It has been six years, eleven months, thirty days since the Dry Spell. Six years, eleven months, thirty days since the last Book was read. A dreadful, dreadful Book. The book that cast the spell. The Dry Spell. O terrible, terrible fate. The Reader’s fate.
Only one day left before the seventh year. One day left before the Dry Spell is for ever. The Reader shall read never. Never again. O terrible, terrible fate. The Reader’s Fate.
It was six years, eleven months, thirty days ago when the Reader opened the dreadful, dreadful Book. The Book that cast the spell. A forbidden Book.
The Reader was young. The youngest of them all. Youngest Reader of the Land. Chosen by our Great Father by name. To transfer deep, deep knowledge to the Land. Through the Books. Except One. The Reader must never open the dreadful, dreadful book.
The Reader opened that Book. The Reader read the Book. The Dry Spell was cast. Knowledge has left the Land. O terrible, terrible fate. The fate of the Land.
The Writers tried to write. They tried, tried, tried, to heal the Reader’s eyes. For six years, eleven months, thirty days the writers failed. O terrible, terrible fate. The Writers’ fate.
Only one day left.
A Stranger came to the Land. A lady with a golden hand. She sought for the Reader’s lair. To heal the Reader with her hand. The Stranger’s golden hand.
She placed a book on the Reader’s trembling hand. Perhaps another spell. Perhaps another curse. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps.
“I am a Healer. In the book are my words of healing.” The Stranger spoke. “I came to end the Dry Spell. So you may read again.” A voice of hope. A lovely, lovely voice. The Stranger’s voice.
The Reader opened the Healing Book. And his eyes. O the Reader’s eyes. Turned from dark into gold. Bright, bright gold. As gold as his eyes six years, eleven months, thirty days ago. Before the Reader opened the dreadful, dreadful Book. Before the Dry Spell.
“Your transgression has been forgiven.” The Healer’s voice. O lovely, lovely voice. “The dreadful, dreadful Book has been banished. Never to bother you again.”
“We owe you our lives, Healer from another Land. Pray tell me how to reward you. O lovely, lovely one.”
“I have seen my fate written. In my healing hand. I was born to heal you, to travel to this Land. To never return to my homeland, O wise, wise one.”
“Then here you are welcome, o lovely, lovely one. You brought my eyes healing, and now you hold my heart.”
It has been six years, eleven months, thirty days since the Dry Spell. Now it is gone. The Reader united with the Healer in marriage. Knowledge and Healing filled the Land.