2 – 4

I think the elk was doing more to help me than just acting as a crutch and guide. I think it was healing me, or at least keeping my wounds from getting worse. The why and how are a mystery, just like everything else about it. The pain's grown worse since it left. It's like my feet are enveloped in flame and tongues of it are curling up my ankles and into my calves. Every step I take down that gentle, grassy slope is one that grinds my teeth together. The distance between me and the road seems to grow, not shrink. What keeps me going is the fresh, cool wind blowing against my heated skin and the fragile hope that the old, graying wagon driver will agree to help me. I hobble on. By the time I reach the road each step is punctuacted by a grunt that slides from between my thinly pressed lips.

Victory. Or perhaps Success. Either way, I'm here. This stretch of road is laned in by stones, one of which looks high and round enough to make a good seat. I drop my face into my hands and relish being off my feet. The fire's still burning, throbbing with each beat of my heart, but it's banked for now. Lifting my face shows me the old, graying wagon driver and his old, graying donkey are still coming my way. They're some distance off and closing slowly. I can feel sorry for myself a little.

Until I can't. Until the squeak of an axle under strain ceases and a donkey lets out a heavy, put-upon sigh. I look behind them, the way they've come, and see the road roll away flat for miles. There's no buildings or plumes of smoke on the horizon that way. The driver looks at me from beneath the brim of a woven hat. Its wide brim is fraying, the edges made brittle by time. “Alright there?” he asks, and his voice is a deep growl coming from a mouth framed by a magnificently long mustache.

“I think I'm...I got lost,” I answer. He hums and looks from me to the treeline. The path I took through the grass is easy enough to spot.

“Easy 'nough to do in there.” He commiserates. “What's your name, anways? 'm Harlan.”

“Zira,” I tell him, earning a grunt. It may be too soon to tell, but I get the feeling that this Harlan might not be much for words. It's impatience, I think, to be in a place with beds and medicine and baths that makes me ask him outright. “Can I ride along on your wagon?” Embarrassment burns my ears, but I'm in it now. Might as well keep going. “I need to get to the nearest town.”

He squints an eye at me. “Why?” he asks.

It's a fair enough question. “I was stupid earlier,” I tell him, “and blistered my feet badly.”

He nods along until I've finished speaking and then, with a sympathetic click of his tongue, prompts, “Gone and busted, huh?” I nod. He hums. This turns out to be all he's willing to contribute. A bird, wheeling far overhead, lets out a distant cry.

“I think they're infected,” I say eventually. Harlan nods, pushing up the band of his hat to wipe his brow.

“If not now, then soon.” he agrees. My earlier question, still unanswered, hangs in the air. He looks over me, out over the lake, and seems to ponder it. Eventually, he nods. “M'goin' to Valdenwood.” he offers. “Got cornmeal t'sell.” he hesitates, then says, “Not bad to sleep on.”

“I slept against a tree trunk last night,” I tell him drily. He snorts and steps down from his wagon with a grunt. As he moves within biting range of his donkey, the old animal makes an attempt. It's half-hearted and avoided without a problem. He grabs it by the snout and pushes its head away. Without a word he offers me a hand up, which I take. Stooped as he was on his seat, there's no weakness in his back as he hoists me to my feet.

This is rather like the elk, now that I think about it. Harlan's about as verbose. With his hands on my elbow and shoulder I'm able to climb into the wagon bed and flop onto the sacks of cornmeal. Harlan snorts and goes back to climb into the wagon's seat. “Alright there?” he asks over his shoulder.

“You were right,” I tell him, basking in the softness, the warm sun, and the cool breeze. He snorts again, cracks the reins and, with a bray, the wagon rolls on.

- - -

The dry, husky scent of cornmeal is what keeps me awake. Without it filling my nose, so strongly I can almost taste it, the wagon's rumbling sway would lull me to sleep. My little nest of cornmeal-stuffed sacks cradles me well, and I'm grateful for that. The various aches and injuries I've acquired over the past two long and unpleasant days quieten their complaints. I'm dry and warm and comfortable, three things I don't think I'll ever take for granted again.

Look at that. I've already learned something. It only took me two days and a poem's length of mistakes. The thought of something like that makes me smile. What would it look like? How would it go? Maybe something like: When first walked I to wilds free, what first I did was break my knee. I snort, smile becoming a grin. When my coin runs low I could make a living as a bard, traveling from town to town making silly rhymes of all the ways I've hurt myself.

I could start in Valdenwood. They have an inn there, probably, or a tavern. They must. No town is complete without a place to gather at and be merry. It could be a town square for all that it actually matters. So long as they're drunk enough they don't recognize bad poetry when they hear it.

Suddenly, I'm struck with curiosity. I push up onto an elbow and twist my head over my shoulder. “Harlan,” I ask. He grunts, not looking back at me. “are you from Valdenwood?”

He shakes his head, jerks a thumb over his shoulder. “Amberdusk,” he answers. I follow the point of his thumb and do not see a town. There's the treeline to my right, the lake to my left, and the road to roll out behind us. I make a confused sound and he elaborates. Somewhat. “Day or so's ride.”

I hum. “And we're how far from Valdenwood?”

There's a wry humor in his answer, “Day or so's ride.”

Two days between towns. Well, two days between towns with an old, slow donkey carrying you. I look out onto the lake and once again see the white sails pushing their crafts along the waters. Just as drily, I say, “Thanks, Harlan.” and he snorts. I drop back down into my nest and kick up a little cloud of dry, husky dust as I do. Valdenwood is on the eastern shore of Lake Viara, that much I know for certain. If I'm remembering right, and I'm not sure that I am, Amberdusk is on the northern shore. Since Port Viara is to the south, that leaves only the western shore to house Sockeye Bend.

I don't know anything about Sockeye Bend. I don't know anything about the other towns, either. Could fix that, I suppose, after I visit the Royah camped outside Port Viara. There'd be no reason not to go. Of course, there'd also be no reason to go. I could go anywhere I choose. Turn right around and go back to Valdenwood, make a living as a bard. It's not hard to imagine: sitting on a stool in a packed room aglow with golden lamplight, smoke and conversation thick in the air, my awful poetry drawing laughter from the crowd. Night after night, singing for my supper.

It doesn't sound so bad.

Night after night.

Yes it does.

It sounds like a cage. Easy to imagine: Up above a crowd of drunkards filling the air with their slurred, hooting stupidity, presenting myself like a prize sow and begging for their charity. Tobacco's stench in the air, griming up the walls and filming over the lamps' glass. Sticky floors, spit and spilled drinks clinging to the splintered wood.

No. No, I won't be staying. I want to see mountains. To stand at their feet and crane my head back so far my neck hurts from it, just for the barest glimpse of their clouded peaks. I want to climb as high as I can and feel the thinning air bite with true cold's teeth, my ears ringing with the keen and howl of wind through the crags. I want to go to the city-kingdoms and lose myself in their ancient streets. To see the scarred buildings, the centuries of collapse and rebuild. I want their libraries, their histories at my fingers.

I want the desert. It's blazing heat baking ruby-red sands. The roads of turqouise, arrow straight and glassy for hundreds of miles, glowing bright in the sun. I want to scorch my hands with fistfuls of sand and let it slide between my fingers.

So, so much more than one, small town. That is what I want. Valdenwood may have its charms, as might Amberdusk or Sockeye Bend. Nice enough to visit and stay awhile, but not enough to keep me. I am a child of my people. The road is mine. All my years to wander. All my years to roam.

The day rolls on in quiet, my mind filled with dreams of where I'll go and what I'll learn. The grumbling roll of wooden wheels in earthen ruts, the rock and squeak of the wagon's sway, the resentful bray of an old donkey, these sounds sink into me and carry me along as the road unfolds behind us. It's peaceful, meditative, and I'm content as I watch the sun as She journeys across the sky, drawn out of it by Harlan grunting and saying, “There.”

I sit up and twist around, see that he's pointing at something, and follow his finger. I need to squint, but there on the horizon is a smudge of dark color. It's so distant and faint that it's undefined and far too small, but there's only one thing it can be. “Valdenwood.” I breathe, and Harlan grunts. It really is like traveling with the elk. Only my feet hurt less and I don't have to walk.