By the evening of that day, Kostya and Juel had crossed the East Ridge, coming down its other slope. Unlike the western one, it sloped gently, forming no terraces or cliffs.

Kostya was surprised to see the smoking tops of volcanoes far away.

Weird. This place is just crazy.

Two days ago, when he’d been crossing the snowy plateau with little Juel on his shoulders, the smoke had been rising right behind the East Ridge, shrouding the morning sun and reducing it to a faint, ghastly, daytime moon. By noon, the sun would climb higher in the sky, shaking the smoky veil off and even warming the two of them as it reached its zenith.

He was sure the volcanoes were right across the ridge.

Now they had crossed it, and the volcano tops shrouded in ashy smoke were still several days ahead, separated from the ridge by a broad green valley.

After the pale snowy plains and gray stones, Kostya had almost forgotten this world had any other colors. The blooming oasis ahead was a surreal sight. His mind refused to believe in this degree of brightness.

They began a slow descent: Juel cradling her baby bump with caution and Kostya holding her hand while keeping his eyes on the valley.

The air became much warmer. No snow. No freezing wind. The gods of this crazy world seemed to grant them this green and warm respite by mistake.

Kostya felt like he was stepping off a plane in Thailand: coming out onto the ladder, sniffing the hot air, and instantly forgetting the ruthless February wind that had been lashing at his cheeks when he boarded eight hours ago.

Juel was in her late twenties. She would stop to rest at times, throwing back her head and holding her heavy sides with her hands. She didn’t seem to enjoy the heat.

Kostya watched her years flash by even faster than her pregnancy developed.

It’s a dream. Just a dream. Just a dream.

Without the Shaman’s anesthesia, Kostya would’ve probably long lost his sanity. He guessed that Juel might go into labor in about two hours. She would sometimes lift her eyes to him. Her look saying, I don’t know what to do either.

The idea of having to assist her delivery was paralyzing his mind. It froze his heart, making it sink into the pit of his stomach.

They walked deeper into the valley, holding hands and looking ahead. Kostya could feel icy ants scurrying over his temples despite the heat. His frozen thoughts just wouldn’t move as his mind seemed to be covered with ice.

Their feet stepped on tall grass, a whisper of leaves coming from all around, carrying the strong scent of blossoms.

With the suffocating heat all over them, Kostya still felt icy cold on the inside.

Like a thermos filled with ice cubes and put out in the full blaze of the sun.

He barely could think, the ants creeping into his head to run on the frozen convolutions of his brain, tickling them with tiny legs.

He could almost see their tiny bodies come together to form an inscription: The Forecaster Valley is the same as the Forecaster.

***

He came to.

The smoky veil was now low over his head, enveloping the nearest hill and hiding the dark bulk of the volcano ahead.

He could see ten more small hills in their way. They looked like warts on a giant reptile’s back: all the same size, with smooth tops, placed close to the point of overlapping, covered with burned, chapped scales.

He looked down at the brown grass wriggling with thirst in the hot wind. His mind was blank except for the mysterious phrase about the Forecaster Valley repeating over and over. He could feel Juel’s tender fingers in his right hand.

That was good.

And his left hand was warmed by a child’s small fingers.

A good thing, isn’t it? Or… not really?

Brain anesthesia. Give me more, Shaman! Or I’ll go crazy despite this being just a dream! Kostya screamed silently. He couldn’t bring himself to look to the right, at Juel, let alone to the left.

An eternity passed before she squeezed his hand slightly, sparing him this difficult choice.

He turned to Juel. She was about forty, with slight wrinkles webbing around her calm gray eyes, a few cobweb lines on her forehead, and two more descending from her nose to the corners of her lips.

These wrinkles didn’t ruin her beauty; they just showcased her calm confidence. Kostya used to think that her younger version was perfect, but now he was surprised to realize that it was those webbing lines that made her face complete.

It was like watching an artist at work. The human face on the portrait seemed to be complete, so beautiful, sculptured, and lifelike. Why would that hand with a pencil keep dancing over it? In a minute or two, a dozen more strokes appear on the paper. The artist eyes their work appraisingly before handing it to the model: a pretty girl in tattered jeans and a half-buttoned white shirt (she must’ve been born with the skill of picking just the right number of buttons to undo), who was tired of posing for such a long time.

At that moment, it becomes clear that the final version is far, far better than the previous one. It was those final strokes that breathed life into the image.

In real life, the strokes put on human faces by the artist known as Time are almost invisible. Only when looking at some pictures taken twenty years ago can you see the difference and give the artist their due.

But Kostya was able to see the portrait being finalized in real-time.

Now Juel was ten years older than him, but he liked her new face even better.

Then he remembered the child’s fingers in his left hand.

A boy. Of about six. Shaggy hair. Plump cheeks. The same rags that Juel used to wear as a child.

The child looked ahead. Kostya couldn’t take his eyes off this oh-so-familiar profile. Where could he have seen it before?

Of course. In early photos of himself. Not the ones where he had been instructed to look into the camera, but the candid shots.

The boy’s nose was just a bit different: turned-up, like Juel’s nose a few days ago.

The flood of emotions again broke through the Shaman’s dam.

Kostya stared at the boy as though hypnotized.

My son. The word he hadn’t said yet was rolling on his tongue like a warm ball. Whose eyes does he have?

The boy turned slowly, as though he had heard the silent question.

Kostya grew cold. He had Juel’s calm gray eyes that, for some reason, avoided Kostya’s. The boy just wouldn’t look higher than his chest.

Or, rather, through his chest.

A terrifying thought came over Kostya like an ice-cold wave.

Before he could fully comprehend it, the boy, staring at the spot blankly, said, “Hi, Kosta. I’m Khoronum.”

Kostya’s lips moved of their own accord, as if in a dream, saying, “Hi…Khoronum.”

His heart pounded like a blacksmith’s hammer, shaping his sudden guess into a dagger-sharp realization. Still red-hot after the anvil, this dagger pierced him through.

Blind. My little boy is blind.

The ground disappeared from beneath him. He turned to Juel for any support she could give. She stared back with eyes full of pain, a deep vertical line cleaving her forehead, the wrinkles at her mouth becoming much deeper.

The invisible artist’s hand was putting more and more strokes on her face.

But it had just been the two of them such a short time ago! Descending into that blossoming valley.

And now they were here, the three of them.

Kostya had no memories of anything in between except for the nonsensical catchphrase stuck in his head: The Forecaster Valley is the same as the Forecaster.

What had happened in that damn valley? Did I have to deliver a baby? But the boy is already six! Why is he blind? And who the hell is the Forecaster?

He looked back, struggling to recollect anything.

The green oasis was silent.

The East Ridge lay several days behind them.

How’s that possible? We just came down from there this morning!

No answers.

Juel and Khoronum still trustingly holding his hands.

Confused about what to do next, Kostya led them into the shadow cast by the smoky cloud over the hills.

They had taken several steps, passing the first wart-like hill, when a dazzling light flashed right ahead.

Taken by surprise, Kostya closed his eyes—and heard a loud clap.