After that day, I never went into the forest alone again. I always had Rio by my side, along with the sturdy walking cane he had gifted me. Our friendship grew stronger every day, and as our intimacy deepened, the joy of our conversations multiplied. Though not every day, Rio would often visit me in my home. Just as I promised, I would take him on enchanting journeys between the pages of books. I made sure to hide my own books from him. There was no logical explanation for this, but not everything needs to be rationalized. I suppose I enjoyed being known as the old friend Arles in Bivo rather than the renowned historian Arles Roge, who would be treated with artificial respect.
Besides the literary discussions we had in front of my bookshelf, he enjoyed sitting on my veranda for hours, engaging in conversation. It was during one of these conversations that he said, "Reginald Isaac Orcas. That's my full name."
"Rio!" I exclaimed with delight. "What a lovely abbreviation. It sounded so nice that I didn't find it strange at all. Is there a reason for using this abbreviation?"
"Oh, indeed, Mr. Arles," he said. "My parents always introduced me as Reginald wherever we went. They would keep saying, 'Here is this young man, Reginald.' But, you see, I didn't really like that name. It felt like my grandfather's name, and my grandfather's name certainly wasn't Reginald. I preferred Isaac over Reginald, so I started introducing myself as Isaac. This caused quite a confusion in a short period. The village may be small, but the chaos was immense. Whenever people called me 'Reginald,' I stubbornly insisted, 'No, my name is Isaac.' Meanwhile, my parents continued referring to me as 'Reginald.'"
"And everything fell into place when you started calling yourself Rio?" I asked.
"Well, no. But Rio sounded quite nice."
"I wholeheartedly agree."
"I suppose your name isn't an abbreviation, is it, sir?"
"No, my boy. It's just Arles. It doesn't have a beautiful story like yours. It's a plain name with a plain story."
*
As I entered my third year in Bivo, loneliness released its grip on me. Thanks to my growing friendship with Rio and improved communication with the other villagers, I felt like a true native of Bivo, born and raised. My life in Rowalan seemed like a dream. The possibility of someone from my past visiting me, which was as likely as me becoming a god, terrified me. I had grown tired of hearing insincere words of respect. The famous Arles Roge, just like the impostors who claimed to have seen me, was nothing more than a rumor, a ghost. People would talk about me, saying things like, "He wrote those books" or "He used to give lectures with an arrogant demeanor." My comrades with whom I embarked on journeys together would sit in taverns, attempting to impress women by embellishing and exaggerating the adventures they had with Arles Roge. Of course, no one would believe them because the events that unfolded on my travels were far beyond the comprehension of the human mind. We experienced moments that others could only dismiss as "nonsense," moments that only the witnesses themselves would believe. When I try to remember them now, they seem like mere fairy tales to me.
I was living the life of an ordinary person, as one should. Like any unemployed old man, I would wake up early in the morning, step out onto my veranda, and observe the bustling streets of Bivo, scented with cow dung. I am pleased to say that I was no longer alone in my home. Allow me to tell you about this particular event:
A few weeks ago, it was midnight. As you know, the silence of midnight can bring peace if embraced in moderation, but it can also drive one to madness if dwelled upon excessively. That night, I was battling with a sleep problem that I rarely encountered. Tossing and turning in bed, I let out frequent sighs and exhalations. Amidst these bothersome deep breaths, I heard footsteps on the veranda. At first, I wasn't sure because I was moving so much in bed that the sound I thought I heard could have been the creaking of the bed frame. So, I decided to remain still and listen attentively. Eventually, I became certain that someone was strolling on the veranda and I sprang out of bed as much as someone of my age could.
I grabbed my walking stick, the gift from Rio, and quietly made my way towards the door. My intention was to uncover what was happening by observing through the window that overlooked the veranda. I had spent three years in Bivo and hadn't heard of any thefts occurring, but one should never trust their comfort and become complacent.
As I gently parted the curtain and cast my gaze onto the veranda, I discovered there was both good news and bad news for me. The good news was that it wasn't a thief roaming on the veranda; the bad news was that it wasn't a human either. It was a massive wild beast. Impatiently, it paced back and forth from one end of the veranda to the other, shaking its head as if muttering to itself. And in one of those moments of shaking, our eyes locked. With the curtain slightly ajar, I stared at it in fear, and its wild eyes, meeting mine, shimmered with love as it began wagging its tail furiously. Its wagging tail, attached to its enormous dog body, made it resemble a trapped baby within a giant canine.
It approached and nudged the wooden frame of the window with its paw. At that moment, I believe it said, "Hey, old man! It would be good if we could talk inside." In a hurry, I stoked the feeble fire burning in the fireplace and opened the door. I stepped aside to let it pass. It quickly freed itself from the commotion on the veranda and entered the house, moving slowly as if it had been waiting for me. As it passed by me, I once again marveled at its immense size. Standing over a meter tall on all fours, it was, without a doubt, the largest dog I had ever seen.
While I was in awe of its colossal stature and closed the door, it went to the other side of the fireplace and lay down as if it had been spending a few hours there every day. The house became filled with the scent of grass mixed with muddy dog. To accompany it, I settled myself in the armchair right next to the fireplace. Every time our eyes met, its tail wagged with great affection. I reached out and gently caressed its massive head. In response, it licked my fingers with its warm tongue. As I got closer to it, I could examine it more attentively. Amongst its brown fur, there were small wounds that were beginning to scab over. Clearly, our big friend could cast aside its gentleness when needed. Moreover, it didn't appear to be bothered by its wounds, perhaps oblivious to what was happening on its body given its size. It weighed far more than it should have. Its belly spread over the surface of the mat it was lying on. Cream-colored ears hung on either side of its massive head, and of course, its tail continued wagging incessantly.
That night, it wouldn't be wrong to say that we shared my table. And I must admit, I gained tremendously from this sharing because in return for the food I provided, it offered me its unwavering loyalty and friendship. The big boy Grones had become my companion and housemate.