by S D Smith
“May it be so,” Heather said reverently, touching her ears, eyes, and mouth, “in this Mended Wood.”
“In this Mended Wood,” Picket echoed in a whisper.
After a moment, Heather spoke up again. “Picket, would you listen to the ending of my book?”
“I would be delighted to, dear sister.”
“It’s the epilogue,” she said, and she drew a folded paper from a dress pocket. “‘So the king ruled, with the queen by his side. Newcity, lit and suspended as it was, became a guiding star for all the world. Rabbits came to it, to pay homage to the king, to honor the war heroes, and to savor the center of the mending. Some stayed, but many more went home again to remake their own places with the light they carried with them after such an encounter with beauty. Every year, on the anniversary of their victory, they celebrated the end of the War for All Natalia and the advent of the Mended Wood. And the Great Wood did mend; brighter and brighter it shined, with more and more light to share. Mending begat mending, and the healing grew, like a disease in reverse, until the wholeness spread to the edge of every map. The rabbits were glad, good, and unafraid. They were free.’”
Picket gazed at her with shining eyes, then reached his arm around her once again. “And the queen was called Starkeeper and Scribe, legendary lightbringer of the greatest age,” he whispered. “Oh, Heather. It’s too good to not be true.”
They were silent for a while, turning back to watch the river roll on past Picket and Weezie’s home. Then they heard footsteps and turned to see Hanna and Jo.
“Jo found this in the bushes,” Hanna said, holding up a six-sided cluster of sticks, bound by a blue ribbon in its center.
Heather gasped, then laughed as Picket took the star-stick from Hanna.
“Now this,” Picket said, dropping to one knee, “is a special thing that goes along with a special game.”
“Will you teach us, Daddy?” Jo asked.
“I will, Jo,” he answered. “This is a starstick, and the game is called Starseek. Aunt Heather and I will teach you and Hanna, and then you will teach the others. How does that sound?”
“Good,” Jo said, smiling wide to reveal several gaps of lost teeth.
“Good,” Hanna agreed, a protective arm around Jo.
“The rules are simple,” Picket said. “One player throws the starstick as hard as ever she can; then when the starstick lands, both players rush to see who can find it first.”
“And that’s the winner?” Hanna asked.
“Yes, my dear,” Heather said. “And the winner throws first in the next round. Now, why don’t you let Jo throw it first?”
Hanna nodded, and Picket handed the starstick to Jo.
Jo smiled, then offered it to Hanna. “I want her to. She’s always letting me go first.”
Hanna accepted the starstick with a giggle and turned back to face the field of blue flowers. “Won’t we hurt the pretty flowers if we romp over them like wildsters?”
“We have so much, Hanna,” Picket said, “that a little romping won’t do any harm at all.”
She smiled, and Jo stood poised. “Ready, Jo?” He nodded. She bent back and twisted, then swiftly uncoiled, sending the starstick sailing into the sky, blue ribbon rippling in its wake. They all four watched it go, and Heather felt a quickening of her heart, a sudden rush of memory and emotion that sent her sailing back to Nick Hollow and the innocence they once knew there. She remembered that time with tenderness, but a deep delight welled up within her as understanding grew that the present joy far outshone the pale light of past happiness. Her ever new and ever renewing delight carried within it every sweet remnant of what it had in the past, but it thrummed within her now and swelled to a perfect pitch.
The starstick landed at a surprising distance, and the younglings sprang away, sending up sweet-smelling fragments of Firstflower as they disappeared, laughing, into the field.
“Were we ever so young?” Picket asked.
Heather laughed happily, then hugged her brother. “I think we are younger now than ever we were before.”
* * *
Later, the families ate at long tables laid out beneath the Helmer tree. Together, glad, and glad to be together. There was plenty of food, and all of it was good. They were all healthy and loved one another deeply. The sun shone bright high above them. The wind blew gently, and the shade beneath their tree was sweet.
None of them had been afraid in a long time.
“Uncle Picket,” Hanna asked, tugging on his shirt, “who made up Starseek?”
“Your mother, the queen, invented the game,” Picket answered with a smile.
“But,” Queen Heather said, “Uncle Picket made it magic.”
The End
Author’s Note
A powerful man once said, “What I have written, I have written.” That man was not a good man, but what he wrote was true. More true than he knew, though I think he knows now. I feel that way about my conclusion to The Green Ember Series. I may not be the very best man, but what I have written, I have written. And I believe it’s true.
Yes, this is a true story. I believe that. Not that the events happened, but that the story is, please God, faithful to Reality. This is how Tolkien viewed his own stories, and if I have never actively imitated his storytelling (who could succeed at scaling that Olympian summit?), I have learned from him this and more besides. He is, in that sense, my master. Whether or not he would approve of this student, I’m not sure. He was profoundly biased against one particular feature of mine, to be sure. I am an American. Sorry, Master.
Like Tolkien, I view this story (and this series) not as a propagandistic allegory, still less a religious tract, but a true story. A faithful story. It is honest, as best as I can tell. And therefore it is necessarily infused with echoes of that deep Reality. I do not apologize for that. We write from the depths of our inner life. As children we pretend at play, but it is always us pretending, and our make-believe is made up from what we believe. We love to make believe, and we make believe about what we love.
These stories will, I hope, like little children born from love, become something more than I could have imagined and make new ways in the world and have a separate—not wholly known to me—life of their own. But they will always have started here in my heart, in my home. They will always be rooted in deep affection for their first audience, my very real children, and their broader audience, which includes you. So, thank you for reading. And thank you for the generous way you have read and received these stories.
There is a generosity both of host and of guest, and when both act from love, a feeling of being at home prevails for both. In awkward meetings, neither party feels “at home.” I have long viewed storytelling in general, and The Green Ember Series in particular, as an opportunity for hospitality. These stories belong to my family, and sharing them has been a joy. That others “feel at home” with our adventures makes us happy, like finding that our guests have been genuinely comfortable, refreshed, and at ease in our house.
We are grateful. I am grateful. Because it’s been more than simply me inviting you into our home; it’s I (through the books) who have been invited again and again into home after home, and heart after heart. Your homes. Your hearts. What an incomparable honor. That kids (and families) all over the world have cherished these stories is an honor I can barely comprehend. I would deny that it’s true, but I have it thousands of times over in their own handwriting.
This book was written mostly during Lent and Easter of 2019. That is fitting in so many ways. Lent begins with Ash Wednesday, a reminder that we are dust, and to dust we will return. We will die. That’s real. Each of us will have a death scene. But Lent is not the end. There is Easter, when resurrection is realized and hope lives again. I can’t think of a better season to tell this story, to come to this ending.
A good man (in a sense, the only good man) once scolded his followers for blocking children’s access to him. He welcomed them and took them in his ar
ms and blessed them. Since this particular Jewish man is my actual master—with all due respect to Tolkien, who would, I know, say the same—I only aspire to be like him. I have so sincerely wished just to bless you, children. I cannot do it the way my Master, or my master, have (and do). But I can do it the way I can. So here is your blessing.
May the Ancient Author bless and keep you. May the Holy Hero be your rescuer forever. May the Story find you, through every painful passage, at home with him in the end. May you delight in his love and exalt in his victory then. May you always aspire to live as a character you admire. May you know the delight of finding out that the Story isn’t mainly about you. May you know and love the truth and be brave to obey it. May you make a hard dart at the darkness with whatever light you bring, reflecting, like the moon, a light far brighter than your own. May God give you joy!
Grandview, West Virginia