#arhel

Cover illustration by Clyde Caldwell

“Hruning trees?” Choufa asked.

The woman winced. “That a bad word. Forget it, you understand?”

Choufa grinned at her and said nothing. Hruning, she thought. Hruning… hruning… hruning. “Magic” is a good word, but I bet “hruning” is better. She decided under no circumstances would she forget that word.

He smiled weakly. “Dear love of mine.” He reached out with difficulty and patted her hand. “I wish that were true.”

She leaned closer and stared earnestly into his eyes. “It is true, Nokar. The vha’attaye don’t die.”

“They don’t live, either. If I were vha’attaye, I couldn’t smell—the sweet smell of your hair—or taste your salty kisses—or roll over in the bed at night and—squeeze your very fine breasts.” He gave her another gentle smile. “I’ve lived long, Medwind. Those are—my principle pleasures now.”

“But I don’t want to lose you.”

“Life is like that, Medwind. Eventually, we lose—everything we love. What you must do is—love many things—so the process takes longer.” The old man attempted a wheezy chuckle that became an ugly cough.

She leaned over and kissed him firmly on the lips. Her tears mingled with her kisses. “Get some sleep, old man,” she said. “I don’t want to find someone else to love today.”