Epilogue to the Epilogue

Upon hearing that they would be separated, Fatima and Alphonse II decided their love for each other reached beyond the religious aspirations their parents set out for them. 

Fatima loved her father and did not want to be looked upon disapprovingly by him for not choosing to go with him, but when she was honest with herself, she really didn’t know what to believe.  She did know that she loved her half brother, Alphonse, more than anything black ink could put to words.  As they grew together in the little cottage Fatima and Alphonse found comfort in only each other as their mothers were constantly arguing over who was more loved by their father.  It could have been a divided household if not for the two children’s intersecting paths.  Just as their father on a journey once crossed paths with Zubeida and Emina in which they intersected and formed a new path, despite their differences, the children too were drawn to each other’s differences.  Fatima was small, but strong and was always helping her brother up to the tallest tree so that he could “see the earth as a bird.”  Alphonse was tall and cautious, but wise like an old man and would warn Fatima in the tree when the clouds looked to be menacing.  They admired each other for what they had not, which is a trait not common in children as young as the two.

So their only choice was to flee their home in search of one where they could be together.  Alphonse had overheard stories from their mothers of a place of caves and great beauty where their family had acquired their wealth.  His father had told him stories of a place that seemed to be similar in description.  He remembered every detail of the stories and was able to paint himself a mental picture of the place and its location.  At night they experienced their first footsteps of freedom running and by morning found themselves waking in a place that seemed more imaginary than real. 

They found a cave that sounded just as the caves did in their father’s stories and made their way into the depths of the labyrinth finding themselves only lost in words. 

They spent their days wandering the vast caverns as if in search of something.  When they grew tired they would walk out to the open air and collect food for a meal or splash each other in a crystal clear pool.  The fruit was plentiful.  The air was temperate.  The animals were kind.  Their mothers could not have created a better fairy tale than what they were living.

As the months passed however, they found themselves fighting over places to sit and berries in a bush, things that had never brought tension before.  Their talking grew less and they occupied much of their time alone.

It was around this time that Fatima was exploring a new section of the cave she had never been in before.  She entered into a room that had a small chair and an old pot of ink.  There was also a finely embroidered tapestry that lay over a rectangular object.  She brushed off the fabric and lifted it off to find a large bundle of papers poorly bound together.  She could barely make out the words that were slightly water stained. Saragossa was all it said.

She rushed to find her brother, and for the first time in days, grabbed his hand and led him to the room.  Together they sat on the floor and poured over the first book they saw in months.  They read it until they fell asleep.  Entranced by the story, they woke up the next day and read again until they were asleep.  After seven days of reading, they finished the book.  On the seventh day, they found that all the stories within the book had been made-up.  That is what the book said. 

At first they were stunned.  What did this mean?  They discussed with each other their thoughts on what it meant.  When they were finished, although they had no new answers, they decided that they would talk about other parts of the book that were equally as important as the part that had told them it was all made-up.  They made a ritual of sitting, sharing food and reading the stories together each day for a few hours.  They talked about what they thought the stories meant and why they were written.  The stories explained things to them that made their lives together better.

They knew all along that the stories were written by their father and that there was some truth and some fiction in it all, but that didn’t matter.  Their father wrote the book to be read.