Arc 2: The First Steps

2 – 1

“Of Araya's beauteous landscapes and natural phenomena, I must confess that the Amarath Timberland holds a special place in this writer's heart. It is, after all, the place of his birth! I hail from the quaint town of Amberdusk, on the northern shore of Lake Viara. Mine was a childhood of puffy white clouds, crystal blue skies, towering verdant trees, and of course, the clear and refreshing waters of the lake itself. Truly, there is no more beautiful a place.”

– Montrose Rainsford's Concise and Accurate Encyclopaedia of Araya, Her Peoples, and Her Varied Environs

- - -

A drop of water strikes, landing fat and cold in the center of my brow. The wet shock brings me back to myself. The stretch of time between when I left my family and now is one I can't account for. I don't know where I am or what direction I've been headed in. I look for landmarks in my surroundings and find an unhelpful forest stretching for every direction around me. My legs ache, feet throbbing, and each breath scrapes the back of my throat, so I know I've been running for some time. I listen for the burble of a river or the creak of wheels in a rutted road. What I hear is a building wind among the treetops, and I look up to watch them sway gently beneath a grayed sky. Without seeing the sun's position I have no way to orient myself. I sigh and stop for a moment's rest.

At least the fog has gone. Though it seems to have done so by rising up into the sky and making a nuisance of itself there. I'm not sure which I prefer. Again, I look around me, searching for a sign to follow: moss growing thicker on a specific side of a tree trunk or boulder, a creek or stream in flow, or a game trail. Another wet, cold drop lands, this one on my shoulder. I peer up at the sky and see the gray growing darker. A colder, stronger gust of wind hisses among the trees, carrying the scent of fresh water with it.

Rain, and soon. I pull the hood of my new cloak up over my head and wrap it more securely around myself. As I do, my fingers brush against the waxy material coating the cloak's exterior. At least I'll be somewhat dry as I figure out where I am. Cold wind comes again and stays. A sheet of rain moves in from my right, thickening the air and growing louder in my ears. The sound of it, somewhere between hissing and roaring, drowns out the echoing cry of go!, that I've been carrying with me. It falls hard and at an angle, driven in off the lake by high winds aloft.

That is the way of storms, here in the Timberlands; conceived in the warm, wet airs above the waters of Lake Viara and blown inland. It is because of these storms that this land is so lushly verdant.

It is also because of these storms that I'm damp, cold, and lost! Which is very much an improvement on before, where I was merely lost. Now I can experience the joy of being miserable and lost, all the while a cold, slimy version of mud begins to cake my feet! It hasn't even been raining all that long!

I shriek in wordless frustration and self-pity, the sound quickly swallowed by the storm. The bland, unhelpful expanse of forest around is now hidden behind the thick, draping curtain of pissing rain. I have little visibility remaining, no more than ten feet. The rest is gone and what little will go as night begins to fall. Which, since I can't see the sun, could be hours or minutes away. Quite the start I'm having here, aren't I? I take the first steps down my road and find that I've ended up in a puddle. The puddle isn't just a metaphor, either. I discover this as a numbing, sodden cold seeps over the top of my boots and into my socks.

A shiver runs up my spine as I hasten to leave this ankle-deep collection of the world's coldest, most unpleasant water. The ground is slippery with mud. I nearly fall several times, catching myself on each occasion by flailing my arms like a loon and nearly skating across the slickened turf until I regain my balance. In those brief instances of exposure, the pounding rain manages to soak my sleeves to the elbow. The rest of me, at least for the time being, stays dry and protected under my cloak.

A thousand sunlit days to Father and Mother apiece, for giving it to me.

I look around me again, in vain hope that this time I will see something I missed in my previous searches. The downpour thunders in my ears, and my effort ends in failure. Still the same trees, only less easily seen. Still the same grassy earth, only now the consistency of slime and populated by puddles. I ache for the warm, dry interior of my family's wagon. They're likely there now, looking out through those little round windows and watching this storm pass them by.

“I want to go home.” A confession, given to the rain. My heart keens with the truth of it. I don't feel lightened of the burden, only more ashamed of the mess I've made of my first steps. Have other children felt as I do, failed as utterly as I have, just as they began their journey? Am I the only one?

It would explain why I've made such a hash of things. Why I lost my head and my way along with it. I know better than to act as I have. I was taught better. Why, then, did I do it anyway?

- - -

I admit, I wallow for a time. No real attention is paid to my direction, only the bare amount needed to not fall and cover myself in chilled, clinging mud. It can't be for very long, or perhaps I lose track of time again, for when I feel slightly better it coincides with the lightening of the torrential rain.

Its departure is preceded by the same omen as its arrival; a strong wind, in off the lake. What once seemed without end is now tapering to a gentle patter. I hear the song of a cautious bird from a nearby tree, as if it's testing the air for suitability of flight. Another in a different canopy answers it, this one's song is the deep rise-and-fall of a mourning dove. I stop my pointless trek and listen. The patter of the rain gentles again to a drizzle as the gray blanket over the sky lifts to let the blessed sun shine down. I turn my face up to Her warmth and smile as it crosses and warms my skin. For what feels like the first time in days I pull down the hood of my cloak and shake my hair free of its confines.

I breathe in, drawing the clean, fresh air deep, then let it out. I do it again and imagine that this time it takes all of my ill-natured feeling with it. The disappointment in myself, gone. With it goes the sense of failure, in action and self. I breathe out the pain of my family's absence, leaving behind only fond yearning and love.

It doesn't wholly work. There's still a lingering knowledge that I can and should be better than I have. With it, an acknowledgment that I have made a number of stupid mistakes.

Try as I might, a few breaths do only a little to take away the sick longing I feel for home.

It's enough, though, for me to think, truly and clearly, for what must be the first time since my journey began. I have a lot of foolishness to account for and, by the sun's position, only a few hours to do it in. Traveling at night in any circumstance is to, at the very least, invite misfortune. To do so in an unfamiliar forest with no idea of my location or my destination would be very stupid. Since I am trying to avoid more of that, I need to move quickly and correctly.

I can do this. I have the sun. What more do I need?

The sun is well past Her zenith. Sundown is in the wings, waiting to turn the deep blue sky to a spray of warm golds and pinks, oranges and reds. Putting Her at my back would bring me east and to the foothills of the Icewall Mountains that split this continent in half.

I follow Her descent instead, moving west. If there is more evidence needed of my earlier stupidity, let it be this: every storm in the Timberland comes in off of the massive lake in its center. There are no exceptions. I could have oriented myself by going against the wind as it brought in the rain. I would likely have found the road circling the lake hours and been well on my way to the nearest town.

Instead, I have to hurry. If I don't spare the horses, so to speak, I can reach that road before or just at sundown. In the dark, the lights of civilization will shine bright. All I will need to do is go to the closest. Simple, if not all that easy. I don't know how far I am from the road, nor what obstacles are between me and it. There's a lot of trouble to find out here.

Once all of that is accomplished, my eventual goal is the city of Port Viara. It's the largest and southernmost of the four towns ringing the shores of Lake Viara. According to Father, it's there that I'll find a clan of my people encamped. That camp is the only place I must go to on my journey. It's the other purpose of the road. While largely it is to teach Royah of the world and themselves, it also serves to introduce them to the other clans. It's how we know that we still survive.

At least, that's what I've been told. No children from the other clans have come to mine. There are only five of us, so maybe we're just too small to be worth the effort. Or maybe it's due to us moving more than the other clans. Those two months in the clearing were near to the longest we've spent in one place. Either way, it's a puzzle I need to put aside for the time being. My focus needs to be on as much speed as I can safely put on. Any speed I gain from recklessness will be taken from me by the resulting injury. It's a balance I'll have to judge carefully, and it will only get harder to do any night grows nearer.

Still, this feels right. It feels true. The muddied misery of that downpour seems to be ages in the past, for all that it's been a few minutes. There's confidence in my stride and the placement of these steps; my true first down my long and winding road.