest of the day and into the night, Solomon labored. He helped to right wagons, fix wheels and dig graves. The Mar-trollid dug individual resting places for each lost soul as well as for their animals. By the time they were done, even Solomon was covered in sweat and dirt, and felt exhausted.
Yag-Morah found him resting against a wagon wheel. She handed him a large cup.
“Here, this will help.”
“Thank you.” Solomon eagerly accepted the drink, remembering how well Yag-Morah’s teas worked.
This one had a citrusy flavor to it that refreshed him and eased the aching in his back and arms.
“Come,” Yag-Morah said. “It’s time to say goodbye.”
Solomon wasn’t sure what to expect. He envisioned solemn processions, perhaps words of comfort and wisdom, and maybe even songs.
Instead, the Mar-trollid silently placed their loved ones in the graves by the light of lanterns and torches. They bowed their heads for a few moments, some staying longer than others, and then quietly began covering the bodies over.
“That’s it?” he asked Yag-Morah when Gan-Rowe was laid to rest.
“It’s merely the next stage of their journey,” she replied. “They will go on now, find new places to see and new paths to explore. And someday, we may meet them again.”
“That’s a beautiful way of thinking.”
“Don’t mistake me, Gan-Solomon. We miss their presence in our lives. But we cannot be sad for them.”
They walked back to Yag-Morah’s wagon in silence after that.
All around them, the Mar-trollid were loading supplies into wagons. Parents called to children to come and cows were hooked to their traces.
“You’re leaving,” Solomon said.
Yag-Morah nodded. “We are. It’s time for us to move on. From this area, and perhaps from this world.”
“You have a way of doing that?”
Solomon was surprised she hadn’t mentioned it before, when he told her was searching for Celia and a way back home to the Greenweald.
“We do,” she said. “Far from here. A journey of several weeks.”
Solomon nodded.
“I wish you a good journey, Yag-Morah.”
“Thank you, Gan-Solomon. And you? What will you do?”
“I’ll return to Dunfield. I found her, you know. Celia, I mean.”
“I’m glad. And was your reunion everything you had wished?”
He smiled sadly. “No. I needed to give her news of her own father’s passing, and my role in it.”
“Perhaps she will come to feel differently as time passes.”
“Perhaps. In the meantime, we’re going to try to help the people of Dunfield. There’s something going on there. Something more than what the hunters did here.”
“How do you mean?”
“Here, they only killed. They didn’t try to take anyone away with them. It was like they knew they couldn’t corrupt the Mar-trollid as they did the people in town, so instead they tried to eliminate them. I think that you moving on is wise. They’ll come back to try to finish the job.”
“We fought them, you know,” Yag-Morah said. “Although we’re not warriors, we are not weak either. We killed a few of them, too, and threw their bodies on the fires.”
“Really? No wonder I didn’t see any. Good. That’s less we have to deal with back in Dunfield.”
“And your way home? Have you given up on that?”
“No. Not at all,” Solomon said. “It’s there in the town somewhere, I’m sure of it. But… we can’t leave the people like that. Good people are there still. Some are taking advantage of the current situation, and some have been corrupted by whatever evil is making those hunters, but there are plenty who are just scared.”
“So it’s up to you to save them.” Yag-Morah sounded almost amused.
Solomon shrugged. “I don’t know about all that. But whatever is going on, it doesn’t seem to have the same effect on Celia and me. If we can help, we will. Then we can go home.”
They reached the wagon and Yag-Morah started up the steps. Solomon had repaired the door as best he could, so she opened it and stepped inside.
“Wait here one moment,” she said, turning her back to him.
Solomon waited while inside there was the noise of items being moved around. A few minutes later, Yag-Morah reappeared with a good-sized leather sack.
“Take this,” she said, coming back down the steps.
Solomon took it while around them, several of the Mar-trollid wagons started to move.
“What is it?” he asked.
“Tea, of course,” Yag-Morah answered. “It may help. A sprinkle in a cup of water should be sufficient. It comes from plants that don’t grow anywhere around here. Rare, and highly prized.”
“This is a generous gift. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Use it when it feels
