The carts and wagons of the caravan couldn't have made it down the ravine, so we parked just above the village.

Roderick, the burly head of the caravan guard, picked at a scar on his chin as he addressed us. "The animals ar gettin tired so we're beddin down here for a little extra," he said. "We leave at mid-day tomorrow. It'll be a half-day."

As he spoke, my mind wandered. Every time I saw him, I couldn't help but try to imagine what had given him those horrible scars. His chin was bisected by a diagonal line of puckered skin that crossed paths with another more jagged line on his cheek. That second scar snaked up, crossing a fleshy hole that had once been a socket for an eye. His nose was bent at an obscene angle, and the skin on his left hand was mottled and deformed. A burn most likely.

What kind of man would choose a life that carved its lessons into the flesh like that?

I shook the thoughts from my head, not wanting to miss any details of his speech.

"The caravan'll be guarded tonight," Roderick said, his voice booming and hoarse. "Yuh can slep with your stuff or yuh can find beddin in the village below. Don't matter to me. But don't go gettin inta any trouble. We stay with the caravan. Yuh leave here, yuh live by the law’o’the’land."

Roderick sat down and struck a match on his pant leg, lighting up some herbs in the end of his pipe. If that wasn't a dismissal, I didn't know what was.

As I dismounted my wagon, rolling down the canvas flaps and tying them off, a hand clapped on my back.

"My, my, you certainly look to be in better spirits than I've seen you these past few days," said the warm voice of the owner of the hand.

I turned and smiled–only to wince. I'd forgotten about my splitting lips.

"Hothgar!” I forced the smile back onto my face. “It looks like even the road dust won't stick to you." Hothgar was a builder I'd met during the first few days of the journey, before the road had gotten to me. "How's Tilma?"

"I'm just fine," said a motherly voice from around the corner. Hothgar's wife stepped into view and regarded me, "But I am a bit concerned about you lad. It looks like half your face is ready to slough off!"

I grimaced, then grimaced deeper at the pain from the how first grimace pulled on my lips.

"Not to worry," said Hothgar, "Tilma and I have passed through this town before."

"Sure have," Tilma said, nodding. "Honey Rabbit, tell him about that woman who gave you the ointment for your saddle rash last time."

"I was about to do just that," he grumbled, then straightened at a sharp look from his wife. "I mean, of course darling."

Hothgar scratched his stubbled jaw, reaching back into the annals of his memory.

"Methuzalan," he said after a pause. "I'm quite certain that was her name.

Some kind of witch-doctor, or alchemist or something. All kinds of weird jars and herbs all over the place. I'd ask after her down in the village before they douse the torches. If you get the order in tonight she'll be sure to have what you need ready for you tomorrow."

Tilma stepped closer to her husband, wrapping her arm around his elbow. "Now if you'll excuse us, Mr. Fox," she said, beaming sideways at her lumbering husband, "We are off to get a drink down below."

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The pair tipped their heads at me and sauntered off, heading down the ravine. Near the base, in splashing distance of the waterline, I could make out a building larger and more brightly lit than the others–the tavern, no doubt.

After feeding the mules and double checking all the tie-downs on the wagon, I began the walk into the nameless fishing village. The path was a rough hewn staircase carved by the wind and sea themselves; rocky and uneven, but there was always another step.

My legs were unsteady at first, after weeks of disuse and on unfamiliar terrain, but as I passed the first group of buildings tucked into the sides of the ravine, I found my steps had grown a little surer.

I hadn't run into a single villager by the time I was halfway down into the village so I decided my first stop would be the tavern, after all.

The closer I got to the building by the water, the more the night gave way to the life contained within. A cacophony of sounds spilled forth from open windows, bouncing off the stone walls of the ravine and pouring out across the still water. Drowning out the rest of the din was a song, somewhere between a yell and a chant.

AND WHEN HE AWOKE

AFTER A DAMN GOOD LONG POKE

WITH THE WETTEST SQUISH

HE REALIZED SHE WAS A FISH!

After the last line of the song the whole building trembled with laughter. I could have sworn I heard the walls cracking. No reasonable person would claim it was a good song, but anything was better than listening to that hell-roasted lute again.

The door was propped open with a big rock so I stepped through.

Lanterns burning whale oil lined the walls and hung from beams across the ceiling. The place was packed tighter than a Silesian furniture shop. Thick air–hot and heavy and salty and not-just-a-little-fishy–buffeted my nostrils. Suddenly, I wasn't quite so self conscious about the smell of the road that clung to me. It was like someone had plucked a sturgeon from the sea and smeared it, slime and all, across the walls and floors and people. I cannot overstate how intense the odor was.

Before I knew what was happening, stumbling drunkards shedding salt and scales from the flesh of their forearms bumped me this way and that, tossing my body around the room. Finally, I careened onto a wobbly wooden stool, only to realize that somewhere along the way a rather large mug of frothy liquid had found its way into my hand.

Sometimes even the best hagglers need to know when to go with the flow instead of trying to direct a negotiation. And that's just what I did. I tipped back the flagon of mystery brew and gulped twice before the burn in my throat reached my head and I sputtered, spraying a mouthful of hellish fisherman liquor across the table. A large, dark skinned man with fish hooks through his earlobes caught the mist of my spray and fixed me with a glare.

Crossing his chest, his arms could have been carved from stone.What had I done? This would not be good. A tremor reached my fingertips. There were no guards, no law enforcement to speak of. I was alone.

The big man leaned forward, eyes boring into me. Then he threw his body back and started laughing. The momentum of his sudden movement carried his center of gravity past that of the stool and he tipped–still laughing–backwards onto the floor. At this point the whole table was laughing, and some new stranger was clasping my shoulder and helping the flagon in my hand back up toward my mouth.

I don't remember much of what happened after that.

The next moment that comes clear to my mind is sitting around a table, holding a cloth to my now swollen lip, nose stuffed with a blood soaked handkerchief.

"Foxy," said one of the fishermen who shared the table with me, "you sure don't know how to fight. But you've got salt."

"Aye," said another man, this one pale and missing several fingers, his hair long and white, like his beard, and his face wrinkled with the passing of years and strain. "I can teach a man the ways of the fish, of the sea, but only if he has the stones for it. You, Mr. Fox–I could teach you if you decided to stay."

My cheeks grew warm, and I looked down at the floor. They didn't know what they were talking about, of course. They'd just met me. I'd never been a real leader, or athlete. Not like Falmar. Or Hanmar for that matter–he aspired to be a soldier in the Protectorate of the Realm. My path was the path of words and thinking. Sure, I could overcome small hardships in the pursuit of a goal, but I would never be hardened in body and mind like the people of this village, strengthened by their apprenticeship to the sea. I was cut from more delicate cloth. Besides, a fox never worked harder than it had to for a meal.

I shook my head.

"You men are too kind," I said. "But the winds of trade carry me onward."

"So be it lad," said the older man. "Oh, and to answer your question from earlier, that woman you asked about lives up along the side of the cliffs. You'll find the path marked with flowers blooming out of season."

"Thank you," I replied, bowing my head to the men and walking toward the door.

"Hope you aren't afraid of heights!" one man yelled from behind me, and they all chuckled as I passed out of the door and into the light of a new day. A night of sleep poorer, but several friends richer.

A light breeze broke the mirror face of the water, and sets of low waves massaged the rocky shore. A golden pathway rippled from the beach to where the sun had just crested the distant horizon.

I knew that later I'd regret having sacrificed a night of sleep, but I couldn't help but notice the swelling warmth in my chest. This was what an adventure was all about. It was about the small unplanned moments. I didn't know much of sorcery or witchcraft, but this feeling–it contained its own kind of magic.