The next morning, he was awoken with a stern kick to the ribs. Peering over him was the ranger. The morning sun was right behind his head, blinding the painter and spoiling the best chance he had to look the man in the face. He coughed gently, stood up, and stretched. The ranger had already hitched the horses back to the wagon and was climbing to the seat. He nodded in a “come here” motion, but the painter waved a single finger and went to relieve himself behind a tree. As if trying to postpone his imminent encounter with the painful boundary, he took his time. The meaningless delay stalled nothing, and he was soon seated in the wagon as well. They were off, the ranger knowing exactly where and what they were doing, the painter not having the slightest idea of either. He had tried to go to Kidkam about three years ago, and again about a year ago, but had been incapacitated both times. No matter how slowly the wagon travelled, he knew he was close.
They rolled along slowly for another forty-five minutes and the painter began to sweat. Not from any actual pain, but from the expectation of it. Grimacing in anticipation, the painter clutched the edge of his seat, awaiting the blaze of agony.
Another fifteen minutes passed with the painter feeling like the wagon seat might splinter in his grasp. His brow glistened and his jaw ached from clenching. Eventually, they crossed a small bridge spanning a stony-bottomed creek. The bridge was unfamiliar.
Have I crossed? Surely it couldn’t be this easy. He turned his head, looking anxiously back down the road.
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For five years he’d been rendered immobile by piercing headaches if he tried to stray too far from his home, and today, with the ranger, he was able to casually ride through his invisible prison walls with no issue.
I’m finally free... For the first time since his son had bolted out the front door, the painter felt optimistic.
His mind raced with nervous excitement about the world outside Umlom. Of the places he’d read about, he wondered where the ranger might take him. The Doppelganger houses could be found across the continents and were notoriously reluctant to welcome outsiders. Maybe they’d travel to the mysterious wandering towns that flew the Celestial Banners and didn’t show up on any map. Perhaps they’d visit the swamplands of the poison houses.
Just as the bookbinder had estimated, they quickly came upon the violet juniper the painter remembered from his childhood. It towered sideways, its stunning purple leaves creating a shadow over the fork in the road.
“Hey, there’s the tree. Let’s go into town and say hi to the bookbinder’s brother,” the painter suggested. The ranger seemed to ignore the request, but turned in the direction of town.
Ha! Maybe I’m finally getting through to him!
Just as they were about to pass through the stone archway that framed the road into Kidkam, the ranger pulled over alongside the town’s walls.
“What are we doing?” the artist asked with a tone of irritation. The ranger paid no mind to the painter and began to unhitch a horse. He rearranged the shaft assembly, centering the remaining horse. The other he took to a post near the archway, wrapping the reins around it. The painter followed the ranger and sensed this was to be their parting.