It is below brackish water and deep love that dwell the Hungry of First.

Apple orchards. The lovely tamed tree line wanders out of sight, but remains ever present. The sweet kiss it leave on the air never fails to stir old memories. Apple pies, crumbles, warm cider donuts, fresh out of old Nana’s fading memory and into the small fingers of the girl Jale had once been. Now the tastes of these good things were with her. Were with her every breath, the smell of the orchards inhaling her, kissing the pilgrim. How could it have followed her all the way here? In this place so far from home.

Jale sat and mused as she waited, her back up against a crumbling stone wall made of nothing but river stones, huddled atop each other, and moss covered rocks sitting astride their home in the earth and fields. Just in front of her, like a river frozen in time, was a dirt road. The Pilgrim’s Road it was called, or so the story went, Jale hadn’t bothered to find out what words, if any, the locals used to to describe it. It wandered through the rolling hill country, farm houses and fields resting on its banks, drinking from its waters and growing fat, cricket song and green delight alongside the stone walls warmed in the fading rays of an autumn sun, welcoming in the sweet night.

Hundreds of years ago these stone walls no doubt demarcated the estates of local farmers, time and ill fortune rendering their original purpose meaningless as lands were subdivided and sold. They remain, monuments to a time when their builders were wealthy. Were healthy, and together, before the earth and moss crawled over and buried them, the stones, the homes, the families, the memories. 

If I could stay here and be buried too. Jale smiled to herself and closed her eyes.

Mother Barrow, do not fear for him

For the boy in your arms is young and many years from gone

Barrow, rolling hills, crests freckled by young evergreens

Whose underhill roots cradle the bones of Grandfather

“Why the grim face?”

The voice pulled her from her thoughts. Jale looked up at the speaker. She wasn’t an ugly girl, but there was so much missing from her eyes. Whether it was lost on the road or before was a question that failed to spark any interest in Jale’s mind before it wandered out. It took a moment for the name to come to her. Daeya. That was it.

“You aren’t feeling grim?” Jale’s voice stirred for the first time that day. It croaked at first, unused to being roused from its sleep.

The other pilgrim sat beside her, uninvited. Jale almost considered bringing up the intrusion, but again the thought failed to spark any interest.

“Just anxious.”

The two women sat in silence beside the road, waiting. A broken, rusted wheelbarrow dozed not a couple yards away, half buried in the dirt. It tips gently towards the roadside ditch. Originally dug to drain away the rain, the shallow trench was now clogged with stones and debris which form little homes for the wild field mice. The fields of grain, plucked by their tiny hands and stuffed into their cheeks.

The woman’s lips parted. Once, then twice, as though the first time the words which were to be spoken had been too unsettling to bring out. “This place is beautiful.”

Jale heard the lie in Daeya’s voice. Warm sunlight fell on her dry and weather beaten skin. “It’s good.” She corrected.

The other pilgrim didn’t look at her. There was a shift in her tone as she spoke, which caused Jale to turn towards Daeya for the first time, the other pilgrim avoiding her gaze. “I know I want to stay. But….”

“I understand.”

“These hills, this road, these sweet things. Why does it make the journey so much harder than anything else I’ve seen?”

Jale touched her fingers to the dirt and moss. This woman was a stranger, a misplaced presence. She fiddled with the patch of moss uncomfortably, unsure of the correct way to respond, before nodding. Slowly. “Is this a punishment?”

Daeya’s eyes watched the road in front of them, as though expecting the silent leviathan to answer for her. Bright blonde hair streamed over her shoulders. “Yes.”

“Hm.” Jale pursed her lips.

“It’s not for you?”

A small smile crossed Jale’s face. “I don’t know. I don’t even know who would be punishing who. Am I punishing myself by finishing my journey? Or is the world punishing me by reminding me of everything I will lose?”

The two pilgrims shared a chuckle, the sound seemed to hold the sun still in the sky, its descent halted for those few moments. Smiles remained on their faces for a time more after they were done, until they began to feel unnatural. Jale placed her hands on her lap. She didn’t know why, but it didn’t seem so wrong to speak to this woman, the croak of her voice had been broken.

“Maybe I do deserve it, but I don’t think of the journey as a punishment. More a necessity.” Jale’s dirty brown, unintelligent eyes watched one of the field mice from under her heavy brow. It hopped from one rock to another, warmed in the sun, scurrying into the home it made in the ill-maintained roadside ditch. “I broke something, and my departure was the only way it could have a chance at being fixed.”

Daeya gently leaned, her shoulder only just barely touching Jale’s. The shared smile had finally faded from their faces. “Can’t go back, and can’t go forward.”

“So we go to First.”

Strands of blonde hair touched her own dry, split, black collection. “I suppose we do.”

From down the road, a figure approached the two women. He was skinny, and tall, his face carrying the brown bristles of a youthful beard, yet his disposition heald none of the energy. His lanky body traced the banks of the road toward them, head bowed under an orange sky, shoulders carrying the solemn vestiges of a Pilgrim’s cloak. The two women watched him for a time, and in silence, as the pilgrim slowly made his way to their side. He seated himself next to them, holding in his hands a book.

Jale smiled. It was an unusual thing, to see three pilgrims together on the road, though she realized, considering the three of them were nearing their destination, it shouldn’t come as such a surprise. It may have been the subtle warmth of Daeya’s shoulder on hers, but the moment felt as though it needed words, and Jale felt them in her, daring to hold a hand up in greeting as she spoke.

Mother Barrow, do not sing for him

For the boy in your arms in time must learn his own voice, hollow and unkind

The cold infants who fell still, lonely cradles in the night are beloved sacrifice

Sweet spirits kiss his broken heart, his toes dance over cool soil

The three figures instead sat in silence.

A cold breeze supplemented the evening air, the boy had begun to read his book, ignoring the presence of the other two women. Each pilgrim dared not look at each other, a foot of space separating them along the roadside, waiting.

It came like a nightingale in the evening, unexpected, and out of place on the winding road. The wagon was new, poorly constructed, and made of a cheap, carved cedar. Its driver was a man quite beautiful to look at. He had auburn colored hair, skin fair, white with few wrinkles despite the aged quality of the specimen which it found itself wrapped around. His eyes burned with a mixture of desperation and anger, his posture energetic, a stark contrast to the slow plodding rate at which his pathetic farm horse pulled.

Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.

The wagon pulled to an unsteady stop in front of them. Neither Jale, nor the other two pilgrims made any move to board. In the back of the parked cart were a trio of pilgrims, a large man, large enough to take up the space of two, sat motionless at the end, head down. Beside him a wiry young woman shifted back and forth uncomfortably, her short curly hair bobbing with every movement, occasionally sparing a glance at the third member. He was well built, dirty black hair with an unkempt scruff plastered his face, his body clad in the remnants of a soldier’s armor, well polished.

The wagon master leaned forward at them, showing a row of uncharacteristically yellowed teeth. “Look at the wild-eyed-pilgrims. Poor wild people, you belong in a wild place!”

Daeya shuttered at the words. Jale glanced upwards, her eyebrow raised. “Your thoughts are unwelcome, Wagon Master. Keep them.” The pretty driver’s smile faded as she dusted her cloak off, brushing stray blades of grass from the fabric, reaching out to grip to side of the wagon to hoist herself up. Jale’s hand froze for a moment, the reality of the situation coming back to her.

For just one moment the world was bright. Radiant colors of the sun and the crisp, chilled wind. Small pebbles are atop the road, brown and dusty, the sound of crickets in the fields are all about, the smell of apples on the breeze, the wonderful feel of the rough fabric of her pilgrim’s cloak on the skin of her shoulders, the taste of last night’s dinner upon her breath. Jale holds on to the world for as long as she can, her weary fingers desperately gripping it with what strength remained, before again finding herself pushed back into a fog of mind. She mounted the back of the wagon, followed loyally by Daeya.

The wagon master watched the two of them warily. 

Sitting slowly upon the wooden carriage, Jale eyed the approximation of a man driving it. “Something I do not understand.”

The thin wagon master did not look back at her at first. “I’d imagine that could be many things.” His manner exuded an insecure kind of certainty, slumped, yet unwilling to consider change.

Daeya gave a warning glance her way.

Jale shied away from her look, but didn’t let up. “Why is it that you go through all this effort to lead us to the trail? What do you get out of this, Wagon Master?”

The beautiful cart driver kept his eyes forward, seemingly uninterested in the words of the Pilgrim. “I get to be rid of all of you! The world is better off void of drifters and ill minds.”

Jale leaned closer to the man, the light of the sunset casting red shadows on her face. The strange unyouth of his stretched visage caused her skin to crawl. She held the hands of Daeya as she spoke. “What gifts do the Wilds give to cruel souls?”

To this the man smiled, causing Jale to shrink back into her seat. He turned his head slightly. “The Wilds give nothing. That place only knows how to take. I do hope you didn’t come here expecting to receive anything other than regret.”

At this the young, curly haired pilgrim shifted uncomfortably as Jale turned away from the Wagon Master.

“And you! Are you going to sit there forever? Your journey’s end has come due.” The driver spits are the young pilgrim, still reading on the ground.

The boy’s eyes never leave the page, his hands quiver slightly, his body remains motionless. “I will come. After I finish this chapter.”

The party of pilgrims glance at each other, peering over the edge of the cart at him. The Wagon Master, perplexed, stumbles a bit. “Now is the time, this cart is your only way to the trail son, and I am certainly not waiting for you to finish whatever book you’re reading.”

The boy is silent for a moment, as though still lost in the pages. “I will come. I will. After this chapter.”

The driver’s face twists into annoyance. “Ungrateful dimwit, how do I explain this any clearer? Only I know the trail, you are either getting on the cart right now, or you will never reach First!”

The young pilgrim remained still, silently reading his book, shoulders hunched as though bracing against a storm.

The Wagon Master leaned over the edge of the cart, leering at him. “Get in the cart!”

Silence hung over the group. The other pilgrims watching the still figure of the boy intently, hanging on his every breath, expecting each new exhale to come accompanied by words, but they never came. Almost a minute passed before the driver snarled, ushering the wagon forward, cursing the ex-pilgrim as the party left him behind on the roadside.

Looking back at him, Jale saw the faintest traces of a smile touch his lips. The words of the book in his hands seemingly painted in his eyes.

Mother Barrow, do not love for him

For smiles bear fruitless expenditure for evergreen sailors on brackish waters of deep, mad breath

He will suffocate beneath the waves and his lungs will fill with warm tender water

Then he will smile and you will love him 

Fields of grain and bright apple orchards rolled past them, gradually disappearing as the farms and homes of the land became more dilapidated. Weeds tumbled over the earth, unkempt barns lay vacant on their plots. The road beneath remained however, indifferent to the world around it, steadily flowing ever onwards towards the darkening horizon. The sky itself, a deep sunset red, took on a purple hue as the group of pilgrims were carried onward, uneasy eyes focusing on each other in hopes of clinging onto the last vestiges of their ignorance.

“Wagon Master.” The curly haired woman, who had for a time seemed uneasy, lifted her eyes. “You spoke before of the Wild. As though you know its nature.”

The driver seemed to almost want to ignore the question. “I have never entered it, n-nor will I ever. I don’t know it.” He stammers.

“You come so close! You must know something of its nature and origin. Why is it that we know of the village of First? Where did the stories come from?”

Silence hung over the group. Finally the pale wagon driver answered. “I know nothing. I don’t want to know. It’s just a big forest.”

The young pilgrim settled down with a satisfied smile. “Then I will be the first.” She either didn’t notice, or ignored the uncomfortable stares from her companions.

Jale noted the large man, hunched over at the back, in his hands the shattered pieces of a bracelet were held, its silver binding broken in several places. He stared intently at it as the cart rolled onward, the sky about him taking on a strange teal coloration, the sweet smells of the countryside long gone in this desperate landscape. Jale considered for a moment speaking, then thought better of it. Beyond the occasional off-key, joyful humming of the Wagon Master, silence was clearly preferred by the group, no need to do anything inordinate.

“I suppose we ought to get to know each other.” Daeya suggested. Jale slouched back against the wall of the cart.

Daeya’s gaze had been focused on the two men in the wagon, but it was the woman who responded. “Yes, of course! We are going to be traveling the rest of the way to First together after all. My name is Violette.”

Her voice was quick, nervous, and overly friendly. Daeya seemed to hesitate slightly before shaking the curly haired pilgrim’s outstretched hand. “Yes that’s… that’s what I thought as well. The way to First is dangerous after all.”

The man in armor nodded. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Violette. Might I inquire after your profession?”

Violette seemed to smile as if he had just told her she was the most beautiful woman in the world. “My profession? That’s a strange thing to ask about another pilgrim, don't you think, sir…”

“Va. Dejes Va, is my name. I asked because in my time I have met a number of hair brained scientists whose ludicrous ideas got them in trouble, and I was just thinking to myself who in their right mind would want to ‘be the first to know’ the Wilds other than another moron scientist.”

Jale chuckled as the smile vanished from Violette’s face. It was forced and unkind, but the laugh kept her knees from shaking.

Mother Barrow, do not cry for him

For the boy who grew in your arms is young, but now has gone

Evergreen pilgrims of First pass you by, one apologetic farewell made to no one

One invisible kiss on the cheek of the person he wished you could be

The wagon grew quiet. Jale no longer even dared to look at Daeya, who continued to casually steal glances at her. The bizarre hum which the Wagon Master had performed earlier was replaced with a desperate lurching grunt as a great mass came into view upon the horizon.

It was a forest, similar to the many forests which had been Jale’s home in her childhood, but strangely alien to the land it rested upon. It was as though the twisted trees and clinging shrubbery had grown over the land, instead of in it, crawling over its surface like so much moss on the face of a stone. Walls, formerly demarcating plots of farm land, disappeared into the woods. An abandoned house stood, crumbling and vacant, half consumed by the Wilds which stretched onward as far as the resting sky. Jale thought that she could almost make out figures within the house, moving about slowly. Much the same as the house, the wilds would be growing over them too.

The twisted weald grew closer, silhouetted by a discolored sky of purple and teal, no longer home to any sun or sunset, not now or forever. Somewhere deep in there dwelled the village of First. A cold sweat ran down her neck. You can still turn back. You can still turn back. Turn back. Now, please, turn back.

The cart stopped. Only twenty paces from the rising wall of trees. Deep, cold blackness stared back at her, like so many memories, Jale tried to breath it in. But she felt nothing, only its cold beauty, loving, and wordless, and mouthless, a kind of beauty which cut through skin and bone, like bitter frozen wind through thin cloth. This place no one knew. No one made memories here, no one shared stories. No one lived here.

The Wagon Master opened and closed his mouth as the pilgrims silently departed his wagon. The man’s skin no longer shone like it had, his beauty faded in front of the edge that spanned the world before them all. “G-g… go on and go in there.” He managed.

The group of pilgrims paid him no attention, nor minded his speedy retreat.

Jale took one step. Then two. Into the Wilds the pilgrims left.

Barrow, take his Youth into your chest

Let the Wanderer go far from your heart and forget him all

What the Wild swallows it never returns, those many evergreen souls drowned by sweet spirits

For it is below brackish water and deep love that dwell the Hungry of First