The Traveler

The charred remains of what was a small fire, tells him that the man he is after, was here only days ago. On one knee, he goes to stirring the burnt remains within the circle of stones and in doing so, tiny bones emerge. Thinking life has come to this, and needing to squash the emptiness in his gut, he looks up in wanting to know where the sun is and seeing it is now on the other side, he lets go of the stick as he stands upon his feet.

Using what is left of the daylight, he picks through the scrub brush for anything that will burn. During his scavenging, a rekindled breeze tells of water being nearby. Arms emptied of what gathered, sets out in finding that source of water.

Along his way, quick hands give a merciful kill. Sling shot put away, he walks over to his kill and after gutting and saving what vital parts he likes, ten steps over is stagnant water thick with lily pads and caring little about this, he does what he can in filling the bladder. Chore completed, once back to camp, preparations are met to where upon the spit, roasts a river rat. Off to the side of his meal, is the full ration of collected swamp water slowly rising to a boil.

Waiting on fruition, dancing in and out of his mind is the young boy telling him how his sister was used as a shield. In his mind, there is one to the gallows, while the other safely into Mother’s arms. Until then, had worse, dances on his tastebuds. Shortly after his meal is consumed, he gives one last look to the stars as sleep comes.

+

Awakening, dawn is still on its way when he goes to crawling out of his bedroll. Slipping on one boot at a time, next is his shirt followed by his duster. Used to the weight of it as the coat feels like a second skin, with a bird chirping, he makes sure nothing is left behind before he sets out on the hard pan.

Traffic that was once a forever thing on this thoroughfare is no longer a problem. Staying to the middle of, the sky is dull of color as the sun has yet to climb over the ridge. Feeling there is truth to be said about the hours marked as the coldest part of the day, reflects on when he sees a two-story roadside inn.

Two coins gives him a room. Neck washed, and other parts, there is a diner on the first floor and drifting down the stairwell, there are candles lit everywhere. At first, he goes to thinking about the gloom of the outside world having everything to do with the lighting but no sooner entering the room full of people talking in another language, from what he sees on their faces, no one looks happy.

Portion paid for, a tap has him looking into the eyes of a boy telling him, “They want to know if you are the Traveler.” There is no hiding his scared face and stringy hair, so he tells the child, “Yes.”

Having his answer, the child leaves him to his meal that has him hearing the hush brush across the room. Halfway knowing, and raising that first spoonful, the warmth is quite tasty. Sadly, the quantity of such goodness is limited, and thinking this is widespread, after his last spoonful, the child pulls on his sleeve.

“Pardon, Sir.”

“What is on your mind?”

“A bad man took my sister.”

At a loss of how to respond, he looks over the child’s face to those sitting at scattered tables.

Grief is all he sees.

Most call him a vigilante. To others, a hero. To him, there is work to be done which brings him back to hearing his footfalls amongst other sounds talking about nature taking back what was truly hers in the first place.

As it is right now, the world is not well.

Sick, he thinks. Veering off such a conclusion, drops his focus to the sky putting on a show. Miles now he has walked and keeping with the steady pulse of his heart, is him on his want of bringing little sister home.

Further on, and just over the length of a mile, and while being in its orbital twist, the world turns to where the natural light comes in strong in announcing another scorching day. Instinctively, his hand goes to adjusting the strap fastened to the filled bladder. Aside his bit of paranoia of double checking its fullness, the warmth feels like a good morning kiss, and in random contrast of, is him dropping to one knee in picking up a rag doll.

Hand stitched, he brushes away the dirt from the button nose and after doing so, stares at the marble eyes staring back. Outside of the bit of dirt, the doll looks fresh as if the child had a hard time of letting go. That considered, careful is his way of putting the doll within his side pouch while all the while thinking this is a good omen.

Moving on, after a long while of having not much to look at, of what changes is the road carving its way through a Poppy field. Though the flower beautiful, he is aware of the dangerous effects of being under the spell of the enchantress. A few close to him has gone that way and with that playing in his head, what comes next is the alchemist taking all that he needs. Pursuing this, right away he gets the feeling that the kid’s sister is a fighter. Mixing the will to live with a drug being known to cause sedation, passive the child would be, and easily managed. Cargo, like a suitcase without a handle, tossed about. Letting the thought pass, the heat of the day has brought forth tar bubbles and caring less of what is gumming up the soles of his boots, keeps to his dreary climb.

+

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The beauty of nature’s landscape has a way of uplifting his walk upon the rise and fall of the road. After several miles of enduring such elegance, he takes notice of a barn that draws his attention to the main house situated up on the hill. The silence between the two has him thinking of a painting, and moving off to what else lie ahead, sees Chick’s gas station.

With its bay door wide open, the oil-stained floor is lacking a vehicle needing servicing which coincides with the missing gas jockey hunkered down in the cubicle centered between the gas pumps. Dwelling on the influences of yesteryear, with Chick’s behind him now, not long after, he finds himself reading the faded, painted letters welcoming him to the town of Reed.

Moving deeper inside the town of Reed, what strikes him is the void of candlelight hung in an inviting way. Troubled that this town is not like the last, finds himself walking by the front of a church.

Looking to its closed doors, thinks of sister in a cage being pulled by a mule for all to see. Certainly, such a demoralizing sight would create a situation of some kind of uprising but thinking the townsfolk have washed their hands of the goings on along the road, the neighboring streets fall to the wayside as the road takes him beyond the town of Reed.

By the time the sun is close to dipping below the snowcapped mountains, hunger starts making a ruckus. It has been a while and keeping steady with his footfalls taking him around a slight bend, up ahead is a forest of old growth and hopefully a meal.

Deep within now and after finding a spot off the road suitable to his liking, he sheds his gear, the pouch holding the rag doll tucked carefully next to the bladder. Friends, he thinks they have become and with that tickling his mind, sets out in looking for prey. His first course is a fat grub worm and ignoring the tree rats scampering above him, much to his liking is the sound of flowing water. Careful in his approach, soon after, his kill is over a slow burning fire and thankful for the meal, the night sky is full of stars. Thinking of sister wishing on one, soon, he thinks.

+

Awakening, the moon is hanging out with him as he gets to packing his gear. Things to do, is on the top of the list, and after setting out on the road, the air feels wet and moving under the thin light, the faraway hidden in shadows wears away to him seeing the road climb before it slopes down to where it flattens out to what used to be viable farmland. Proud smiles holding up that blue ribbon earned, comes to mind, and pausing after the thought had, takes the time to take in enough water to where he feels he has had enough. Bladder once again against his hip, slowly letting go of the strap across his shoulder, he goes to surveying the road ahead.

Walking by the once functioning farm, eggs and a slab of ham smothered in applesauce roll in and out of his head. Faced with dealing with his body fed two rats and very little greens over the span of three days, being constantly after the rise and fall of the road is beginning to take its toll. Water he has, but that is not enough. Something to tear apart with his teeth is what he craves, and with this tormenting his mind, wild is her hair matching ice-cold eyes set above a proud chin turned his way as her shoulders are back with arms crossed. Thick in the thigh, and though not as tall, he keeps to walking along in diminishing the gap.  In between the time of contact, she and her mule remain unmoving, and thinking of how the world turns these days, close enough now, he offers a universal hello.

“Are you on your way to the fair,” rolls out like two neighbors chatting over the fence that has him skipping ahead to what used to be cotton candy and long lines after roasted dogs smothered in mustard. Food aside, a gazillion arcade games brought to life from carneys barking out the opportunity to impress that girl on his elbow has him taking a minute longer in looking over the mule’s coat and stance before his response of, “might be,” leaves him to looking into steely eyes.

“Not from these parts, are you,” she says to him. Taught never to lie unless necessary in a survival situation, nods his head in that common way.  “Thought so,” rolls out and after switching her hips, she goes to leading the mule along the road.

Caught up in the motion of how things are, he finds himself walking aside the thick haired woman guiding what appears to be a forever bond. Hand movements, and clicks of her tongue keep the beast close when she turns to him and says, “What is your gift to the fair?”

Once there was a world based solely on currency, however, in today’s market, trade is the name of the game. So, he holds up a silver bullet.

 A confused look takes over her face before it settles into understanding.

“Word of you being on the road has touched my ears.”

Deep are her eyes drawing him in that has his mouth working in telling her, “I am after a trickster. A man who has taken what does not belong to him.”

The frown worn on her face adds to the deep colored bags under her eyes that has him hearing her sighing as if gaining strength in having hope that love is still a thing. Turning from him and after giving a gentle touch to her mule, she says to him, “Instead of my mule, the man you describe, took me.” The sadness heard in her trembling voice drips like a cold day and unsure of what to say, she saves him by saying, “He talked about you as I lie there broken. Said you are nothing to him, and then he went on saying I should be grateful to be in his company.” She stops then, a visible shudder quaking her body. Immediately is the wrap of sorrow and knowing that no amount of time will erase this, casual in his want of pulling her out from such darkness, he asks, “This fair, tell me about it.”

After offering a look of what he believes gratitude, the woman speaks to him about what she knows of the fair. “Mostly, it’s a celebration of being able to trade amongst the mountain folk and valley dwellers and wanderers such as me. Preserves are the hot ticket this year, that, and pickled eggs. There’s a big field for grazing which has a creek running through it. So, basically, the campground is out in the middle of nowhere is what I believe is what used to be said about such places.” What follows after, is a click of her tongue that has the mule ripping a flower from its green stalk. “Chester likes the taste of dandelion,” she says to him and catching a glimmer of a smile upon her face, he looks along the road lined with mile high trees. Thinking that the woman and her mule will weigh against his freedom to roam alone, a delicate snap vibrates to where he envisions a thought and not liking what he sees in his head, slows his step in staying aside the woman and the mule named Chester.

+

 

 

Being on the lookout for any life as far as critters go, she draws him in by saying, “Usually Chester makes a fuss about having a stranger around. Gets me to wondering about you.”

She wants it all at once and in instead of pouring out such a life had, he gives enough to sooth her curious ear. “I am nothing more but a hired hand.”

The expression on her face goes with what she says to him. “He had a horse and a covered wagon, that man.” Her eyes fall off his, and after a long second gone by, she gives him a side look that offers the opportunity to ask her, “And the fairgrounds?”

Away from her side is her arm leveling out that has her saying to him, “That curve up ahead bends into Walker pass that takes one straight to the fair.”

Close now, he thinks, and in keeping in stride with the clopping hooves of Chester, there is no talk between the two. As it stands, the alchemist or, that man, as she calls him, it is the worth of his trade that holds the possibility of landing a horse. Wild and untamed, what potion will the alchemist use tickles his mind even after the grove of pine is now behind them.

Grumbling is his stomach in its want, and yet to add fuel to his body, he pays attention to the sun about to fall to the other side. Flat, and open is the field and without regard, he puts his hand up. “Wait.” She stops, but the look in her eyes wants an answer.

“We need to make camp.”  She, in her taking a half step back, has him reading a frightened face that has him saying to her, “I am not him.” Once said, he leaves her side.

Quiet in his walkabout, seats a marble and lets the marble fly. A walking bird always has its mate nearby and unmoving in his stance, soon after, he lets loose another marble that strikes the side of its mate’s head.

Thankful for the kill, with knife in hand, he goes to saving the good parts while sending the rest downstream.

On his way back to where he left her, the scent of burning wood has him looking out to the roundabout that has him seeing Chester out grazing. The carefree scene keeps him walking towards the fire and close enough, holds up his kill for her to see. She, in turn, shows off a handful of greens.

Water on the boil, and fresh kill above the flames, with quizzing eyes, she says to him. “There are other cages besides the one you seek. Or does that matter to you?”

“How many,” he asks. She has a faraway stare that comes about with her saying, “A good stretch was the year before. And chances are, most likely the owners will be rubbing elbows with that man you are after seeing that they are all in the same boat.” She leaves him to his thoughts then, and as she goes to turning over the strips of meat. In the meantime, he mentally counts the arrows in his quiver. With the number in his head, there is always the dagger on his hip. And if really pushed, six bullets can be easily chambered. “I will do your bidding.” His immediate reward is her handing him a stake of roasted meat, and a cup of brewed tea. Hands full, he sets the cup next to him and in doing so, she says to him. “We can help you. Chester and me. Use us as trade that gets you sitting amongst them, and then, do what you do.” Plain and simple is her want, however, the charred meat and delicious tea take center stage.

Meal devoured, and helping himself to another cup of tea, it is during the time of doing so that she burps unexpectedly. Togetherness is hard to find these days. That, hey, how was your day, so missed that he forces himself to check his emotional side. Focusing on what lies ahead, he knows evil has a way of ruining the stability of what thought a good time. Picturing the alchemist seated amongst those with a decayed heart, surely those caged, are wishing for death. With this saturating his mind, he catches her looking. Their eyes lock briefly until Chester walks up and nuzzles her. Making light of the situation, he has another sip of tea that nourishes the thought of her and her mule being under his thumb. What pops up first, is surviving while all the while, looking down to her lifeless body. Of the mule lovingly named Chester whose instincts tell the beast to run.

Along the lines of picturing all of this happening, he tells her. “How about I make a trade for those pickled eggs first.” Reading the reaction in her eyes, sees each are full of venom and staying steadfast to his word, she goes to poking a stick at the glowing coals as her slumped over shoulders tell of the weight carried. She wants it all at once, and careful in how he looks at things, the bigger picture is not causing a ripple that tells of him being so close. He could speak his mind in saying such but instead, gets up and moves a short distance away in leaving her company. Finding solitude, sleep comes under a blanket of stars.

+

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Up before the morning light, the reason behind his early rising, includes a visit to the creek. It has been weeks since he had the chance to wash the crud from his neck and feeling grateful, on his way back, he is fortunate to spot a tiny patch of wild strawberries. With barely a handful wrapped and put away, going to and after finding camp the way he left it, puts the rolled leaf on the flat side of a rock that is close to her. Gift left and caring little of the beast whose neck is swung in his direction, climbs out of the gully and once upon the road, immediately picks up on the breeze carrying the scent of burnt oil. Thinking he should find the source, ends up staring at a fifty-five-gallon drum emitting oily flames of blue and crazy red. Thinking this is the place. and after seeing enough, he goes to backtracking and upon his arrival, Chester has his eyes on him but what outweighs that, is her saying to him. “I thought you left us.” Covered in thick skin are the words said, but it is the light in her eyes that tells a different story.

Wanting the truth to be known, he pours forth. “I didn’t want to wake you.”

At first, she just stares at him and then she blasts out, “What makes you different.”

Having good in his soul is on the verge of spilling forth, but it is the emotional attachment of showing off that keeps his mouth shut that has her eyes leaving his. Silence reigns the moment until she asks, “What did you see.”

“I don’t remember.”

A nod. “The main gate opens at dawn.” Once said, that serious look upon her face suddenly changes to one of annoyance as she says rather quickly, “I’ll be right back.” Left, what seen out of the corner of his eye is enough to pull him around in seeing Chester trotting after her that digs a groove upon his mind about companionship. Taking the higher step is his gut telling him he better find something to eat. Reacting to by giving up on sitting around, he gets to his feet but before doing so, scribes in the dirt, b back soon. Whether this is enough, thinks it will have to do, as he walks into the woods.

Spotting the trail this side of the waterway, he hunkers down and in taking the time in loading a chipped rock, keeps the slingshot at the ready when he goes to thinking about her offer.

In his mind, what it comes down to, is that she wants him to kill the alchemist just so she can watch him die. The thing about that is, there is another family claiming dibs. Maybe he should talk about this before she gets all riled up when flashing by in puffs of dirt is him taking aim and letting the rock go.

Missing his target by a mile, he loads up again all the while clearing his mind when sure enough, the ground rodent comes back around. This time, his aim is true.

Skinned by the waterway looking like days of old, he takes in the current rushing through the gap between two massive boulders set firmly in place. Honey hole comes to mind. He has the gear but not the patience. That thought carries him into camp bearing gifts.

With the fresh kill upon the spit, he tells her. “The man you hate, is also the man I must keep alive just so those who have hired me, can have their fun.”

“Wait. So. Hold on.” Trust is crazy thin then and saying nothing that would interrupt her composing her thoughts, on her own will, she looks at him and says, “Weird how that s**t is. So, me and Chester get to follow you, right?”

“Every step of the way.”

She is all smiles, and off in giving Chester a wrap of her arms while speaking to the mule words he cannot hear, left to the spit, he gives it a turn.

+

After the fire is smothered, it is after a minimal stretch of walking that he is able to put aside his understanding that he is moving slower than he is used to. Remaining under the steady cadence, by the time they do reach the left-hand turn lane, Chester starts acting up by splaying his forelegs out in that awkward looking way. Without hesitation, she walks right up to the beast. Speaking in a voice that only her mule can understand, after a short while, she turns to him and says, “We’re good to go.”

Once the trio is back on the road, the reluctant mule is still having minor issues which ends up slowing their forward progress. Patient he is in waiting for all to round the curve, and once onto the straightaway, with seeing those waiting in line to enter the fair, the visual brings about her saying with a hurried voice. “Two things need to happen. The first, is that me and Chester need to be ahead of you. The second, is that you don’t talk to me. You can talk about me, but don’t ever talk to me. Same goes with Chester.”

There is no waiting for his approval as she, and her mule, slide ahead of him. Goods, they have suddenly become. His goods.

At check-in time, the dude at the gate makes mention of. “By the looks of your cargo, you should do well.” So twisted are his words that it takes every bit of him to calmly say to the slobbering fool, “I’m looking forward to the end of the day.” With an easy drawl, the gatekeeper says to him, “Most are,” and as the man’s ruddy complexion breaks into a smile, the gatekeeper hands him a numbered ticket and a rough map directing him to where he needs to go. So far, her plan is working, and in playing along in the game of ownership, acts as though he is out on his daily stroll when he sees the train of cages lodged just outside of the tree line. Instantly troubled, sticking out is the flatbed wearing good tires which means the trailer is cared for and putting together reasons why this is, finds that it is ticket time. “Slot eight. In you go.” Just like that, goods are penned.

Never been one to liking crowds, he finds himself muddled with others basking in the same boat as all of them are stuck to being witnesses to some dude saying goodbye to a hog.  After the touching separation, the gate slams shut which gets the guide to start yelling out precise instructions. “All those registered, follow me. As for the rest of you, walk due south to the bidding zone.” That said, the man in charge, goes to walking off as the first in line follows after.

During his wait, he notices two no, check that, three have started up conversation. Of the three yakking amongst themselves, two are burly men sporting that coveted beard while the third is a grey-haired woman. Him observing to long, she catches him looking and without warning, she breaks away from her counterparts as with each foot falling gracefully in her approach, it is after reaching her comfortable safe zone, that she puts up her offer. “Willing to trade is two barrels of mulberry wine and a keg of homebrew.” She didn’t say it, but he knows she is after the mule. Winter is coming and more than likely after pulling its weight, food the mule will become. Chewed bones tossed aside, contrasting, not one will hear the loneliness of the other woman’s heartache. His answer is remaining quiet as the old woman returns to more pleasant company.

Watching her walk away with that ever so light step, outside of this, he picks up on the two awaiting on her return. Grinding forward is that the two’s reaction is not going to be good, and in keeping his distance between in expecting such a reaction, the two dudes give him a mean stare before the three of them move on in keeping up with group. That over with, dearly departed, is the note composed as he makes his break in searching for sister.

+

Invading the area secured from being used by the general public, rounding the bend, he runs straight into a couple of big guys sitting on ancient lawn chairs. Thinking the two being security, he slows to a walk in sizing up the situation. Both have an inch in height and close to a hundred pounds over his and being unwavering in his steady approach, both men sit forward with their elbows planted on knees as the one on the left shouts to him, “Hey! You lost?”  Never minding the threatening voice, his mind goes to calculating the ratio for maximum damage and thinking one more step should do it, with practiced hands he pulls straight back and launches a finely shaped pellet to where it strikes the first man’s eye dead center. Caring little about the high-pitched screaming, he draws back one more time and lets go a second pellet and as wide eyed as the second man’s eyes are, the target is easily hit. Walking up to the two thrashing about, he drops to his haunches and after putting a stalk of sweet grass between his teeth, he gives a chew on the stalk before the flavor leaves that has him chucking the blade of grass aside before asking. “Either of you wishing to be dead?” Formatted to be a simple yes or no question that does not require a lot of time to consider, the question is answered quickly by a duet of pained voices screaming, “No!”  

“Alright, alright, I understand.” That said, he pushes up off his haunches in wanting to have a closer look at the wooden crate strapped upon the makeshift cart.  Less than a yard away, not a sound is heard coming out from inside and as his eyes go to dissecting the wooden crate down to its slats showing off a quarter inch gap, it is the air flowing through that tells of soiled hay.

Shaking his head in disappointment, and knowing he must, he steps towards the two clutching what used to be a working eye. “What’s in the box,” he asks. The one nearest has no problem poking out sizzling words said through clenched teeth. “A f*****g rooster and its dumbass handler, you a*****e!”

Pissed about the filth, his fingers go to work in being all about delivering an agonizing death. Stretched and at the ready, he lets go the taunt bowstring that has him witnessing the arrow lodging deep within the man’s throat. Immediately after, delicate hands wrap bloody fingers around the narrow shaft of the arrow. Wanting to help the man out in removing the obstruction, he walks over and after a hard twist, he is able to pull the arrow free from the man’s throat. Thankless are the dead eyes that has him focusing on the other moaning about being kept alive. Never, he thinks, and making use of the arrow one more time, out comes a blade that will make sure there is nothing left of either’s life before he sets about in looking for a crowbar.

 

 

 

 

Passing clouds din the sunlight which casts a bit of clarity as he walks towards the two’s camp which is not much more than two chairs separated by a card table. “Ticket, please!” he thinks as he walks on by before coming to a rest. Within earshot of the public jubilation of celebrating their seasonal fair going on, he looks elsewhere until he spots a road. As maintained as it is, what springs forth is always having a table that folds into the elite hanging out all the while talking about the good times as if the world has never moved on. Sickened, by such a thought, finds himself drawing away in retracing his steps to where he takes in the two sprawled bodies being considered nothing more but gatekeepers with a side hustle.

Left to it, and trying his best not to sound mean, says, “Whoever is inside, cover your eyes.” Letting his anger flow, two strikes is all that it takes and with the top of the cage in a position to fall over the side, he lets go. Inside is a kid holding onto a rooster that is scared to look up. He understands, and stepping aside, thinks about what he is getting into.

Altogether, what it comes down to is that he is wasting his time. “Child, the women with the mule sent me.”  Blond hair falls away from hollow eyes looking up while parched lips breathe just above a whisper, “Time to go, Red.” The child’s tone mixes him up to where he is thinking this child might be a girl, but he could be wrong and caring little either way, pulls free the child whose folded arms are holding onto a forever friend.

Him, being the only one in the audience witnessing such companionship, he walks on until luck has him finding a corner piece of what used to be a building. Letting go of, just as fast is the held rooster springing forth and with the child’s hands free, he takes the opportunity to hand over his bladder of water. “Go easy, unless you like to puke.” Bladder upturned in dousing a never-ending thirst, in his mind he thinks a morsel of food couldn’t hurt that gets him bringing forth a chunk of twisted jerky that is raked from his palm. Business still at hand, he asks, “You good?” A nod. “Okay. Stay put until I get back.”

Hating the idea of leaving behind the child, the only good about this is at least the kid is sheltered with food and water. Stepping up in going forward in using the rubble from yesteryear as his steppingstone, once upon the smooth surface of the road, it hits him that this was once a private drive when another thought passes by while saying that whatever is left of the mansion, is now homebase for all the high rollers. Adding a pinch more to such a lovely day, is him sensing this is where Sister is kept when here comes a thought creeping in that Rooster girl could have been on her way up there as well until he came along.  Even with this bit of good on his hands, what haunts him more is the thought of how many others have stared though the bars of captivity before Rooster girl. The sadness felt sets off a cold anger that gets him walking until the grisly scene up ahead slows his pace to where he figures he should pull the two bodies off the roadway. Heavy, in that dead weight is unforgiving, he puts to test his shoulders and legs and after finding a good spot, goes after bringing the other body alongside. Thinking the eyes will go first, leaves the two in the hands of nature as he gets back to where he is walking along that private drive to the main thoroughfare.

 

 

 

 

Walking under an overcast sky, the clouds break apart to where he is able to judge that the sun is close to saying goodnight to this part of the world. Left to having only a few hours before nightfall, if it was just him, no big deal but since this is not the case, he stops in giving a look to the woods across the road. Thick enough to where one could end up getting lost, thinks the forest will do nicely in hiding his band of misfits that has him instinctively reaching for the bladder strap that brings forth the face of rooster girl.

Different from most in that one eye is vibrant green while the other, icy blue, he thinks there is a good chance word of such an oddity got around that gives reason for the child being in such a predicament. Attached to this is either the kid’s parents are no longer alive, or that the kid was taken from grieving arms in a lopsided trade that began with, “Hand the child over or else everyone, starting with you, will die.” So true in Sister’s case, and looking like the same for Rooster girl, out from an inner pocket comes a flask of water.

Letting the first sip carve a path along his parched throat, halfway to having another, the sky erupts with scattering birds that tells of someone approaching. Far from liking the idea of meeting new friends, after capping the flask and once put away, he quickly makes his way over to a small grove of scrub trees nestled off the road. Tucked low and keeping quiet while peering through the afforded gap, seconds pass before the scene opens up with a scraggily old man holding tight to the reins attached to an ox close to its end of days. Thinking driver and ox inseparable, what follows is the rearview showing the cargo hauled being an overweight man relaxing on a pile of blankets as if taking a cab uptown.

Guessing that the end of the trail is when cargo reaches the mansion, his mind mulls over the idea that this guy might have something to do with the two dead guys. Imagining the lazy man’s surprise when he finds that his contacts lie dead and not that faraway is the busted cage, he is pretty sure s**t is going to break loose that brings on a sense of urgency that has him figuring out the fastest route while he waits patiently before making his move.

Time of the essence, and little to spare, the child replies, “Red told me you would come back.”

Slipping the bladder strap over his shoulder, looks away before his eyes fall on the kid. “We need to leave. Call your pet.”

“Bad men?”

“Yes. Can we go now?”

“Okay. Red…”

Bird cupped between bent arms, her off colored eyes has him looking away in hoisting the child and pet upon his hip.

 

 

 

 

 

Staying within the shallows of the woods, the air is beginning to cool and thinking of, he slips the kid off his hip. “It’s getting cold. Sleaves might be a tad long but that can be fixed.” That said, pulled from his satchel is a wool sweater and once handed over, from there, he drifts off in staring at the rooster pecking at the ground before he shifts to looking up to the sky that has him thinking it won’t be long before the stars take up the dance floor when breaking up the thought is the kid asking, “You got a name.”

Stunned, what slips out is, “Most call me the traveler. What about you kid. You got a name?”

“They said my name was Jasper.” Such a statement is followed with a downtrodden grin telling of hardship and giving up a smile, he waits a second more before he says, “We better move on.” The kid gives by saying, “Red, time to go.”

Attached to his hip, timewise, ox and driver have most likely come across the feasting crows and whether superstitious or not, lazy man will want the two to press on in reaching the doors of the mansion. Thinking ahead to the delivered news raising an eyebrow, imagines further the call of sending out the dogs. This time, instead of hounds, it will be the raging public gathering mob style as in their mind justice will be served by having the culprit drawn and quartered in the public square.

Wanting no part of that, checks his mind and by the time he and his entourage reach the backside of the pens, dusk is scratching at the door.

The sky being blood orange, he peers at the shadows creeping over the land. Turning back to the kid, he slips the bladder off his shoulder and handing over the vessel, he says, “I need you, and Red, to hang out until I get back. And, like I said, this woman has a rough edge so, anyways, I better go before she gets to putting up a fuss.” It’s quirky, but it’s a smile.

Along the way, he gets to wondering if he was ever as brave as the kid is now when he breaks around the corner and with legs churning through the waist high grass, aside of having to go around a couple of popular trees, slips unnoticed onto the road to where he is able to blend in with the milling crowd.

Taking his time, the slow count in his head reaches five as the last of daylight falls away. Strangely enough, those around him get to buzzing and following after their searching eyes, what he sees is a balding man with beard gone to age hobbling over to a metal barrel. Proving that the art of fire lives, the man well into the ages of time sets fire to the barrel’s contents as the crowd applauds.