The Path

A memory of a Day of Fall, Year 214,
A Daydream, and:
The 60th Day of Winter 218

It had been several seasons since he left home. He’d listened to so many stories as he followed the migration of the swans, town by town, road by road. Still no answers as to why the life he loved had turned to ash. He could still taste the smoke, and feel the heat of the flames, his stomach turning as he plummeted to the ground when he closed his eyes. He didn’t close his eyes for very long anymore. He missed home. He missed a memory …

The Painted Swan company that Warbler had been following through the mountain path had stopped their march for the night. His hair was wild and matted, his clothes in tatters, and the leather armor he’d borrowed was ill-fitting. He looked every bit the beleaguered halfling lost in the woods, and he was, but he had purpose and patience … among other things … holding him together.

They always kept two on watch, and two ranging the perimeter. It had been three days since their last resupply. It was almost time.

He’d learned a bit about these invasive birds over the years, but not enough. He knew the cloaks they wore masked their intentions; their hunger. Individually they weren’t so bad, just people, but then again neither was a single hyacinth … until it spread into thousands, and became unstoppable. The swans were growing … and fast, like a weed that threatened to choke out everything else in their path. They built their ranks voluntarily at first, and eventually by force. They were building for some war, or so they claimed. The only conflict Warbler had witnessed so far was inflicted on the people of Isendel.

“Who … what, could possibly be so dangerous as to be worth this price …” he pondered.

Perched high in the pines he sat quietly, as the sun settled behind the mountains. He listened through the silence.

Boots crunched to the northeast.
Horses whinnied, and a stewpot bubbled.
A ladle splashed into a barrel of water.
Laughter echoed from the campsite to the west …

Warbler whispered in a voice that sounded like dry rustling leaves, as he imagined frogs.

Thin string-like roots grew from the base of the water barrel, taking shape into tiny bones, ribcages, organs, muscles, flippers, and bright blue mucus covered skin with neon red arms and legs. The frogs swam up through the water. Their heads bobbed to the surface. They leapt from the barrel landing softly on the forest floor. Each found their way to a backpack or a bedroll … They didn’t like the cold. Warbler shivered in the snowy branches.

A few candles passed, while Warbler waited in his perch. The boots made their way back to the camp.

The horses whinnied.
The stewpot boiled over, splashing over the edges and into the flames.
The water was still.
No voices could be heard to the west.
Wings fluttered and broke the silence as a voice rang out, quiet at first, and then much louder.

“They’re not breathing … there’s not a mark on them …” one Swan said to the other.

“Wait! Stop! The water!!!” he cried out.

A gasp, a soft thud as the other Swan collapsed in the snow.

The Swan ran, jumped onto the horse’s back, and hooves began to beat rapidly through the pine needles and snow.

“Northeast again …” he thought. Warbler’s head bobbed up and down. He craned his neck to one side. His muscles contracted, bones cracked and twisted, and a pain rang through every part of him. It was getting easier … it was still excruciating, but it hurt a little less each time. A beaked and feathered face fluttered up over the treeline, saw the horse and rider, and followed.

“Where, hmm, where will we fly next swan? Where do you come from …” he thought to himself as he flew. The pine needles and branches were a blur as he swooped past.

A bright blue and neon red frog’s face peeked out of the rider’s pack …

Several years had passed. Warbler had flown places he never imagined. The world was so big, and he was so small …

The walls of Northgate stretched out in front of him in the distance. He sat in the highest branch of a northern fir letting his good leg swing back and forth, while his twisted excuse for a left leg hung and swayed in the breeze. He chomped down a handful of dried pear chips and walnuts, and a few crumbs fell into his beard.

“This must be it,” he said with a sigh of relief. “This is where they came from.”

Warbler stretches lazily, tucks his hands behind his head, kicks up his feet, and lets himself drift into a welcome and much needed nap.

He’s jumping as high as he can in his dream, but his five year old frame just can’t reach the first limb of the tree. He jumps again, and again, his arms outstretched, each time more certain that he can reach.

He leaps! His fingertips touch bark! He gasps in excitement, but then squeaks in dismay as his tiny hands fail to find a grip. His arms flail wildly as he lands on his rump in the green grass. He snorts in dismay, shoves his hands into his pockets, slumps his shoulders, and kicks at the dirt beneath his bare feet. The young boy gets up and sullenly walks to the trunk of the old pear tree, then leans his back against the pale bark and slides into a sitting position. Young Ringo lowers his head into his hands in sorrow, lower lip extended and lets out a defeated whimper.

There’s a soft plop on his shoulder as he feels something land on it, then it scurries across his head and onto his ear. He slowly opens his eyes, gazing sideways at the visitor, worried he’ll startle it, and it will surely bite him!

He locks eyes with a monster! Its reptilian face fills his vision as it charges from his ear to his cheek. One huge yellow vertically slitted eye wreathed in bright blue-green scales blinks sideways at him. The beast’s massive tongue extends from its mouth with a rapid flick, covering one of its nostrils. The boy’s breath catches in his throat, a bead of nervous sweat collects on his brow, and he jumps to his feet screaming as he runs away. The tiny gecko lands softly on the green grass in his wake.

“M …M …MooOOooNsTeEERRRRR!!!!” the frightened boy wailed as he sprinted as fast as he possibly could towards home.

BLAM

Warbler’s ears are ringing as his eyes fly open. He jumps into the air frantically looking in all directions as quickly as his neck will allow.

“No, no, no, no, no … . not again.” he whispers as the world around him comes into focus. He can feel the heat of the flames, smoke fills his nostrils, the taste of ash, his stomach turns.

Then he sees the smoke in the distance, and regains his senses. He begins carefully making his way through the treetops branch by branch, and hears men shouting, dogs barking, hooves pounding. He sees a boy in the woods, soldiers surrounding him, spears and torches in hand bearing down on him. One attempts to plunge a spear into the boy’s side, the other lunges forward for a strike.

Warbler’s eyes go wide and he imagines wolves. Bones, teeth, claws, and fur tear free from nearby saplings just beyond his sight, splintering bark as they break free from the trunks and burst into a full run. They growl then leap from the treeline onto the Swan soldiers, pinning them to the ground, and dragging them through the brush into the dark.

Bax runs.

As Warbler watches the boy escape, and the wolves have their meal … he sees a path through the forest in his mind, a small campfire and a wisp of smoke surrounded by shadows, a sound like a limb breaking in a strong wind fills his ears.

Flssshiwfffnd Sshhhthhhemmmm

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The Path