"Do not open that book!" Antaljä warned her strawberry-haired apprentice who was reaching her hand towards a dusty old volume that lay solitary in the wooden shelf. Antaljä's voice was raised like a splash of cold water on a winter morning, her hair with its elegant streaks of grey framed her wizened face, her eyes which witnessed more stars than anyone else betrayed an expression of gentle reproach. Ëlle quickly lifted her hand from the ancient tome, like one who touched a kettle and realized how hot it is. Her fingers left imprints on the thick layer of dust on the covers.

"There are images inside that should remain unseen by any eye. I opened it once and the picture now burns in my mind. I see it whether I am awake or asleep, whether in dreams or in this stark existence. . . I cannot speak more of it. It is too painful for me." She shook her head and proceeded to add turmeric and lentils to a stew simmering slowly over a low fire.

Ëlle moved her attention from the book to the soup and observed her mentor stir it into lazy spirals, the turmeric dissolving into yellow joy. . .