A captivated Daki did not want to leave, but Ehomba had to insist. “Your mother will be angry at us both if we are late,” he reminded his son as they began the long hike back to the tunnel.
“Is this where you found the answers to all the questions you keep asking, Father?” the boy asked as they ascended wide stairs of marble and agate and sparkling goldenstone.
“No, Daki. This is where I find only more questions. I promise you: Someday, when you are a little older, we will come back here, as all men and women of Naumkib must, and you will find, whether you want to or not, many questions of your own.”
The youth considered this reply as they ascended. Then he nodded slowly, hoping that he understood. “Does it have a name, this place? Or is it just called Naumkib?”
“We call ourselves the Naumkib,” his father replied. “The ancient city and place of learning is, and always has been, known as Damura-sese.” He smiled as they neared the entrance to the tunnel. Mirhanja would have supper ready, and he was hungry. “The rest of the world knows it as a story, a rumor, hearsay. We keep it that way.”
Daki picked up one of the torches they had left behind. “Part of our legacy?”
“Yes, son. Part of our legacy. A little secret of the Naumkib.”
“But not the only one,” the boy observed, displaying the wisdom for which his family was noted.
“No, Daki. Not the only one.”
Etjole Ehomba, who was an honorable man, made his way with his son back out of the celebrated lost city, whose riches lay not in its fabulous trappings but in the learning it held, and back to the modest house by the sea, where as he had sworn to his friend Simna ibn Sind he was no more a renowned sorcerer than any man or woman of his village, be they herder of cattle, hewer of wood, thresher of grain or scraper of hides.