CHAPTER FOUR

Davram stood at the center of the garden. Butterflies fluttered by, each a different color. The canopy above opened up where he stood and that was where he buried Somei. He had dug the earth with his hands. He had wrapped Somei in a rough white cloth. An acorn placed in his hands, surrounded by soil, so that the oak would grow through Somei's body, and scatter more acorns across the ground. He watered the grave and closed his eyes and let the sunlight wash over him, humming the song of the sun. He could make the acorn wine. The recipe must be in the book.

The book. It was leather bound, the pages thin pressed paper made of mashed leaves. Writing on the pages, on the cover, but he could not understand a single mark. He had to leave the garden, leave all that he knew and venture beyond the valley, to find someone who could read the book. But he could not.

Davram tended to the garden. He woke. He ate. He walked among the flowers and the trees. They grew healthy and strong. He repeated what Somei had taught him. The thought of leaving the only place he had known terrorized him.

More days came and went. Every morning he would wake up and stare at the book on the work desk for hours before tending the garden. He knew he was making little difference to the plants. They were so healthy to begin with, taken care of all their lives, they knew how to grow without him. The sunlight, the rain, they knew what to do.

He sat at the stove. He lit Somei's pipe and sucked in the smoke. Davram closed his eyes and sat there still for a long time. Then in the night, his eyes opened and he took the book and used it as a pillow.

The next morning, he set out with the book in his hand. He walked out of the garden and into the forest. He passed the trees, into the clearing, crossing the stream. Up the mountains, slowly but surely he walked.

Out of the valley and into the world he went.