The birds had decided not to come back during the night, which was probably for the best. Mazelton was half expecting another bandit attack, but that didn’t happen either. Just a load of groning, moaning people gathering up their equally unhappy auroch, and getting ready for the day. He tried to remember if there was another canton coming up. Not today, but the day after? Maybe? He needed to see the map again. It was a big canton, as cantons go. Population- one small apartment building in Old Radler.

So it goes. Mazelton hauled on his boots, tidied up his bed roll, and set to breakfast. In a horrible feat of adaptation, he had come to accept porridge with hot sauce. It wasn’t so much that it tasted good, it didn’t. It just didn’t taste like plain porridge. And that was more than enough. He used a little extra time to start another duck carving. For some reason, carving a duck, silent and serene on a lake, was very appealing. Silent. And serene.

He wasn’t holding a grudge about not killing any of the pink throated hate beasts. He wasn't. Not at all. In fact, he respected them. He respected them so, so, so much, he wanted to share the gift of heat with them. All of them. He would be boundlessly generous. What’s-their-name yelled the caravan into motion, and Toko started banging the drum. One day.

The day quickly settled into a fine drizzle that turned into a steady, if light, rain. The humidity was bad enough but the chill in the air was lethal. Clothes that were meant to keep you warm were now soaked and stealing away your heat. People were freezing and sweating at the same time. You could see the strength ebbing out of them moment by moment. Someone stumbled. Mazelton closed his eyes and tried to shut his ears. It had been a long few months on the trail. The emigrants were waisted and feeble, their strength spent crossing the plains or the mountains. The tiring was now exhausting. A little accident was likely to become a fatal one. Today would be a deadly day. All on account of a light rain.

Well. He couldn’t fix it. All he could do was not add to it. The wagon jolted from side to side. Mazelton wasn’t used to it, exactly. There really isn’t any getting used to slamming one hundred centimeters to one side or the other on a random basis. But after a few thousand times, you learn to mostly ignore it.

Mostly. Well. It beat walking in the cold rain. Good job on that awning, Past Mazelton. Way to look out for future you.

He kept turning things around and around in his head. The Bed Issue. The Chicken issue. The fact that people who kept cattle and chicken would certainly eat their byproducts. Could he, in good conscience, eat an omelet with cheese and perhaps a topping of chopped herbs? His rising gorge said no. Mazelton was quite clear on what would happen during winter on the frontier. There would be eggs and milk. Even dried or frozen animal meat.

In the bad times, eat carrion. He never thought that he would have to eat carrion in New Scandie. But that’s just how life was, in the resettlement phase. You huddled in a big city or you struggled in a new settlement, but either way, you had to take your lumps, and eat your carrion.

He was building up to a fine melancholy when they rolled into a huge canton. Mazelton had miscounted. They were a day closer to home than he thought. The canton was called Hope.

Hope was a four way intersection with a sprawling network of dense buildings built up around it. What made the canton so sprawling is that two of the four branches of the intersection were a wide, sprawling, brawling mess of a river. If a river could be a violent drunk, this one would be the guy who yelled that everyone was his friend, and tried to stab you in the latrines. The road south was a dim, pine shrouded path deep into the mountains. Presumably there was something down there worth finding. Mazelton couldn’t imagine what. North and west, the trail ran alongside the river. It was, in fact, the Roaring River. It seems that everyone agreed on the name in the end.

The Roaring River. His lot was wedged between Danae’s lot and the Roaring River. He was just down the river from home. He feverishly looked at the map again, severely disgruntling whoever the person was driving the Caravan. Between fifty three and fifty five miles. Three days. Three and a bit days. Ok, call it four days total, or three if they went fast after splitting off from the caravan. Could they book a barge up the river? That would be faster, right? But he didn’t have a lot of spare rads. But it would be worth it, righ? No, no. Danae would be expecting him in three and a bit days. Well, she would be expecting him then if he sent someone ahead to let her know he was almost here? Should he do that?

A hand covered nearly the entirety of Mazelton’s shoulder, and gave it a comforting squeeze. Duane let his eyes crinkle into a little smile. Mazelton blew out a breath, and smiled back. He would send a messenger. Always best not to drop in unannounced. For the rest, he would get there one step at a time.

He called in on Polyclitus’ sickbed, a sort of swinging cot in a partially emptied wagon. It didn’t look particularly comfortable, but it did look a lot better than anything else Mazelton could imagine.

“Splitting off?”

“It’s time.” Mazelton smiled at the grizzled tree stump of a man, who managed to make recuperating from a yard of wood in the back look like sheer malingering. “Time to settle accounts.”

“Such as they are.” Polyclitus coughed and called for Toko. “Accounting for your labor is a nightmare, and I say that as a career merchant. The list of credits and debits to your accounts got so big, we opened up a ledger just for you before we even got to Cold Garden.”

“I am flattered?”

“Don’t be.” Toko came in with a slim ledger, filled with neat lines of handwriting. “It’s two things- we almost never travel with a Polisher, and we almost never have a joint venture come out of an independent contractor agreement like yours. Never happens, actually. Nor will it again, if I have my say.”

“I am no longer flattered.”

“You were a creepy pain in my ass, Mazelton. I am also fairly sure you saved my life a few times at least, and my Nimu people had the lowest casualties of any crossing I have yet made. Thanks in significant part to the fact that we had very, very little sickness due to the heavy use of purifying cores you provided.” Polyclitus grinned up at him. “So, you know. Mixed feelings. But for what it’s worth, I will miss your cores. You. I will miss you. Especially the way you stare at people, then at the cook pot, then kind of squint when you look at them again, then back at the pot. You will be very missed.”

“I am so touched.” Mazelton said dryly. “For the record, I rarely seriously considered eating any of you. Fucking pay me.”

“Ah, now you are speaking my language. Toko, pay the fine gentleman!” Polyclitus said grandly, grinning more widely. Toko chuckled and put a small pouch in Mazelton’s hand.

“Don’t let him kid you. You were surprisingly good company on the trail, and we could see the little ways you tried to make everyone more comfortable. Good fortune and a happy marriage to you, Polisher Mazelton.”

“Why, thank you. Safe journeys, Toko. Perhaps I will see you down the road.”

“Marriage?” Polyclitus roared. “A trap for honest folk! You just see- six weeks and you will be back on the trail, riding hell for leather and trying to catch back up to the Caravan. Marriage? Peh! Oh, my throat’s gone dry. Toko, kindly spit out of the wagon, would you.”

“I’ll miss you too, you strange little man.”

“I am exactly average height!”

“Did mummy tell you so?”

“Scram! Scram from my caravan! Never darken my door again!”

“Wagons don’t have doors.”

“This one does. Scram! And send Duane back in one piece, would you?”

“Bye, Polyclitus. Safe travels and rich trades.”

Mazelton popped 'round to see Lettie, who just waived him off. "Don't bother saying goodby- I will be seeing you soon enough."

"Is that a threat?"

"A threat of a good time!"

"Mother Moon protect me, Father Sun give me strength!"

"Wuss. Go get married. I got to see a Lem about a fish."

And that was quite enough of that. Mazelton waived, and didn't look back.

Duane didn’t stop in Hope for more than lunch. Mazelton hired a Sky Runner to alert Danae he was coming, and tried very hard to ignore him sniggering as he left. Let him laugh. Mazelton looked at the river, and saw people sailing upstream. The river was more than wide enough for small sailboats, and Mazelton would not have personally cared to row against that current. They must absolutely fly down to Vast Green Isle at the end of the river. He watched a decent sized tree branch go whipping past in the water, and grinned. Not much north of New Scandie. There were more settlements and all that, but not all that much in terms of population. Anyone trying to get him would have to fight against the current, and he could run away with the current. Good deal.

The smile faded. He didn’t want to run any more. It had been the driving thought, pushing him from South Bay all the way across the Ramparts. Run and hide, and hope the days of life trickled past with only a little pain or fear. The journey changed him. He didn’t want to just run and hide anymore. He would build a home. Build a family. Build networks and connections and prosperity. And when the bastards came, he would find a way to kill them all.

A big hand landed on his shoulder, and gave it a reassuring squeeze.

“Alright, alright. I get up in my own head a lot. Well, you know that better than most, I suppose.” The big man just nodded, and drove the wagon up the river. Closer to home.

They camped out a bit north of Hope, pulling the wagon off the trail by a campsite next to the river. The river lived up to its name- roaring. It was shockingly loud, making Mazelton wonder how he was ever going to sleep next to it. Danae said she got so used to it that she didn’t really hear it any more. Maybe that would happen for him?

Duane didn’t cook. He just plonked down on a camp chair and looked at Mazelton expectantly. Mazelton grumbled, loudly, but managed to pull together a spicy lentil soup, thickened with broken up hard tack. It looked awful, but the taste was ok and it was filling as anything. A roaring triumph, Mazelton felt. Duane ate his portion, so presumably he agreed.

Mazelton still set out his tent with all his usual care. Duane generally didn’t bother and just slept under the wagon. If the weather got very cold, or very wet, he set up a sort of tarp system, making a little cocoon for himself and a heat stone. Mazelton couldn’t understand how Duane could be comfortable like that, and said so.

“I just sleep.”

And that was all that needed to be said about that, apparently.

Mazelton put the finishing touches on today’s duck, then decided that the ‘touches” weren’t really final. It could use refinement. They all could. He would spend the next couple of nights perfecting them. Wood carving had never been his best skill- THE DRESS! He had completely blanked on the dress for days! He quickly dug out the pinned together cloth and stared at it in a panic. Then remembered that he didn’t actually know Danae’s sizes, and how the dress would fit her best. He had a rough cut, and could finish it when he saw her. It would be a good way to get her more comfortable with him touching her. And vice versa, he supposed. Neither of them were virgins, so this shouldn’t be too weird. Mother Moon willing.

Which led Mazelton to the next thing that he had been neglecting. He started looking for a bare patch under his tent to dig into, then realized that he didn’t need to hide his sacrifices any more. And he was at a wonderful intersection of water and wood, earth and sky. The Aeflaed wouldn’t give a damn, probably, but it would help him get into the right mindspace to communicate with them.

Mazelton walked out in front of the wagon. Duane was still up, staring into the billions of specks of light draped over the dome of the sky. It was beautiful. Truly beautiful.

“The Aeflaed are beings that we cannot really know. We can only infer, that is, guess based on evidence and acts, what they are, and what they like or don’t like. All communication with them is fundamentally tainted by the fact that we are understanding them through our limited human perspective. Whatever they are trying to tell us gets filtered through all those human assumptions, and what we tell them must sound like a cricket demanding a two wheeler. But, with patience, training, and a healthy bit of instinct, you can make deals with them.”

Mazelton wasn’t looking at Duane. More like he was talking to the river of stars above him.

“Being able to get your head in the same place, as much as a human can, as the Aeflaed is critically important. It’s how you call out to them, beg an audience and offer terms. I don’t know why, but I have always been good at it.”

Mazelton smiled up at the sky.

“When I first saw you, you staggered an auroch with a punch. “There’s a relationship to cultivate!” I thought. Cultivate. Planting emotions to harvest later. But damned if you didn’t prove to be an amazing friend. You looked out for me every step of the journey. And I just don’t have that much to offer you in return. Not that you actually want, anyhow.”

Duane shifted uncomfortably, not willing to say anything.

“So, you know. Don’t bitch if you don’t like my gift. It’s not refundable.”

Mazelton got naked quite casually, then sterilized his best u-shaped carving blade. He began murmuring the wordless chant that would help hypnotize him and transport his mind towards whatever far world the Aeflaed dwell in.

When he could feel his call stretching out and the spirits rising around him, Mazelton began to carve thin strips of flesh off his chest. He was relying on his heat vision to show him what his eyes could not. It wasn’t like he could regrow the skin and do it over again. Slowly, painfully, he carved a warding rune directly over his wishbone, letting the sounds of the chant rush out of him, spilling out of his mouth like so many discarded ribbons of flesh. Line by line, curve by curve, growing over the minutes, and then an hour. His chest was a gorey mess, but the work was good, and he could feel that they were granted an audience.

“Six months. Safety for him, ruin for his enemies.” Mazelton gasped out. Then, because he knew the nature of the being he summoned “Half an orbit around the sun, consecutively, moving forward in time from this point.” Then he collapsed, covered in sweat. He got the sense that the offer was accepted. Good. He waved a purifying core over himself, then dumped a pitcher of pure water over his chest, dried off with a boiled cotton cloth, then tried to attach a bandage.

Duane took over, and patched him up. The big man looks choked up, Mazelton thought, as he slowly slipped into unconsciousness.

The next morning found a worried and reproachful looking Duane cooking a pot of oats over a heat stone.

“What will you tell Danae about the scar? She’s Dusty.”

“And won’t understand?” Mazelton smiled “The truth. I’ll smile and say it seemed like a good idea at the time.”

Duane gave him a look.

“Duane, how much dumb shit have you seen occur because a young guy thought it seemed like a good idea at the time?”

Duane snorted, but went back to cooking breakfast.

A little before lunch, the Stone God descended upon the Roaring River, The little boats scattered and ran. The waives stilled beneath its terrible presence. It floated quietly, in defiance of all natural laws. It’s sheer being redefined what was a natural law. Before it, the laws were what it deemed useful and good. And nothing else. Then it’s song rose. Mazelton and Duane didn’t even try to run. They just sat there, while thousands of little specks of heat flashed out, doing who knows what. Helpless to know the mind of God.

Then it turned towards their little wagon. Its sightless eyes rested heavily on them.

“If I die, my possessions reach Danae, right?” Mazelton was proud of how normal his voice sounded. Duane just nodded.

“Alright. Off you go.” Mazelton got off the wagon slowly. His smile was tiny and fragile. “I don’t want to run any more. I can’t kill it. But maybe I can convince it to go away. Swift journey, Duane. I’ll catch up to you down the road.”