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. . .
Only to come ignobly to the filthiest, narrowest end of
all, and with me the line of Pyrrhus Alecto, dissolved and
digested miles beneath our beloved peninsula. I had gone
down to the depths of the mountains, and the earth with her
bars was about me forever.
I cried out again, certain no one would hear me.
Then it seemed almost foolishly simple. For after the
weeping, the vain recollection of my hundred adventures, I
recalled the last thing I had heard:
"There is power in all words, and in yours especially."
My first purpose, many seasons past and a hundred
miles away, when I left my mother and home, had been to
discover and make known the truth about Orestes and
Grandfather.
I had discovered. Now I must make it known. I would
salvage the truth in the last dissolving hour. And though I
assumed the words would never see light or catch a willing
eye, I brought forth quill and inkhorn, and said aloud,
canceling my father's words as he had canceled Arion's,
"The fires are extinguished. The land is free. I am alive."
Dipping the quill, I began to write blindly on the
quivering stomach walls of the dragon.
DOWN IN THE ARM OF CAERGOTH HE RODE . . .
*****
Some men are saved by water, some by fire. I have
heard stories of happy rock slides releasing trapped miners,
of a ship and its crew passing safely through hurricanes
because the helmsman nestled the boat in the eye of the
storm, in sheer good fortune.
I am the rare one to be saved by nausea
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