Interlude Nine: Over the Hills

Jessup Schwart kept a careful eye on the landscape from atop his wagon.

There was nothing but boundless, sweeping plains before him. More of the same lay behind, distinguished only by the shallow ruts their caravan had made passing through, blown away the next day by the low, persistent wind that set the fallow grass shivering. A mountain range squatted on the distant horizon.

You could say it was a metaphor for Jessup’s life. Passing through, making superficial impressions on those he passed. Nothing of any particular note ahead. The suggestion of great things on the horizon.

If he could only get there.

They were always past the next city, around the next bend, over the next hills. Sometimes he felt like he was chasing a dream. He was a practical man, Jessup, so he would never admit it, but chasing a dream was what he was doing.

He had spent most of his life feeling unsatisfied. He had grown up poor, scratching out a living from the dirt on his father’s farm. When he came of age, he married a woman from the next farm over.

It was then, he reckoned, that his life had begun to change. His wife, Mari, was a lovely woman. Spectacular, really. Everything he could have ever wanted in a partner. He wanted to do right by her, and that feeling of dissatisfaction grew. He couldn’t provide the life he imagined for her, not as a poor farmer.

So he worked. He worked hard, and then after that, he had worked harder still. He and his wife bought a farm of their own together. Years slipped by, and they had four wonderful children. They were the light of his life, and his wife the gilded candlestick. And Jessup, he was the table on which they rested.

But it wasn’t enough. His wife, his children, they were Goddess-given gifts, and they deserved more than to grow up, clawing an existence from the earth, as he had. He would make diamonds of his children, and his wife, their soulsteel chandelier.

But he needed to be more. He needed to become more for them. So he worked more. And more. And he worked so hard he manifested it. The Ideal of Work, that is.

It was a wonder he hadn’t manifested Dreams. He took it as a good sign, a sign that he was on the right track. It was Goddess herself, telling him to keep going. So he did. He put his head down and worked even harder.

But always, always, he kept his mind on his goal. On the reason that he worked. He was not a stupid man, Jessup, nor was he simple. He knew that the work was merely a means to an end, a way to provide his family with the life he envisaged for them.

He kept that dream with him always. He cherished it, even if he didn’t know quite what it would look like, or quite when he would get there. He was grateful, then, when he manifested his next Ideal.

Farsight.

The townsfolk had always thought Jessup curious. The dour, humourless man who worked harder than any other three farmers around. Of course, having the Ideal of Work helped with that, but then, they all knew he had always been that way inclined.

He was a good man, too, they all knew. The men loved him, for he was always first to help when an oxen got stuck, or a plough needed fixing, or a fence mending. The women adored him too, the stern man who so obviously doted on his wife and children, made them the centre of his world.

But all he had ever talked about was work. It seemed to be all he knew. No one was surprised in the slightest, when he had manifested it. So when he came to town, telling everyone of grand visions he’d had of a faraway utopia, an idyllic place, where they could all live like kings and queens, and want for nothing, they thought he’d gone mad.

“You need a break, Jessup!” they said. “Too much work has cracked your head!”

Jessup took it all in his stride, but he never stopped. He never relented. It was simply not in him. He had always worked, for his wife and his children, but now he knew how to work towards it.

He knew he had been thinking too small, too. His Farsight showed him that. So he kept at it. He worked, certainly, but he also worked at the all the people of his little township. He would tell them stories, paint pictures in their minds. Vivid ones, of a place where clean water ran cool, and trees laded with fruit stood at every corner, and you had only to drop a seed and come back the next day for harvest.

His passion was infectious. Or perhaps the townsfolk were more like Jessup than they cared to admit. It was not hard to feel like there must be more to life than eking a simple living on a farm. He worked each and every one of them, until they came around.

They all worked together, then, and soon they were ready.

The townsfolk all fixed their carts, brought all their wagons, and their livestock. They brought in their last harvest, and all their worldly goods. Every one of them gathered into a caravan, and together, they left.

At the first city, they sold much of their harvest, most of their livestock, most of their furniture and handicrafts, for gold for the journey. There was so much of it they couldn’t sell it all at once. They had an entire village’s worth, after all. It was of no matter, though. They had a long way to go, and there were many more cities between them and their distant dream.

They crossed a great alluvial plain, crossed over and back again with tedious rivers. Jessup thought their journey might have come to a premature end, but the miller’s son manifested Water, and the crossings became easy.

They came to a jungle, dense, impenetrable. But Jessup had Work, and a skill used for reaping a harvest was put to use clearing an old, overgrown road. It was slow going, and dangerous too. The jungle had grown used to its own company, and had become fearful of strangers.

It lashed out at them. Beasts attacked their caravan, along with all manner of carnivorous plants. Jessup’s reaping skill came in handy there too. Some of the men manifested fighting-adjacent Ideals, and the attacks became less of a problem.

The real issue was the insects. They were relentless. Not a minute went by without them buzzing, flitting, darting, biting. They were an inconvenience, if an extremely aggravating one, but just that -an inconvenience.

Until the rashes started.

Jessup’s own mother came down with it first. Horrible, blistering skin, spreading all up her neck and side. It spread, and not just about her body, but further afield. Soon several in the caravan had the Itch. Then more.

The old and the young had it the worst. All laid up, wailing, covered in long, red, bleeding lines where they’d scratched themselves raw for relief. It was a nightmare. Jessup could fight off cats and pigs and snakes, but he could do nothing against this invisible enemy.

They passed a small, spring-fed pool, deep in the humid confines of the jungle. There they stopped, content to know they would have at least some small succour in their last days.

As it happened, Goddess smiled upon their struggles, and lifted a benevolent hand to them. Gloria, the baker’s widow, whose husband had scratched his neck open, manifested Soothing as she helped the stricken children bathe. It turned out to be just the thing.

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They spent a week there, by the pool, in convalescence. Gloria manifested more skills, and though none of them were a direct cure, no one else itched themselves to death. One of the girls even found a swarm essence, testament to the sheer size of the great clouds of insects that plagued them. She gave it to Jessup, for they all knew he had a familiar that needed manifesting.

He put the essence to Work, and then had his own team of oxen, bonded to him. With their new team leading, they pushed onwards, and soon they were through the jungle.

They traversed a great mountain range, and were almost defeated. Time and time again they drove their caravan into it, and had to turn back for weather or poor ground. It seemed there were no passes in the entire range.

One morning, Jessup had a vision of a great light shining above a valley, one they had tried a few days before and discarded due to its treacherous slopes. He told the caravan, and they followed. Gone were their misgivings, their doubts. They knew Jessup would lead them true.

They tried the valley again, and a sharp eyed young boy found a hidden pathway. It was narrow, precarious, barely big enough for their wagons, but they chanced it. They spent days huddled close to rock faces, cringing at every dislodged pebble.

Eventually, they lost a wagon. The last one in line, thank Goddess, but a terrible blow nonetheless. The slopes sounded mocking, cruel, as the stones slipped and tumbled away underneath them. The oxen team it was hitched to screamed long into the night, broken upon the valley floor. Jessup breathed a selfish prayer that it had not been his team. Their intelligence was the only thing keeping the rest of the caravan’s oxen in line.

Two days later, their lead wagon broke an axle traversing the narrowest part of the pass. To make things worse, a storm blew in. They were naked, completely exposed to it. Helpless.

They struggled to right the wagon, to repair it, even as snow and rain lashed them, and flashes of distant lightning grew closer. Nothing they did worked. Until Mari manifested Mending. A simple touch to the broken axle, and it was whole again.

But the storm was already upon them.

If they were perched upon precarious peaks before, now they hung on by wishes and prayers. They could barely see, couldn’t hear, navigated forwards, ever forwards, by stark flashes of lightning.

Thunder rumbled, and it seemed to be God’s foul voice, speaking in ancient tongues, condemning them for their hubris.

When strands of light began to pick at the sky, Jessup first thought the lightning had damaged his eyes. But it was not so. Goddess had taken mercy on them again.

Sunbeams gradually separated the clouds. Thunder rumbled off into the distance again, displeased. The path widened, sloped downwards again. And Goddess’ light shone upon an endless plain before them.

They found one of the women unconscious in a wagon as they descended the valley floor. They all looked wretched, but she was worse. When she woke, she told them she had manifested the Storm, and had been using it to help.

One woman, battling a storm for them. It left Jessup breathless. He hoped he could do these people proud. They had given up everything for him, for his dream. He vowed not to lead them astray.

And so they found themselves on the plains again. No rivers, this time, thankfully, but they seemed truly endless.

Days became weeks, and weeks became months among the endless, swaying grass. There was nothing to break the vista but the occasional tree, bent over by the perpetual, gnawing wind.

Two months turned into three, then four, and it felt as though the plains would never end. Jessup questioned his sanity. Were they going in circles? They must be. And yet his Farsight told them they were not.

They battled with themselves. They battled with plain, pure distance. They grew thirsty, but the miller’s son always found them water, when they needed it. Their wagons, much abused over long years, broke down. Mari fixed them. All manner of ailments sprung up, flared, and were Soothed again by Gloria.

All of them worked together, bending themselves to their purpose. But when they saw another mountain range on the horizon, it nearly broke them.

“We’ve turned in circles!” they cried. “We’ve gone all the way about and come back!”

“We can’t take the pass again, we’ll surely perish! The wagons are in even worse nick than before!”

Jessup had no answer for them. No answer, but the same, tired dream he had spun out before. He trotted it out. But it felt lacking: worn, tired, threadbare.

They picked it up all the same. Perhaps for the last time. But they were a people used to living on meagre rations. It was why they came in the first place.

They pushed onwards.

One morning, late in spring, Jessup was deep in thought about horizons and wagon ruts and winds. About dreams. And so it was that he almost missed the first signs.

His Farsight tickled his neck. He ignored it, at first, lost in thought, but it persisted, and suddenly, he snapped to.

There, on the horizon. Against the mountains. What was that..?

Jessup squinted, and Farsight brought the view closer. His heart swelled, and the dour man known only for work whooped for joy.

The others stared at him, sure that this time, he had truly lost his marbles. Jessup was crying! He was smiling! And he was laughing! All at once.

Then they saw it too, and suddenly everyone was crying, and smiling, and laughing.

It was the city, exactly as he had described. Grand against a backdrop of mountains. Towers reaching into the sky. Great walls for protection. They rushed closer, eager for their fabled destination.

And slowed again. Something was not right. Towers were not meant to end at such an angle, were they? These ones looked broken. And what good were walls with holes in them, like these had? They looked like they were about to fall over.

They grew closer still, but it was no longer joy in them, but trepidation. They had come all this way, through trials and tribulations, death and disease, for a shattered city. A ruin.

Not a single living soul moved as they approached. The great gates hung open, ajar, skewed on their hinges. The persistent wind kicked up dust, made ominous moans as it whistled through deserted streets.

The city was abandoned. It was dead. Jessup felt reproach in the eyes of his fellows as they drew up to the gates in silence. He had failed. He had failed all of them.

They wedged open one of the gates so their caravan could enter. As they worked, Jessup noticed a sweet smell on the air. It was out of place, among dusty, decaying buildings. Once they were in, he followed it.

Around a corner. Down a lane. Through a ruined square.

And there, perched atop the rubble of a long destroyed building, was an apple tree, laden with shining, red fruit.

A single tree. He had led them all this way for a single tree. He could feel the hope evaporating from the group. Mari began to climb the rubble. He hadn’t the heart to stop her, dangerous as it was. She reached the top and picked a fruit, shining it on her blouse. Then she stopped, wide eyed.

And began to laugh.

People looked at her in bewilderment, then began to climb the rubble too, curious. Jessup followed, and he joined his sweet wife at the top.

She had seen it before any of them, and he supposed that was fitting. From their vantage point atop the rubble, they could see far throughout the city.

It was full of trees. Crammed full of them. Everywhere they looked, blossoms danced in the wind. Apples and peaches, pears and citrus, all tangled up, all throughout the city.

Vines climbed walls, snaked over rubbled, full of grapes and berries. Currant bushes exploded with colour from disused windows.

And that was not all.

One of his children screamed, and was soon joined by another, then another. Jessup and the other parents were back down the rubble faster than they’d moved the entire journey.

The children had gone exploring into nearby buildings, and now they emerged. They had armfuls of objects, dirty faces, and wide grins.

Some had handfuls of gold coins, but that was the least exciting find. The other had cookpots and plates, dinnerware, tools, blankets and clothes.

All of it enchanted. Every single thing.

The townsfolk had seen enough. They all gathered around Jessup and lifted him into the air on arms strong from work. They cheered as they jostled him about, exultation to the Goddess ringing loud into sweet, spring air.

Jessup looked down, saw his beautiful, wonderful wife smiling at him through tears of joy. He saw his children playing with piles of gold. He saw the beautiful city, just as he had always seen it.

From his perch amidst joy and vindication, Jessup saw his wisp pulse a pure white. Strength flooded his limbs, seeped into every pore. He didn’t even need to check his wisp.

He knew exactly what he had manifested.