The Unfinished Land

First Night on the Cross-Trod

THE TRAVELERS brought out loaves of black bread and cut them with their sharp knives, then handed them around to all. Jugs of water were handed down from the third wagon, and all drank their fill. Reynard wondered how many Travelers the wagons held. Not all seemed willing to appear—or, he thought, maybe they were not all present yet.

Yuchil climbed down from the first wagon and laid out sturdy brown woolen blankets for those who had none.

“The scout is in a bad way,” she told Widsith. “She hath taken poorly in one of her wounds.” Yuchil pointed to Valdis, who kept away from them all, staying off the trod. “This young Eater hath been told certain things, and given certain instructions… That may be why the scout is not offered succor. She is very ill, well past what we can do for her.” Yuchil climbed back into the first wagon.

Reynard finished his bread and water and laid himself out on the blanket under the thin branches and the scattered stars of a clouded night sky, and slept as best he could.

Widsith woke him just before dawn. “You were moaning,” he said. “Nikolias insists you come with him.”

No word on the Pilgrim’s emotions at joining up again with his fellows. The last few days had somehow added to his years and depleted his returned youth.

From the shadows to either side came Valdis and Calybo, and then Kaiholo. No others appeared, and Reynard felt strangely alone, as if still lost in sleep.

The small group did not ride and did not walk far. Reynard wondered at the circumstance of the Eaters on the path, but felt only the weight of his own ignorance.

“Take off thy shoes,” Nikolias instructed Reynard.

“Why are we out here?” Reynard asked.

“Thou shalt walk decalced on the trod,” Nikolias said.

Reynard did not know that word.

“Barefoot,” Widsith explained.

Reynard still did not understand, but he pushed off his slippers with his toes and handed them to Widsith, then studied the others for some clue as to what they expected.

“The trod will judge,” Nikolias said.

“Judge what?” Reynard asked.

“Thou shalt not feel the same to the trod,” Nikolias replied.

“The same as who?”

“Stop asking questions,” Kaiholo advised, his tone soft. The morning was getting brighter, and a few dozen yards back they could hear the Travelers preparing for the day’s journey.

Kaiholo, Valdis, Calybo, and Nikolias walked down the path about fifty feet and turned to beckon Reynard join them. “Now walk,” Nikolias said. Reynard kept his eyes on Valdis, what he could see of her, for once again the Eaters resembled smoke or fog shaped into human forms. Her eyes glinted. Calybo seemed to have no eyes, only dark caves in his face.

“Walk,” Nikolias said again.

Reynard stepped out between the groups. Kaiholo waved him forward. The trod felt hard underfoot, but there were no sharp stones or thorns.

“Do your feet tingle?” Nikolias asked.

Reynard shook his head. “No.”

Kaiholo reached out to him. He almost touched the boy’s fingers… and then he felt the ground differently.

“The boy is not the usual sort of Traveler,” Nikolias said.

Yuchil had walked up silently to join the group. “His heritage is clear in his face and in his blood,” she said. “What he doth remember, and what his grandmother hath taught him!” The silver-haired woman seemed puzzled and disappointed. Reynard for his part did not remember telling her anything about his lineage.

“The trod knoweth Travelers, but the boy is not truly one of our clan,” Nikolias insisted.

“What is he, then? A master magician like Troy?”

“Hush!” said Yuchil. She knelt and touched the trod with outstretched fingers. Then she raised her hand to her nose and sniffed the fingertips. With a quizzical frown, she beckoned Nikolias to do likewise. He did, and they put their fingers together and rose.

Valdis and Calybo watched. With the least gesture of her hand, Valdis might have signaled to Reynard… but no one else saw it. Then he saw Calafi on the path, walking slowly toward them… surrounded by childers!

Nikolias doffed his hat and crouched before her on the path. She whispered to him, and the childers vanished one by one, as they had in the stable, like soap bubbles.

The silver-haired woman came to Reynard. “Calafi senses something different, and once again, she is our guide. The boy is a new kind of carrier, and a new kind of messenger,” Yuchil proclaimed. “The words he doth carry are new. This boy must go to the krater lands, and soon!”