And she told me I had to be the son of Louis son of Thadd e son of B lonie. And she is the one who, that day, named me after the first one in my lineage. Old B lonie turns his head toward his invisible funeral cart and, for the first time in 15 years, magnificently thumbs his nose at the Reaper. For days, he steals away with his great grandson to escape the eavesdroppers. They talk until his mouth is too dry.
Time flies by.
His memory came back the instant he looked into the eyes of his only heir. But not for long. You too must fill your head with words the south winds might blow away. Words so old that only the oldest voices can utter them without mangling them. Young B lonie would have to learn how to tell stories like an old man.