Fredon unfolded the letter slowly, as if it might break at the touch. His grandfather's handwriting was there, steady and clear, each letter drawn with the care of someone who knew it would be the last time.
*To my dearest beloved grandson Fredon.*
*I imagine that now that you are reading this letter I will have already departed for paradise, which I consider very good for me. But I am sorry for you, my dear grandson, for I know that this, at this moment when you are reading this letter, is affecting you greatly.*
*It will not be in this letter that I will tell you everything, but rather to tell you that I want you to use that key you found to open the door I always forbade you from opening. That is where I truly kept your gift.*
*But do not forget our tradition. Before you open that door, the ortakum must happen first.*
*With that said, it is all I wanted to say to you, my grandson.*
*Happy ortakum.*
Fredon stood still with the letter in his hand, tears falling slowly, one by one, as if each carried a piece of what he couldn't say out loud. He folded the paper carefully, slipped it into his pocket along with the dark metal key, and sat there for a moment that felt too long and too short at the same time.
He breathed deeply.
Then he stood, left the clinic out onto the street, and shouted to the entire square.
— At six o'clock! At six o'clock the ortakum for my grandfather will take place!
The square erupted into life. People waved, shouted back, some began celebrating right there with embraces and smiles. A group of children started running between the houses spreading the news to anyone who hadn't yet heard. The energy shifted immediately, as if the entire village had woken from a heavy sleep.
Olsen stood in the doorway of the clinic, arms crossed, a small but genuine smile on his face. He said nothing. He simply watched the boy he had helped raise turn pain into celebration, just as his grandfather had taught.
---
In the mountains, not far from Fredon's house, Zelma was sitting on the porch of Aunt Junia's house with an expression of pure reflection on her face. Elbows on her knees, chin resting in her hands, eyes lost on the horizon where the sky was beginning to take on shades of orange and purple.
Aunt Junia was on the other side of the porch washing clothes in a wooden basin, wringing the fabric with force before hanging it on a line stretched between two posts. She glanced sideways at her niece, frowned, and asked without stopping her work.
— Still thinking about your trip?
Zelma sighed deeply.
— Yes, auntie. I didn't want to leave this island. I wanted to stay.
Junia dropped the cloth she was wringing and turned fully toward her, an incredulous smile on her face.
— You of all people saying that? You who when you arrived here at five years old wouldn't stop crying and saying you wanted to go back home? That this was a place of poor uneducated people?
Zelma looked at her with an irritated expression, her cheeks going slightly red.
— That was then. And I changed.
Her aunt crossed her arms, the smile turning into something more mischievous.
— And by any chance does that change go by the name of Fredon?
Zelma jumped to her feet as if she'd been shocked, her face completely red.
— What? What are you saying, auntie? Fredon is simply a friend, nothing more! And I wouldn't abandon my wish to see my parents because of him!
Junia went back to the laundry, but the smile didn't leave her face.
— Then why have you had that rotten potato face for two days?
— I haven't! — Said Zelma too loudly, her voice climbing an octave. — I'm simply not feeling well, that's all.
Her aunt soaked another piece of clothing and began wringing it calmly.
— Have you told him you're leaving tomorrow?
The silence that followed was answer enough.
Zelma lowered her eyes to the wooden planks of the porch, her fingers nervously playing with the hem of her dress.
— Not yet. I'll tell him tonight. During the ortakum.
Junia shook her head slowly, like someone who already knew this was going to cause trouble.
— And make sure you don't go all flustered when you see him, alright?
— Me? Flustered? Since when do I get flustered?
Junia dropped the laundry in the basin, turned suddenly with wide eyes, and shouted in a perfectly convincing tone.
— Look! It's Fredon!
Zelma spun around so fast she slipped on the wet floor, nearly fell sideways, and began shouting questions while desperately scanning with her eyes.
— Where? Where? Where?
Junia let out a laugh so loud that birds flew from the nearby trees and two neighbours peered out of their windows to see what was happening.
— You see? That's the Fredonlove effect!
Zelma stood there with her face burning as if she'd shoved her head into a bonfire, fists clenched, breathing fast. Then she started chasing her aunt around the porch screaming.
— Stop it! Stop it right now!
Junia kept laughing as she fled, the two of them circling the porch like children, until Zelma gave up and sat back down in the same spot, her face buried in her hands.
---
Fredon was in his house organising everything with an energy he hadn't felt in days. He dragged tables outside, stacked chairs, washed dishes, filled cups. He opened the wide window that looked out to the cliff where his grandfather's coffin still rested covered in flowers already half wilted, and the cool afternoon breeze hit his face carrying the smell of sea and damp earth.
He stood there for a few seconds, hands resting on the windowsill, eyes fixed on the coffin.
— We're going to do this right, grandpa. Like you taught.
Then he went back to work with even more determination.
When he finished organising the house, he picked up a wooden spear with a sharpened tip, tied a rope around his waist, and ran out into the forest.
He had a main course to hunt.
---
He had been hiding in the bushes for nearly half an hour, completely still, eyes fixed on the target moving slowly between the trees searching the ground for seeds.
A king turkey.
It was enormous, almost the size of a crouching adult man, its feathers gleaming in the sunlight still filtering through the canopy. A red and blue head, a broad chest, legs thick as small trunks. Rare to see. Hard to hunt. Perfect for the ortakum.
Fredon controlled his breathing. He watched the animal's movements. He waited for the right moment with the patience his grandfather had taught him over years of hunting together.
*Not yet. Not yet. Almost.*
The turkey turned, pecked the ground, positioned itself in the right direction.
— Now!
Fredon exploded from the bushes running and screaming like a madman, spear raised above his head. The turkey let out a piercing cry and shot through the forest at a speed surprising for its size.
Fredon leapt over fallen trunks, dodged around rocks, climbed a tree with quick precise movements, grabbed vines hanging from the high branches and swung from tree to tree as if he had done it a thousand times.
The turkey ran below, zigzagging between the trunks, trying to lose its pursuer.
Fredon reached a wide high branch, stopped, balanced with knees slightly bent, pulled the spear from where the rope held it against his back, and calculated the distance with half-closed eyes.
Three seconds.
Two.
One.
He threw.
The spear cut the air with a whistle, passed over the turkey, crossed a small clearing, and cut a thin rope hidden between two trunks on the other side.
The rope snapped.
An enormous net that had been held up above dropped suddenly at brutal speed, enveloped the turkey completely, and pinned it to the ground in a tangle of ropes and knots.
The animal struggled, cried out, thrashed.
Fredon climbed down from the tree, landed on the ground with a light jump, and walked up to the trapped turkey with an enormous smile plastered on his face.
— I got it! I got it!
He grabbed the net, tied it more securely, and began dragging the animal back toward home, the weight making him sweat but the smile never disappearing for even a second.
---
Night arrived with the smell of roasting food, spilled wine, and the sound of live music echoing through the mountains.
Fredon's house on the cliff was transformed. Torches lit all around threw dancing shadows on the stone walls. The table was covered in dishes, fruits, still-warm bread, jugs of wine and beer. A band played in the corner with string instruments, wooden flutes, and drums that filled the air with a cheerful and contagious rhythm.
The guests began arriving in small groups, climbing the dirt path with smiles on their faces, bringing more food, more drink, more energy.
They helped themselves without ceremony, eating standing or sitting on rocks, dancing to the music, laughing loudly. Everyone stopped to look at the king turkey roasted at the centre of the table, enormous and golden, its crispy skin gleaming in the torchlight.
— Is that really a king turkey? — Someone asked, impressed.
— The boy hunted it alone — answered another with admiration.
It was then that Zelma arrived.
The noise of the party dimmed slightly when she appeared at the top of the path.
She wore a white and blue dress that came to her knees, simple but elegant, with small embroidery on the sleeves. Delicate earrings, her brown hair loose and falling over her shoulders, light makeup that made all the difference. She was nervous, her fingers playing with the hem of her dress as she descended slowly.
The men saw her and began approaching like flies drawn to honey.
— Zelma! How beautiful you look tonight!
— Can I get you something to drink?
— Come sit beside me!
She ignored them all with cold politeness, her eyes searching for only one person in the crowd.
Fredon was on the other side of the party serving food onto a plate for an elderly woman, completely distracted, paying no attention to anything around him.
Zelma waved her arm, her heart beating faster than it should.
Fredon saw her, his face lit up with that pure smile she knew so well, and he ran to her without thinking twice. Without any hesitation, he put his arm around her shoulder in a gesture completely natural and warm.
Everyone around them went into absolute shock. Conversations stopped. The men who had been flirting stood open-mouthed.
Zelma felt the heat rise up her neck to her cheeks, suddenly went shy, and offered a nervous smile.
— You missed me that much?
Fredon looked at her with all the normality and innocence in the world.
— Of course, sis.
The silence that followed was so heavy that even the music seemed to stop for a second.
The men drifted away slowly, murmuring among themselves with expressions somewhere between disbelief and pity.
— Honestly, his grandfather raised that boy all wrong.
— What does she even see in him, good lord...
Zelma stood there with a crooked smile on her face, not knowing whether to laugh, cry, or bury her face in her hands and vanish from the face of the earth.
On the other side of the party, leaning against a tree with a cup of wine in hand, Aunt Junia watched everything with a wide and crafty smile. She made an exaggerated gesture with her free hand, pointed at Fredon, then made a heart shape with her fingers in Zelma's direction.
Zelma saw it. She clenched her fists. She looked at her aunt with a silent fury that promised revenge later.
It was then that the Patrieco's deep voice echoed over all the noise of the party.
— Gather round! It is time for the farewell song!
---
The noise died down immediately. People set down their cups and plates and began moving toward the centre of the cliff where an enormous bonfire was already burning, the flames rising high against the dark starred sky.
Two people went to fetch Mr. Zell's body, still wrapped in a clean white cloth, and brought it with care and respect. They placed it over the flames with slow and deliberate movements.
The fire enveloped the body slowly, the flames climbing higher, the warm golden light illuminating all the faces gathered around.
The Patrieco stood beside the bonfire, twisted wooden staff in hand, his dark blue mantle rippling gently in the night breeze. He raised the staff to the sky, struck the ground once with force, and the sound echoed like a drum.
Everyone joined hands.
Fredon stood between Zelma and Doctor Olsen. When he took Zelma's hand, she looked at his hand, then at his face lit by the firelight, and said nothing. She only held on tightly.
The Patrieco began to sing. The voice was deep, profound, carrying something ancient that came from much further away than just that night.
*Farewell, farewell, dear cherished friend,*
*We remain still in this shadowed world.*
*You walked with honour, departed in peace,*
*And your name among us shall never cease.*
Everyone joined in, voices coming together in an imperfect but real harmony, full of raw emotion.
*Farewell, farewell, beloved friend,*
*Wait for us on the other side of the river.*
*May the light accompany you to the end,*
*And may we one day be together again.*
The flames rose higher, as if answering the song.
*We sing not in sorrow but in gratitude,*
*For the life you lived, for all you gave us then.*
*Farewell, farewell, until we meet again,*
*In the place where we shall all one day be.*
The final note hung suspended in the air for a moment that felt eternal.
Then silence.
Only the crackling of the fire.
The Patrieco lowered his staff slowly, closed his eyes, and murmured a blessing in a language nobody knew but everyone felt.
Then they released each other's hands.
And the party erupted again.
People ran for the food, the drink, the music. They laughed, danced, embraced, celebrated. It was chaos. It was noise. It was life, pure and unfiltered.
Fredon stood beside the bonfire looking at the flames where his grandfather's body burned slowly, transforming into ash and smoke that rose toward the starred sky.
— I'm glad he has gone to a better place now — he said quietly, more to himself than to anyone.
Zelma was beside him, her shoulder almost touching his.
— It's true — she said with a small but sincere smile. — One day we'll find him again.
Fredon turned to her and smiled in a strange way, as if he were seeing her for the first time in a long while.
Zelma suddenly went nervous, her fingers playing with the hem of her dress.
— What? Do I have something on my face?
— No — he said, his head slightly tilted. — Just... you've changed a lot.
Zelma frowned, confused and slightly defensive.
— What do you mean I've changed? I'm still the same.
Fredon kept looking at her with that strange expression she couldn't decipher.
— Do you remember the first time we met?
Zelma went quiet.
And she remembered.
*They were five years old. Aunt Junia had taken her to school in the village for the first time, and Fredon had been chosen to accompany her on the path through the forest.*
*He was kind, all smiles, asking her things, offering to hold her hand when they passed through dangerous spots.*
*She was horrible.*
*She called him "peasant boy", made him carry her bag, asked him for water as if he were a servant. Said she didn't hold hands with "middle class" people, contempt dripping from her voice.*
*Until one day he lost his temper. Shouted that he was fed up, that she knew the way now and could go to school alone.*
*And he left.*
*She was alone in the forest. And she was afraid. She called for him, offered him biscuits, but he didn't come back.*
*It was then she heard the growl.*
*An enormous wolf emerged from between the trees, its yellow eyes fixed on her, its teeth bared.*
*She ran. Tripped on a branch. Fell. The wolf was coming toward her.*
*And then Fredon appeared from the left like an arrow, hit the wolf with his shoulder, and sent it crashing into a tree.*
*The wolf growled, threatening.*
*Fredon growled back, bared his teeth, his eyes wild in a way she had never seen before.*
*The wolf was frightened and fled.*
*Fredon carried her on his back all the way to the clinic without saying a word.*
Zelma returned to the present, her face warm with shame just from the memory.
— That's true — she admitted with an embarrassed smile. — I really was insufferable.
The two laughed together, the tension dissolving for a few seconds.
It was then that Aunt Junia called for Zelma from across the party, waving her arm.
Zelma stepped away for a few minutes.
When she returned, she searched for Fredon with her eyes and found him surrounded by three girls laughing too loudly, touching his arm, asking him to serve them drinks and food.
He, polite as always, smiled and went to fetch what they asked for.
Zelma stood at a safe distance, hidden in the crowd, watching.
*He doesn't even realise, does he? He doesn't even notice they're throwing themselves at him.*
She felt something tighten in her chest. Something heavy and painful she couldn't name.
*Tomorrow I leave and he won't even miss me.*
She set down the cup she was holding on a nearby table.
And she left the party without saying a word to anyone.
---
Fredon only noticed she had gone when he had already served the girls and returned to the centre of the party.
He searched for her with his eyes. He didn't see her.
He asked a few people. Nobody knew.
He went to Aunt Junia, who was half drunk and dancing with her arm hooked through Doctor Olsen's as if they were old friends.
— Aunt Junia, have you seen Zelma?
Junia stopped dancing for a second, looked around with half-closed eyes, and shrugged.
— Haven't seen her, boy. She must have gone home.
Fredon felt uneasy. He left the party, grabbed a torch, and went looking for her through the forest.
He walked the paths she usually used. He called her name. He waited for answers that didn't come.
After half an hour, he gave up.
He returned to the cliff, his heart heavy, unable to understand why she had left without saying goodbye.
---
Later, when the party had ended and everyone had gone to their homes, Fredon stood alone on the cliff.
The bonfire still burned low, only embers now.
He held the metal flask where he had kept his grandfather's ashes, still warm to the touch.
He looked at the ocean below. He looked at the stars above.
— Thank you, grandpa. For everything.
Then he went inside, closed the door behind him, and stopped in front of the door his grandfather had always forbidden him from opening.
It was a door of dark wood, old, with rusted metal bolts and a large lock in the centre.
He pulled the key from his pocket.
He stood there, looking at the lock, his hand trembling slightly.
He breathed deeply.
And he inserted the key.