uot;

    Smaolachpulledathis,asifdeepinthought."Itwouldbeabigmistake,Ithink,towriteabookthatnoonewouldeverread."

    "Youarequiteright,oldfriend.Ihaveattimeswonderedwhytheartistdarestsomethioaworldwhereeverythinghasbeendoneandwherealltheanswersarequitewellknown."

    Istoodandbroketheplaheirinquisition."Wouldyoupleasetellme,"Ihollered,"whatiswrongwiththebook?"

    "Imafraiditsyourfather,"saidLuchóg.

    "Myfather,whatabouthim?Hassomethinghappeohim?"

    "Hesnotwhoyouthinkheis."

    "Whatmyfrieosayisthatthemanyouthinkofasyourfatherisnotyourfatheratall.Thatmanisanotherman."

    "ewithus,"saidLuchóg.

    Aswewoundaloh,Itriedtountahemanyimplicationsoftheirinvasionintomybook.First,theyhadalwaysknownIwasHenryDay,andnowtheyknewIkheyhadreadofmyfeelingsforSpedsurelyguessedIwaswritingtoher.TheyknewhowIfeltaboutthem,aswell.Fortuheycameacrossasgenerallysympatheticcharacters,abitetric,true,butsteadfastalliesinmyadveheirlineofquestioningposedanintriguing,however,asIhadnotthoughtaheadtohowImightactuallygetabooktoSpeoretothepoint,aboutthereasonsbehindmydesiretowriteitalldown.SmaoladLuchóg,aheadorail,hadlivedinthesewoodsfordecadesandsailedthrougheternitywithoutthesamecaresortheowritedownandmakeseall.Theywrotenobooks,paihingonthewalls,danonewdatheylivedinpeadharmonywiththenaturalworld.WhywasntIliketheothers?

    Atsu,westeppedoutofcoverandwalkeddownpastthechurchtoascatteringo