“… and in the proper manner, I was cast out from my home,” he finished.

The Village Mother stared into the fire, which was starting to burn lower. Many songs had passed since his tale began, and the players and dancers alike were resting in the comfortable chill of the evening.

“I beg yer pardon for asking,” she said finally. “I could have known it would be wrong to pry.”

“No, it’s a fine thing,” he said. “Though… perhaps let me tell the others myself. It should come to them from me,” he said quietly, thinking of Robby now passed out on a blanket by the courthouse steps.

She nodded. “Aye,” she replied, turning away. “As I said, long days and pleasant nights to ye.”

“And you as well,” he called softly after her. Still he sat, casting his foggy gaze into the dwindling flames. Occasionally a log would settle, casting sparks into the night sky above the village.

He hoped that when the time came, his telling would not disturb his friend.

Reaping turned to Year’s End, with the pleasant chill and occasional autumn storm slowly morphing to the bitter coldness and harsh snows of Winter. Though the townsfolk’s stores lasted them plenty fine, it was a particularly hard season, and there were some few deaths: a young couple, refugee wanderers like Daniel himself who had come to Deepwood earlier in the year, were caught out in a blizzard and so passed into the clearing beyond the forest. Their bodies, wrapped around each other in a fierce embrace, were not found until the snow was able to melt a few weeks later.

The heart of winter did pass and Wide-Earth came to thaw the soil, paving the way for Sowing. Children and parent alike worked their fields, the threat of their emptying basements and pantries looming over their heads. In his spare time Daniel would go and assist them, Seamus needing less help with moving the flock at this time of year. As he packed a tuber into the dark, rich soil of Robby’s farm, he wondered and asked: “The mercantile doesn’t take orders to faraway places anymore, does it?”

“Nah,” Robby said between a couple holes of beans. “Been many-a year since the roads out here saw caravans from Laria or Tree, or anywhere else fer that matter.” He packed a couple more holes and covered them with fresh loam. “Every couple months we get a merchant or two travelin’ through, but they pack lightly anymore, and it’s rare for one to come back ‘round these parts. Not much money in it for ‘em,” he grunted sourly. “The world’s moving on, they say, though I say it forgot about us already, long ago.”

Time passed swiftly enough once planting was done, and before they knew it, Mid-Summer had come to Deepwood. The calm winds vanished and they were soon trapped within a shimmer haze: the tallgrasses withered and pulled back, and crops were tended to carefully as the water in everyone’s wells dropped.

Robby’s own daughter Gwyn, just shy of her 7th year, still proved a capable hand. She was spry and energetic, and though she huffed and puffed with the effort, she wasted little time bringing buckets of water to dried out patches around the field. She was round of face and had long hair, deep brown like her father’s, and she scarcely took time to wipe the sweat from her brow before rushing back to the well for another pail. Robby beamed at her all the while, and as the weeks and months passed, Daniel could not help feeling a little fatherly towards her himself.

Later they found themselves basking in the warmth of the evening after a good day’s work. They sat on the steps of Robby’s porch, which were starting to show a distinct warping from many years of exposure to the sun and rain. Crickets and cicadas sang their harsh cries into the fading light, their calls slowing down now that the temperature was falling.

Daniel thought for a moment, venturing: “I hate to ask, but where’s her mother?”

Robby closed his eyes and sighed, a pall casting over him. “They say if ye hate to ask, then ye probably shouldn’t.” He did not chuckle at his own joke, sipping at a bit of warm goat’s milk. “She was bitten by a snake, five or six summers ago. Ah, Gloria,” he sighed again, but failed to continue.

Daniel nodded sadly. The warmth was suddenly gone out of the evening. “I beg your pardon, friend, I shouldn’t have asked.”

Robby sucked a quick breath in, sitting back against the porch. “Nah, yer fine. It were a long time ago.” His face said otherwise, but Daniel didn’t contradict him. “’sides, she lives on well enough. You can see her in Gwyn’s face, sure as shit: she got her little nose and big mouth from her, but she’s got my eyes.” The smile came back to his face as he said it. Gwyn herself was tramping along in the field nearby, singing a nothing-song to herself as she looked dutifully among the growing cucumber vines.

“’Come,’ says the wolf,

‘there’s prey to catch,

but mind yourself

‘cause I bite and scratch.’”

The plants were now as tall as herself, and they kept an eye on her as she marched among them like an attentive sentinel. Searching for what, Daniel had no idea, but it was plain that she was happy, and looking at Robby looking at her, it was clear she made him happy too.

The rest of the summer passed quickly and uneventfully. That is, uneventful until the very end. Deepwood was a fairly reserved community without much fanfare for their riddling days, and quite strangely they had never even heard of the Queen o’ Green Days when Daniel had asked after her.

Thankfully, what they had lacked for levity through the rest of the year was made up for aplenty with Glowing Day: Daniel was taken aback when, on the morning thereof, he was woken by the sound of fireworks. It was naught but a smattering of sharp cracks and a single boom, at least to start with, but it was more than he had expected.

Fireworks, here! Where could they have gotten such things from? The sounds and acrid smell of sulfur filled him with nostalgia, sharp and bittersweet, for his days in Gilead. When he was still small, Glowing Day had been one of the few times he had seen his father smile, though that joy too had fled as the years had gone by.

The sharp, rapid reports of firecrackers and occasional thunder of mortars continued throughout the day, and children and adults alike competed in games for prizes as the hot sun traced its high path through the sky. Daniel did not compete, but Robby and his brother Jason—who, as it turned out, was the one tasked by the Mother to travel and trade for fireworks each year—did win a three-legged race. For their efforts they were awarded a single jar of sweetberry jam, a delicacy in these parts where such fruit did not grow readily.

Robby twisted the metal lid off, producing a delightful little suck of air, and gently handed the heavy jar to Gwyn, who suddenly found herself the target of many a kid’s stare. Heedless of their envious eyes she dipped one small finger in and tasted the richly purple jelly. Her face immediately broke into a smile that radiated like a sunbeam, and Daniel felt his heart move, a small smile stealing its way onto his own face.

Together, the three of them shared the rest of the afternoon together, listening to Lenora’s magical squeezebox as it played its dinky tunes, then laughing and pointing as Jason’s fire blossoms lit up the evening sky around them.

“Uncle Danny—” she had started calling him that as he had helped with their crops over the summer, and it made him feel strangely proud to be called so, “—do they have fireworks where you come from?”

“Aye, Gwyn,” he replied softly, “there were many-a and many-a them on Glowing Day, like this.” He paused as another boomed across the land, throwing dazzling green sparks into the air. “There were so many that you could hardly breathe for the pounding in your chest, and if you blinked even once you’d miss some.”

She giggled, a wonderful, bubbly sound. “Danny, there’s not that many fireworks in the world!”

“It’s true,” he protested with a smile. “I swear it on God and Gan.”

“Where do you come from, anyhow? Daddy says he doesn’t know, but you both talk about everything. And you don’t sound like us sometimes, neither.”

“Gwyn,” Robby sounded mortified, “You know better ‘n to ask that, it’s rude. Let a man’s past lie where he wants it.”

“It’s fine, she meant nothing by it.” Daniel leaned back in the dry grass just beyond the town’s square, letting a few fireworks scatter their brilliant colors across a sky melting into darkness. Here red, there blue, always laced with some magnesium white. After a few minutes, he breathed deep. “I was born in the south, little Gwyn, in the barony of New Canaan, but I came here from the west.” He thought for a little while longer, mulling over the past—both the distant and the more recent.

-

‘Living’ was a generous word for that wretched existence, especially at first. His exile from Gilead was immediate and unflinching, as it had been for time immemorial. It had not taken long for the mercifully small crowd to disperse, and he was soon alone in that awful corridor. He did not move for a long while, the wind growing colder and stronger all the time. Minutes—hours?—later he tried to lurch to his feet. His shoes slipped in the pool of his own blood, and he crashed down hard on his front, clacking his teeth together as his jaw hit the floor.

Every square inch of his body felt aflame, especially his right eye. No, a vicious little voice reminded him, there’s nothing there anymore, you gibbering fool. Why, then, did it still pain him so badly?

He pushed this question and others aside, for the moment. He could not allow himself time to think, at least not yet: on some level he knew that if he began to turn today over in his mind, he would never be able to get up again, and he would have let himself freeze to death in the coming night.

Counting to three breaths he picked himself up—again experiencing a dizzying wave of nausea from the movement, curse it—and stumbled, taking his first true steps west down the corridor. Feeling feverish, he remembered dimly to turn back and pick up his staff first.

Every dusty sunbeam, every decaying leaf on every vine seemed to whisper his failures to him on the wind. He stifled a sob as he hobbled away, into the outer vestibule. It took him so long, the shadows stretched down the corridor by the time he made it.

Jesus, but everything hurt so badly! He knew that he would cry if he looked at his own broken body. Indeed, warm tears began to flow as he gingerly took the cotton shirt off and saw black and purple stretching across almost every bit of his torso. He thought his legs had gotten off better, at least a bit, but he would have to assess them later. For now he donned a long, black tunic and a simple woolen cloak that had been left out for him—his parting gifts, the only kindness Gilead would afford him ever again.

Daniel shouldered open a great oaken door, riveted with large iron nails, and stared out at the rolling fields that ringed the city of Gilead. The sun hung low in the sky over the southwest horizon, the sky thankfully clear. They were much too far away, but for a second he imagined he could see that great ball of liquid gold just touching the hazy, marble peaks of the Shavéd Mountains.

Ka told him that he must go to see those mountains now. He fought back more tears as he closed the door behind him, wrapping the gray cloak around him against the wind. Without the walls of Gilead to break it, that wind blew against him in full now. Out of the west it came, and though he had no food for his empty belly nor tools to aid him—not that he had anything to carry them in if he did—he began his long journey into the cruel expanse that was Mid-World.

He walked all that night and for most of the next day without rest, focusing on nothing but the rhythm of his feet as he went. The slap-slap of his footfalls changed as the road he took roughened: the cobblestones were neat and well-cared for at first, but gradually he saw pieces missing. Patches of toughweed began to sprout between them where no one had tended to the road in some time, and eventually entire stones were missing. Soon there was more dirt than stone, and then there was no stone at all, and the only thing keeping the path from overgrowth were the sure tracks and ruts of wagon wheels from caravans past.

The road took Daniel straight on, deviating rarely from its westward path except to avoid an odd creek here or there. By the time the sun was dipping over the horizon once more, the outer edge of the Baby Forest had manifested, and his brain demanded some sort of rest. He made it to the first knob of trees he could find and wrapped himself tightly in his cloak against the chill of the night. Mercifully, he was asleep in seconds, floating dreamlessly in a vast nothingness.

Upon waking the next morning, for a few minutes he could not remember where he was or why. He reached up to paw at his sleepy face, but as soon as his fingers touched the first flakes of dried blood on his cheek his remaining eye flew open. Reality hit him with a grim flash, like a cutpurse in the night.

Daniel bawled then, well and truly, with only the wind and the wild grass and the trees to hear his sorrow.

Finally, after the morning dew had been carried away by the breeze, he hauled himself to his feet, wincing at the aches that presented themselves to him. The pain had dulled somewhat, but somehow he felt as if he hurt even more than when it had been fresh.

He knew he was hungry, though his appetite was all but non-existent. Besides, he could see nothing to eat. Any fruit he might have picked off the trees or wild berries he might have gathered from the brush were long gone at this time of year. Resigned, he stretched, suppressing another wince, picked up his staff and continued the journey down the grassy road into the forest.

The year’s foliage was already littered on the forest floor, so he had ample light as he trudged through. Heedless of the noise he made, his feet swished through the airy mounds of dried, decaying plant matter that piled here or there. He almost tripped over a rock hidden beneath the leaves at one point, but aside from that and the occasional hill to climb over, it was largely uneventful.

At one point he thought he heard the far-off cry of a pack of wolves, but momentary focus brought nothing more to his ears. It seemed there was no company but the sound of the wind, gusting at him through bare branches and producing a horrible groan that pitched up and down without end. That sound mocked him, and it only served to darken his already grim thoughts.

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Nearing the far end of the forest, he saw the first sign of human habitation since leaving the city. It was little more than a gutted shack propped up between two trees, but it was something. He approached cautiously, wary of traps (though he doubted it had been occupied properly within the last several years).

The roof of the dwelling lurched awfully to one side, betraying a deep rot in the baseboards. Daniel gave the whole thing a careful prodding with one end of his staff, then a more vigorous one, but miraculously the structure held up. Gathering up some small courage, he tapped on the door loudly three times, but no sound came from within.

Edging open the ramshackle door with one end of the staff (his wits were not gone enough to shove his face into the crack directly), he looked in and found the place was well deserted, probably for as long as he had initially suspected. There was nothing to be found here except for the leavings of various animals that had taken shelter here over the years, various small feces scattered about on the dirt floor. In the far corner he saw some scraps of fabric. It smelled heavily of musk, but it seemed otherwise clean. He prodded in case a squirrel or rat happened to be sleeping in it, then picked it up. It wasn’t much, but it was something he could work with.

Leaving the shack behind, he ambled until a small, babbling stream crossed his path. Kneeling down carefully at its edge, he took the cloth and soaked it thoroughly in the clear, cold water. Leaving it downstream of him slightly, he prostrated himself and drank. Not too deeply, so as to avoid cooling himself down too much, but enough to slake his thirst.

He sighed, knowing that he should clean his wounds lest they become infected. He could still feel the dried blood caking the right side of his face and knew that, had he encountered anyone, he would surely have frightened them away. He scooped frigid water in his hands and, gritting his teeth, he splashed it into the gaping hole in his face.

Daniel could not help gasping aloud as pain flared bright. The initial shock faded quickly, and by now he was familiar enough with pain that it didn’t bother him as much as he thought it would. He quickly continued, rubbing at his cheeks and hair until the water that splashed back into the creek was no longer red. Glancing into the gurgling flow, he noted—with some relief—that the water was not still enough to show him a clear reflection of his face.

After allowing himself to dry, he went back to the bundle of cloth that still soaked in the water. He kneaded it repeatedly, massaging as much dust and grime out of it as he could. After a few minutes of this he wrung it dry, or at least simply damp. He carefully but quickly ripped a lengthy strip and tied it around his head, covering up his wound. He could not be sure how effective this bandage was, but he knew it was no replacement for proper healing.

If it did become infected, then he was as good as dead. But, then, he felt himself dead already, in some way.

He took the rest of the cloth and wound it around one end of his staff—he would keep it for bundling, though for that to matter he would need to find anything worth carrying first.

After a couple more hours of steadily plodding westward, the trees broke away from him and he emerged on the far side of the Baby Forest. More rolling hills greeted his eye, waves of tall grass bobbing gently up and down in the wind. Farther off in the distance he could finally see the tops of the mountains, greeting him coldly in the afternoon light.

From his lessons he remembered that there were vast bogs along the southern taper of the Shavéd range, and thus he decided to tend northwards. He still had no idea what to do for food—as the sun again dipped below the hazy mountaintops and plunged the hills into darkness, his stomach grumbled painfully. Had he even a knife he could fashion some snare traps and hope to have small game in the morning, but such was not his lot.

He did gather some dried grass together and a few twigs for a meager fire. He had no tinderbox and found himself spending too much energy starting it in the simple way—twisting the end of one stick into another—and eventually he gave it up for a bad job. He wrapped himself in his cloak again as night came on, and his teeth chattered together awfully as the cold swept over him.

Daniel managed to find some small sleep in the night and resumed his journey as the light crept over him once again. His body was running out of energy and lacked the ability to make more, and he knew that without help of some sort he would surely die.

Part of him welcomed it. His shame was slowly but surely overpowering his will to live, and quietly he wondered why he had even bothered to bandage himself. Perhaps it would be better to simply succumb to the elements. He thought of his spirit lingering after he had passed on, his flesh melting into the ground and his bones bleaching in the sun and rain.

But, of course, he knew deep inside that this was not ka, so he kept on.

Later in the day, as he trudged north and west towards the base of the mountains, he saw a smoke column rising lazily eastward into the wind. Exhaustion threatening to overtake him, he wound his way across the field towards whatever was making it.

The gently rolling hills began to smooth and flatten, and soon the beleaguered boy found himself staring at a loose encampment of wattle and daub huts. They were of poor, hasty construction, with gaping holes in most of them that exposed wood slats to the elements; in many, these were visibly rotted. Even where the walls were solid he saw gaps in the thatch overhead, and as he walked among the pitiful huts he wondered how anyone could stand living in them.

But then, he realized, he hadn’t seen anyone. The entire would-be village was bereft of people, and he felt a shiver crawl up his spine. Still, there must be at least one person there, for what else could be tending the fire?

What indeed, he found himself thinking, and suppressed another shiver.

As he neared the center of the hollow dwellings, he did find a fire—a great roaring thing, someone was clearly keeping it going, for it pitched great volumes of black smoke into the sky due to fresh tender. Nasty pops and crackles emitted from the new logs, giving the fire the feel of something angry and vicious.

“Hello?” Daniel called out as loudly as he dared. When no one answered, he continued in the proper way: “I seek rest and respite, if whoever lives here would offer it.”

Lofty words, and he remembered with great sobriety that someone of his lowly station was no longer entitled to use them.

Still, no one bothered to answer. He took the chance to sit down a safe distance from the bonfire. It kept the chill off him, and he found his muscles relaxing in the warmth. The smell from the fresh logs was pleasant, though it cloyed his nose and mouth when he breathed. Already exhausted, it was not long before he began to nod off. Gently at first, but the warmth of the fire and that heady aroma lulled him quickly. Without realizing it, he had folded his arms over his staff, his chin resting squarely on his chest. He invited sleep, and maybe he would ache no longer once he had woken…

“Greetings, young traveler.”

With energy he did not know he still possessed, Daniel was on his feet in an instant with his staff raised defensively in front of him. He could feel his pulse in his temples and the soles of his feet, heart racing with a sudden, primal sense of panic.

But all that stood before him was a man. A strange man to be sure, draped with an absurd number of shirts and shawls (or perhaps it was just one piece of clothing?) of so many colors that for a second it almost hurt to look at him. Somehow, though the light of the flames turned all it touched to golden yellow, all of the myriad colors of his clothing showed in their full hues. It was borderline offensive, was Daniel’s first thought. The man’s face was practically buried underneath fabric, except for a short, fat nose that poked out grossly, and a glint of light from the fire that betrayed his eyes.

The stranger made no movement, said nothing further for some time. Daniel’s heartbeat slowly calmed, and after some seconds he brought his staff down as well. The sense of being tired filtered back into him, but with a start he realized it was now nighttime. Had he actually fallen asleep?

“I apologize for startling you, young man.” That voice came forth again, low and mellifluous. “Worry not, there is no danger here.”

Daniel studied him for a few seconds more, then decided that if there was danger, he was already in the thick of it anyway. “It is I who apologize, for falling asleep here. I did not mean to presume I was welcome.”

“Ah, but you are welcome,” the man said warmly, “as are all who come here from Gilead. You sport leather sown by your own hand, and you wear the black of one who has been cast asunder.”

Daniel frowned. “You know our ways, but there are no teachings of such a place as this.”

“No, there wouldn’t be. Come now, you must be hungry. You asked for rest and respite: I offer it, humbly.”

Food was in front of Daniel. It did not suddenly appear; somehow, it seemed as if it had always been there, and he simply hadn’t noticed it until now. Sitting in a wicker basket there was a loaf of crisp, warm bread and a whole roasted chicken that steamed as if fresh from the oven. Daniel’s eye popped at the sight, and the first whiff of garlic and herbs that caught in his nose caused spittle to squirt excitedly into his dry mouth. His stomach squirmed into knots as he sat down, unable to restrain himself, and ate of the unexpected meal.

The man stood there as he ate, without comment. The flames, still dancing merrily in the pit, cast their jagged, warm light on the man’s absurd clothes. Daniel paid him some small mind as he filled his aching belly, a small corner of his awareness keeping watch. He could not tell for sure, but it seemed as if the stranger stood like a stone. He would recall only later that the multicolored cloak hung limp and still, even in the wind.

After taking his fill, he breathed deeply, letting the food rest in his stomach like a lead pellet. Feeling more sure of himself, he stood up and faced the odd man once more. “I thank you for your kindness, truly. I must ask, however: who are you? Are there others who live here?”

“I am no one important,” the stranger replied in that smooth and silky tone, “and though it was not always so, no one lives here anymore. This place is now but a brief stop for those such as you. I am here merely to guide, should you wish it.”

Daniel’s frown returned. “Where would one such as yourself guide me, stranger?”

“Why, to the west, young traveler,” and the man pointed thusly, to the peaks of the mountains that were just barely visible under the full moon. Daniel saw that every finger on that hand sported jewelry, great rings with gemstones as multicolored as the man’s clothes which caught the firelight and sparkled like stars in the heavens. “Is that not where they told you to go?”

“It is,” Daniel allowed, “but my honor is lost, now and forever. What would you have me do there?”

“That is not for me to say, young man. But, should you desire a direction, a purpose, then I point you towards none other than my master.” Still pointing, those jewels glittered distractingly. The stranger’s voice lilted strangely, like a tittering bird: “The Good Man.”

“Farson?” Daniel’s voice squeaked. “But… he’s a rebel. A traitor to Gilead, and her people!”

“What does Gilead matter?” the man said, the words darting out of him like a snake from its hole. “It cast you out, just like so many others.” He twisted his arm unnaturally to point at the boy now. His voice mounted, shrieking out of him like a gale. Daniel could feel it rushing at him, chilling him to his bones. The fire blazed, guttering with the force of the man’s howling words: “You are of no house, Daniel Bryne! You cling to your home like a sickly babe ripped from his mother’s teat!”

Daniel shrank from that voice, the warmth of the fire suddenly swept away by it. He found himself trembling, shivering against his will as his body filled with ice. How did this man—this creature, he thought, for no man could be this strange and unholy—know his name?

But then, it was over as quickly as it began. The fire crackled some more, showing no sign of disturbance.

Had he simply imagined it?

“I apologize for my outburst.” The horrible man’s voice had returned to its original cadence, and he lowered his accusing hand. Though he had not otherwise changed his stance, to Daniel he now seemed to slink, as like an animal hiding in the bush. “I believe, quite strongly, in my master’s cause. He is the Good Man, and he leads a Good Fight after all.”

His words felt reasonable, pleasant almost, but there was a ring to them that was dirty like the rainbow taint of oil on the surface of water. Daniel thought of the food digesting in his belly and suddenly felt sick. He had been foolish to eat anything from this wicked stranger.

“I see my words do not sway you,” the man sounded disappointed now, but in a distant, indirect way. “That is fine: after all, a man must choose his fate for himself.”

Daniel said nothing: he could not trust himself to avoid trembling and tripping over his words.

After a few seconds of torturous silence, the man continued: “I will leave you to your thoughts, young man. As a small token of goodwill, the Good Man leaves you trappings for your travels that your erstwhile home would not.” The man pointed one more time at Daniel’s feet (he could not help noticing those rings again, and to his now wary eyes the gems all looked like so much trumpery garbage). Much as the food had appeared, there were suddenly some tools there. “Avail yourself of them, and if you should deign to do so, seek your brethren in the west.”

Daniel examined the equipment sitting in the dry dirt. The dancing firelight revealed them to him: a small, simple dagger, ugly in all respects but with an edge that seemed properly cared for; a leather watersack, stitched tightly along both sides and already corked full; and a small bar of steel with a couple sizeable flakes of flint.

His heart suddenly leaped into his throat. Sitting just next to the rest, but visibly apart, was a gun.

It was not the cherry-grip gun of his father, and his father’s father. It was not even a revolver. It was a little thing, pitiful by comparison to the beautiful weapons of the gunslingers. It was a small, short-barreled pistol, the stock and muzzle both showing signs of tarnish and rust. It was magazine fed, with a rough column grip that he knew would feel unnatural in the hand.

This could not be trusted to shoot true. It was an object of utter shame. A thing that a gunslinger would not use, perhaps even if his very life depended on it.

He went to voice his objections to the foul stranger, but as he turned his face upwards, he found that the man had already gone.

Though part of him did not dare, he found himself tipping dangerously towards sleep almost against his will, that lively fire inviting him to rest. To be sure, he woke up to the harsh brightness of another day and cursed his inattentiveness. There was no wonder he had failed his test, he thought: for all the training he had received, he might as well have forgotten it the moment that oaken door had closed behind him.

Well, no more, he decided within. He would mourn his lost life, but not now; tears and distraction were luxuries he could not afford at the moment.

Daniel had been given a choice, strange and uncanny though it was. He had been instructed to go west, but that would take him straight to Farson and the rebellion that had plunged the western barony of Garland and others into madness and chaos.

He had no honor left to him, true, but there was always room to fall further. That was no choice at all, and so he determined to go down another path.

He examined the tools again. They seemed innocent, and mundane; there was no foulness he could readily detect, though he uncorked the waterskin and emptied it on a lark. Forcing himself to go without these basic elements of survival was a sure foolishness in and of itself; it could serve no one to let himself die out in the wild from exposure, like some helpless infant. He unwrapped the cloth from his staff, tearing another thin strip from it to serve as a belt and holster for the knife. He securely wrapped the flint, steel, and waterskin in larger swath, tying them all in a bindle just under one of the bronze caps.

The gun, however…

There could be no question. Using the short dagger to break the packed earth, he dug a small hole next to the fire and buried it.

He had forgotten the face of his father, after all. Even if it was just this gross little thing, he could never touch a gun again.

He rose from that place, the coals of the fire glowing visibly even in the light of day. It all felt foul to him now: the strange fire, these patchwork dwellings, the mountains rising in the west. He wondered that he could not sense it before. The rough mud huts seemed to stare at him in their squalor, asking him what he would do next.

The only answer he gave them was to turn away, away from the mountains to begin his steady march to the north.