The Tale of The Wanderer

The life of a pointless individual who made up his mind and did what he thought would be best.

You know, everyone always told me that I was important, “You’ll do great things someday, Lad.” I always believed them. Every day I did the same thing; I woke, I ate, I learned, the same thing all the time. The routine never bothered me. In my small town, I couldn’t even pronounce the name of it even though I lived there my whole life, everyone knew who I was, yet no one knew me. Throughout my life all I ever knew was loneliness. Loneliness and that damned routine... As far as I could tell, no one loved me. Even if they did, they couldn't relate to me. All anyone cared about was that damn war and I had no interest in such things... The war didn’t matter to me, in fact the only time I ever thought about it was when someone made the mistake of trying to talk about it with me. All it ever reminded me of was pain... One day it truly hit me just how alienated I had become, no one had spoken a word to me for three days. I decided then and there that if I mattered so little to the world around me, I would find a new world.

 

I worked for three months to be able to afford what I would need; boots, cloak, pack, hat, all I would need. I got all my gear together, laced my boots, the stiff leathers stretching as I pulled the straps tight. I latched the buckles on my belt and my cloak. They seemed heavier than they should have been, almost as if they were wet. Perhaps they were wet, wet with my excitement. I draped the pack over my shoulder, filled it with food from my family’s kitchen, and buckled it snugly shut. As I was walking out the door, I put my hat on. I didn't really need to; it wasn't sunny outside, at least not yet... I was out before the sun rose. I started my journey by leaving the city east. I passed the school house, were I was taught everything in life that didn't matter. I passed the store, where I was taught that everything I wanted I couldn't have. I passed Susan's house, where I was taught that if I wished to love, I might as well forget about it because no one could love me anyways. I was glad to leave this place. It was an awful place.

 

I began my journey that day. I walked east for days; I passed through cities, grand cities with entire histories that I didn't care about. Cities based on river traffic, cities based on logging, or mining, or farming... None of it interested me at all; none of them were my home. It always seemed to be that I would walk even when I had no interest in walking, or when walking was actually a bad idea, like when it was raining. No matter though, because I walked. I started to notice things upon my journey, bizarre shapes left in the mud on the road, uncountable numbers of footprints. At the time I didn't take any note of it, but had I taken the time to I would have noticed that they were all in various states of decay; some filled in with water, some spreading out, others drying up and crumbling away. These footprints, staggered lines, and wavy treads pass to quickly to notice if traveling by train, if you were really paying attention you might be able to see them from horseback, thus you can only truly see them if you wander, slowly, and take the time to notice.

 

Eventually, my travels took me further than I had heard of before, strange places with names even more unpronounceable, with strange characters intermixed with the ones I recognized. The climate started to change as well, snow fell from the sky like it did on the mountains, the ground crunched when walked upon in the morning. I was cold very frequently too. I never did sweat after I entered that area.... One morning, I began my walk and noticed something very unfamiliar on the horizon. Thick black smoke was rising like a demon recently escaped from the pits of hell. I hurried my pace to see what it was, the footprints in the snow grew in number, and the bizarre tracks went in all different directions. I broke out into a sprint, fearing the worst to show on the other side of the rise. I was right, exactly what I had been expecting. In my quest to escape my life, I find it. My nation’s soldiers fighting those under the fearsome red flag.

 

I turned to retreat, to go anywhere but here, and my footing gave way. The ice I was standing on gave loose and I tumbled down the embankment, rolling to a stop near the action. I scrambled my way into the nearest hole I could find, luckily it was empty. I poked my head up, afraid of what I would see, fears not unfounded as I saw iron behemoths lurching their way across the field. Sandboxes and bunkers traded fire with foxholes and trenches. It was everything I imagined it would be and it was terrifying. The only way I could escape was straight across the field, to the complete other side of the battlefield. My only hope was a small valley between two hills. I scampered my way out of the foxhole I had found my way into and burst forth into a full sprint. I stripped my pack off and dropped it, anything I could do to go faster. I dropped into a slide and hid behind a pile of sandbags. I threw my hands up around my head and screamed. The man behind the sandbags shouted in a language I couldn't understand and started firing. The muzzle sounded with a loud report and burnt my cloak. I crawled through the snow, getting a few feet away from the foxhole before shoving myself forward into a sprint again. I ran and ran; rifles and grenades went off all around me. I was almost there when I felt that burning pain in my leg caused by burning hot copper and lead burrowing its way into my thigh. My momentum carried me several feet, hard into the snow. My leg was now useless, mere dead weight attached to my hips.

 

I tried to press on, but couldn't. My leg simply wouldn't allow it. I crawled forward, determined to make it out, even though my days of wandering were gone. The world was dissolving into nothing more than gunshots and explosions around me as I slowly began to black out. I did my best to turn around and look behind me. What stood out the most amongst the muted shades of white, gray, and brown was the red trail I had left. My blood standing out in brilliant contrast the snow painted a line across the battlefield. That would be my legacy, a simple blood trail in the snow. Perhaps if I was lucky, they would tell stories of The Wanderer.

Reviews

[kyrie]

This is such a beautiful piece. Its garish yet quiet clarity makes us all question where we might be headed, and if it's a place of any worth--or if we'll be remembered once we've left this earth. Wonderful job. :)