Historia II

Night of the bug-less twilight ticks on by. The dirt road hasn’t changed. It’s still as flat as an unpaved road. Clumps of dirt can be found sporadically throughout. The sole true difference has been the feral sounds of wildlife seems to have subsided.

While it’s still there— calling out to others that may not be present— the goosebumps it would create are not as prevalent. It’s the types of animal sounds that have changed. Instead of the snarls and howls for as far as the eardrum can reach, the main sounds just consist of squeaks and chirps the more I walk this domesticated road. The further I walk down this road, it’s as if peace is gradually returning one step at a time.

A few hours have passed since escaping that hell hole of a castle. Noises of all various ‘things’ grew the more my back casted a shadow on that dreadful scene. From calls of the wild, it all began to devolve into a blood curdling collection of rips and tears. Yet another image that will haunt my dreams.

My feet are tired. Nearly as much as my eyes. The jeweled dagger loosely hangs in a belt loop around my pants. It’s stained blade taps my left thigh every time the connecting foot tramples a dirt clump. Like a countdown to one of those hollywood movie bombs. A constant reminder to a very real situation at hand. I can feel this second wind from within beginning to unwind. This adrenaline is loosening its grip. Weight of a day and a half’s stretch of being awake bearing down upon my already sore shoulders. The additional baggage of stolen coin certainly didn’t benefit anything at this moment. Flashes of the sunset desert memory seeps in through these cracks. A reality stuck in this fantasy.

Whatever it was that swooshed me away to here, it definitely didn’t wait for me to get my beauty sleep first.

I take another sip from my ever trusty canteen. It’s hollower than before. Lesser are these sips than the ones before them. Even trying to ration things, it isn’t enough. A person could hope for another to descend from outta nowhere. The idea seemingly so desirable right now. Yet, in a scenario as weird as this, whose to say if the person could understand me. Would they help even if we couldn’t communicate? I don’t know. I’m starting to not care either. I can only distract myself for the time being.

Here, across this seemingly endless rudimentary road, the plants intermingle in ways that they could back home. Cypress trees stand beside cherry blossoms as if hand-in-hand to welcome any that pass by their path. There, again, the scent of mango returns. As if to replace the agonizing scent of death of the castle grounds; the citrus smell more predominant than the faint taste from the deep vegetation in first arrived within.

Moving closer, I point my nose towards the trees as I walk. Yellow vines tie the opposing tress together. A concoction of flavors intertwine the closer I get. Each of the three plants create their owns aromas. Scents like dragonfruit. Tastes of familiar fruits. This mix hints to something so comforting. Maybe some of earth’s foods also exist here. A concept so dreamlike, it’s enough to push through the difficulties. To see what a town looks like here. In a place like this world could conjure. The flora from before more engrossing than it was below that castle cliff. Wait…

The parchment!

My hand shoots to the jacket’s upper zipper like a bullet. I pull out the throne parchment. Tears dig into the sides of this piece of animal skin. Paper-like, the thing had been folded into the tiniest of squares in a rush. Careful my hands are to whatever animal this parchment was made out of in a place as crude as this.

Flap by flap, the parchment reveals its secrets. Each unfolded corner shows more marks than the last. A written structure anyone that could read would recognize. Something written in a black, ink-like substance. It’s a message. And, one all too identifiable.

The message read aloud, “The nearby port has stopped our reserves from the mainland. Prying eyes knew. Best regards, Dame Etro.”

My dry lips imagine drizzles of fresh water pouring upon them by the words that follow ‘port’. The sweet fluff of a bed. A place to finally see something more than the traumatic and the abandoned. An inn to sleep again.

If there’s a single thing all those expeditions have taught me, it’s the importance of ports to ancient civilizations. Every old great power lived and died by their proximity to fresh water, agriculture, and the ability to trade. Their keys to their kingdoms; their lifelines of power all tied back to what gave them the chance to connect to the rest of the known world. A place like that is never not built up. Salvation, at last!

Grasping the note tightly—crumpling up unintentionally—I pull it close to my chest. These sneakers plant themselves solid like the trees around them. This head zips towards the sky. The news nearly good enough to cry. If only I could risk that chance to shed water right now.

Feedback from my voice-box shorts out; I squeal with glee to whatever heavens that may be above in this world. The view of the night sky more beautiful now than ever. As if it’s the first time I ever truly looked at it here. Yes, the moon looks as it does back home. Yet, the twinkle from the stars seem odd. They are blurry.

I have questions. Even more questions than ever. I could no longer determine what are symptoms of exhaustion or what is actually new.

I shake my head. This isn’t the time for stargazing.

All this walking has led me to this point. A blessing and a curse sits in front of me. The dirt path branches into four different paths. Each looking like the last. Without a sign to say or directions to follow, these feet remain planted into this well-traveled dirt road.

Folding the parchment carefully once again, I gently put it back into the zip-able upper pocket. One hand by one cheek. A short series of claps sound off from my face. Not hard, but enough to keep myself on track for once. Eyelids shutter for a few moments as the blur begins to fade. I needed to use this time wisely— a novel concept, to be sure. Thus, my mind ponders.

Juices in the brain flows. I gulp down the last of my canteen’s water and the final bits of the protein bar the front pouch has left. Eyelids close. With an injured hand to the chin, things begin to orient themselves. At least, somewhat.

I don’t know where I am or why I’m here. I haven’t gotten a clue as to how this world works or how much it may—or may not—be like the world I’m from. Nor what happened for the castle ceiling to collapse in the way it did.

My legs are cold and I’m running real low on resources. I’m near completely drained in every way, but I have gems and coins that could help barter for what I need. If I can find anyone!

This body must agree the same way I do. An aggravated sigh blares out from the depths of my grumpy stomach. Things seem more dire the deeper these thoughts go.

Some sort of war seems to be going on or has already concluded. Meaning, resources might be tight wherever I might end up. If the note is anything to go by, who’s to say that long haired knight— or, king— didn’t lay siege to the ports already? In a revenge kinda way. That’s all assuming that the resources here are even consumable for someone like me.

The sneaker taps soil beneath its sole. Needle pricks run their way up my spine. This sensation isn’t new. I’ve been trying to ignore it this whole time. Yet, the pits care not how one falls into them— but, that you feel the despair on the way down.

I’m scared.

The type of honesty that hurts. It sucked. This feeling a maelstrom that waits for the worst times to swirl into being. A truth I hated the most.

Grimace resurfaces back onto this pretty face. Eyebrows furrow in retaliation. No, there hasn’t been proof of any of it. The imprints of wheels are deeply ingrained into the soil below my feet. More so than my footprints have been. It’s a truer sign of civilization than any fears could dispel. A realer show of proof to hold onto. A probable lie to hold onto.

Still, the words of that man stick into the cobwebs of my brain. They repeat in paraphrases. Not perfect, but enough to stand out. Like quotes printed onto those pathetic cubicle posters stores sell. ‘Orwellian’, ‘Babylon’, and ‘archeological’; these three key words aren’t your typical medieval slang. From the way he spoke, it comes off more like a monologue from a play than an actual speech from historical medieval records. It felt off then, it feels off now.

He spoke perfect English. The parchment is in English. Maybe he knows something, maybe he doesn’t. It doesn’t matter speculating on the ‘what ifs’ with this. I need to make it to the ports. I need to find this long haired dude. I want to go home.

Nevertheless, the other dilemma didn’t disappear quite as easily. In a split of four choices, only one holds a positive fate. Possibly.

Not a wooden post in sight. Even though the moon shines brightly on this clear night sky, there isn’t a single thing that can be seen to determine what can be found down any path up ahead. Disgruntled would be a way to describe it. At best, the choice is entirely placed on the game of chance.

I crouch down with my head tucked into these knees. Tiny whimpers synch up to the incessant growls of this demanding stomach. Based on the falling of the moon, she has been walking due west this entire trek. A bid, like the rest, on it being like earth as well. And, it hasn’t given me reason to doubt it yet.

So, I continue straight. Down the path laid out in front of me and the road I have already been following. And, with that decision, time ticks on.

—•—

White glaze coats the eyes. The moon more west now that it was before my choice at the crossroads. A time. A time. How long ago was that?

Delirium is now the master of this mortal coil. And, my slipping consciousness is the passenger to this collision course of incoherence.

There’s hasn’t been any indication of the sun yet. Thus, it mustn’t have been too long ago. These legs have grown numb to the cold. My lips closer to concrete than flesh. Only the constant taps of the dagger’s hilt upon my waist is keeping me from falling asleep standing. That, and a light rattling coming from somewhere close behind .

Shoe prints can be seen marking both sides of the big dirt road. The prints of a line so straight, one could make a Möbius strip out of it. Evidence of how lackluster my legs have become. A sentiment shared by another. An onlooker caught by the sudden crack of a whip.

“Neigh!”

Horse-like hooves slide across the dirt. Creaks and rattles come to a sharp stop.

“Uh, ma’am?”

A deep voice beckons. He sounds old. Not ancient, yet definitely past what should be his prime. A soothing, calm voice. A worried call.

“Hmm, yeah?” Sleep coaxes my words.

“You are not looking so well, kid. Did you get lost?”

What a pleasant person. Stopping to help a stranger like this. The glaze melts away from my puffy eyes.

My mouth continues to function independently, “Uh-huh. Now that you mention it.”

“Oh… Okay”, the lanky man hesitates, “I just need to make sure of something first.”

Wait…! A man?! The glaze finishes melting away. My consciousness momentarily retakes the driver’s seat from that pesky delirium.

As the vision clears, strands of horse hairs dangle in front view. Then, the sheets of cloth and formations of wood arrange into that of a wagon. Finally, the visage of a bearded man and two other people peeking out from within the confines of the wagon’s bed.

They look human. Their clothes, too. Well, stuff appropriate for the time period this should be. And, their horse— that isn’t a horse.

An animal pulls their wagon. It functions like a horse. It has hooves like a horse. But, its appearance is like a horse unsure that it should be. There’s two eyes where eyes should be. Ears of what a horse would have. It has four legs, if you can call them that. More than that, the thing has scales all over! It looks like a fish that has adapted to land. Even gills cover the sides of its neck. Moreover, there is something over top where the gills are located. Like a container of water. It’s case-like in form—

“Kid”, the bearded, lanky man cuts me off, “I’m going to have to leave if you don’t come to your senses.”

His voice raise with each passing statement he makes. An unease slips into his vowels. There are other voices. Their words far too quiet to pick up on. I think he’s serious. Not now, not like this.

“Wait! Wait”, a trained chipperness permeates my dry voice, “I’m listening. I’m okay. We are gonna be okay! You can ask your question, any questions you want.”

An eyebrow raises on the man. His wrinkles telling more than he’s letting on. It isn’t so much worry his voice portrays as it is the pity his body language speaks. The man cautiously moves from out of the wagon and onto the dirt path below. As he stands a distance in front of me, something else clicked. The rattling sounds from before weren’t from behind. They had come from the path in front of me.

His voice more like a command than an inquiry. He readies himself, “Where did you get that dagger?”

Normally, someone of my age would just answer this question nonchalantly. Consequences be damned. The obvious right and wrongs are known from the outset. There isn’t much of a guessing game when it comes down to it. But, unlike that, what’s the wrong answer here? Is it honesty or deception that will get me killed by him?

“…”, I don’t know. I don’t want to mess this up. “Honestly, I found it on the dirt path down a ways away. I was so lost that I didn’t know what to do, and I didn’t have a way to protect myself.” I spoke with a glint in my eye. Arms and hands close to my chest and face.

“So”, his eyes squint, “what was beyond the path you found that blade?”

A weary heart thumps wildly within my chest. The anxiety is unbearable. He knows something. Does he know something?

My facade drops. Only a pale face meets his request. “Something I never want to see again.” The voice colder than the numbness of my legs.

“I see.” His words are solemn. “I’m sorry you had to see something like that, young lady.”While fear still stokes his word, pity also mixes back into them as well. He motions to me slowly to come closer. “I know not what lies in those fields now, but you do not seem to be one of his messengers left stranded.”

“What?” Probably the most authentic my responses have been. “What are you—“

“Hey, daddy” a squeaky voice chirps out from behind the wagon’s white sheet, “is the weird girl okay?”

“Hahah!” The man laughs my stress away, “It’s going to be okay, sweet pea. It’s just another passenger we’re bringing into town.”

Huh?

Goofiest a smile could be, the edges of my mouth stretch as far as they could go. Thoughts of being saved lift me of my metaphorical feet. Finally, a time for some zzz’s! Yet, not before one last stinger from the lanky man with the auburn puffy beard.

“Young orphan girl”, this fatherly dude whispers into my ear, “I don’t know how you’re doing it, but do not let that dagger out of your grasp. Not even to rest. I say this for all of our sakes.”

You’ve gotta be kidding me.