VII
It soon occurred that Asfoa grew rather unwell. She initially found her spirit would lessen more quickly than it used to, and she was becoming tired earlier and earlier with each passing day, until she felt weak of limb and bone from dawn till dusk, and all through the night. Then she became weak of stomach, often unable to hold a meal no matter how little she ate, and then prone to vomiting even when she had not eaten at all. In this way did she grow ever thinner and weaker, and thinner and weaker, until she had withered beyond recognition. Her temperament withered alongside her. She was often of a sour mood, sluggish or cheerless or generally out of sorts, and often needed a great deal of encouragement to do anything, not that she could do much. Likewise, Thalo could only sit by as his mother wasted away before him.
At first, Asfoa did little to remedy this. She thought her affliction would pass in time. It did not. Thalo tried to treat her with what skills he had in the matter of medicine, but this came to nothing.
So, desperate to spare his mother from her sickness, he went to humble himself before Meola, Gaylodho’s wife. She was familiar with all sorts of herbs and potions, and more so than anyone in the valley. Thalo asked her to visit Asfoa, and to do whatever she might to expel the illness from her body.
‘I ask only that you try,’ said Thalo. ‘If you would grant us your effort alone, I would give you anything you ask of me. I understand, however, the enmity that exists between our families. If you cannot surmount that, as I have done by coming here today, I will not hold it against you.’
‘You need not,’ said Meola. ‘Boys’ grudges are no concern of mine. I will grant you this kindness, as I hope you would grant such a kindness to me. There is no need for repayment.’
‘How I thank you, Meola. I cannot tell you how grateful I am.’
Then they went up the valley together. When they came to Asfoa’s house, Meola saw her lying gaunt on her bench, her breathing harsh and laboured, and it was as if she saw a living corpse, risen from its grave to clamber back into a more comfortable bedstead. It a was sad sight indeed, a most ghastly thing, a once lifely woman rendered bedridden and gasping. Nonetheless, Asfoa’s pride held firm.
‘Why have you come here, Meola?’ asked Asfoa.
‘I have come to help you,’ said Meola. ‘Inasmuch as I can, at least.’
‘Unnecessary. I am managing quite well as it is.’
‘I have eyes, Asfoa, and ears and a nose, as well. Not one of them would agree with you.’
‘Nor would I,’ said Thalo. ‘Do not decline this help so readily offered.’
From Thalo, this was sufficiently convincing. No pride was enough to deny her son his mother.
‘Very well,’ said Asfoa. ‘Let us see what you can do about this.’
Meola took a seat beside Asfoa and asked her many questions, and also felt her skin and her breathing, and checked all her orifices. This went on for a little while, until she rose from her seat, grim and foreboding, and stepped away from the bench.
‘You are dying,’ she said, ‘but by what cause, I cannot say. In any case, I suspect the matter is now so far gone that nothing can be done. Foul things are festering. Doom awaits.’
With that, Meola left the room, unwilling to stay there a moment longer.
Thalo knelt beside his mother. ‘It cannot be so. This will pass. It must.’
‘As all things do,’ said Asfoa. ‘All things must pass.’
They said nothing more. Thalo bowed his head, placed it in Asfoa’s lap, and there he wept for her. He wept alone.
A few days later, Asfoa felt the time was upon them. After their evening meal, she summoned Thalo to her side and took his hand in hers.
‘Thalo,’ she said. ‘My son.’ She struggled to speak, even though she knew precisely what she meant to say. ‘I want to see my waterfall, our river. I would like to feel it again. Can you do that for me?’
Thalo did as she asked. He lifted her from her bench, yet wrapped in her blanket, and carried her out of the house and up to the waterfall. He placed her on the floor, near the edge of the pool, and sat beside her. With an eager hand, Asfoa reached out and felt the chill of the water on her skin once more. That was good.
‘There are things I must tell you,’ she said. ‘I will not get another chance. You ought to know the truth.’
‘What truth is this?’ said Thalo.
‘The truth of your birth, or the little I know of it.’
‘I already know this. I am the son of Klage, born of the river itself, and the brother of the valley.’
‘I have told you as much, but that is not the truth. You were born of flesh-and-blood folk like everyone else. Your parents were from Mawon, I believe. I found them dead in the woods, while you yet lived in your mother’s arms. If you go to the clearing above the waterfall, you will find an old stone marking their grave. I buried them there myself and took you into my home, their son and mine. That is all I know of the matter. If Klage is still alive, I have never met them.’
These were surprising words indeed, and not wholly welcome.
‘It was an idle tale,’ said Asfoa, ‘for an idle boy. I know how you like such stories. I gave you one of your own, as true as any other. You are not the son of a god, but none are. I cannot say how proud I am to see the man you have become.’
Thalo said, ‘Is there no godly blood within me? No greatness behind me? No glory before me? Is all I have your pride? Is there nothing else for me? What more is left for me if I lose you?’
‘As much as you wish. You are not Klagennan, nor are you Asfoannan. You are Thalo. Your life is your own. Your inheritance is no immortal ancestry, nor the life I have lived, but the life you fashion for yourself.’ Asfoa turned to look upon Thalo, though he could not meet her gaze. ‘I am dying, Thalo. That cannot be avoided. Do not let yourself die with me. Do not sit idly in my house any longer, but take what you want from it and burn the rest. Burn my house, and everything left within. Then you must go. Go wherever you wish, but you must go, and you must not return. That would be no good for you. Klagenn is my home, and Klagennas my love. You must find your own. There is so very much more for you in this world, Thalo. You need only seek it.’
Asfoa put a hand on Thalo’s face, wiped the tears from his cheeks, and she beheld him, soft in the twilight.
‘Promise me that,’ she said. ‘Promise me you will seek it.’
Thalo reached behind his mother and took her in his arms, her head against his neck.
‘I will,’ he said.
Sat with the waterfall before her and Thalo beside her, Asfoa knew all had been worthwhile—the times of hardship and the times of harmony both. And as her strength waned, and her breathing quieted, she closed her eyes, and said, ‘Thalo, I love you.’
Thalo said, ‘Stay with me.’
‘I love you, my son.’
Then Thalo held her tight, trying in vain to trap the life within her, to cling to that moment as long as he could. Yet all things must pass. So Asfoa died, her head resting gently against his own as her body slackened. Thalo laid her back on the ground and saw that she was dead. But that was not the mother he knew. No, his mother was a doughty woman, proud and hearty. The woman who lay before him was all thin and bony, her lips withered, her skin loose, her eyes sunken into their hollows. Even so, she died smiling.
Thalo kissed her forehead and went to find a spade. He took it up atop the waterfall, found the spot of his birth parents’ grave, and spent the rest of the evening digging another nearby. He dug in silence and paid no heed to the passing of time. Once the grave was ready, he took Asfoa in his arms, still wrapped up in her blanket, and laid her in the earth. There he looked upon her once more, fixed her image in his mind, sprinkled some water from the river over her body, and only then did he fill the grave. Above her he mounted a large stone, the largest he could find, to mark her burial bed until the wind and the rain had worn it down to nothing.
He spent the rest of the night at home. Long had he dwelt in that house, but it was wholly unfamiliar without his mother to make it homely. That would prove to be the first of many sleepless nights.