Night Jogger part II.

Where Night Jogger enters the ancient Valley, is introduced rather abruptly to its inhabitants, and then explores the house until finding...

IV.

Pausing for a second to catch his breath, he looks around the house. Over to his right, just below a circular staircase is a large theatre-style couch. Definitely from the 20s, he thinks. He half-walks, half-limps over to it and sits down. This has all been too much, he thinks, and leans over and lays his head down. Just for a minute, he tells himself. Then he lifts his feet on the long couch and stretches out, releasing a deep, shuddering breath as he does. Soon, Night Jogger is fast asleep in the darkness. The silence completely re-fills the surroundings, except for his breathing, and an incessant creak up above somewhere in the house.

When a man has physically worn himself out to the point of exhaustion, dreams come fast as he fades into sleep. Night Jogger was soon passed out and over the shelf of the shore into the deeper waters of slumber, when his dreams morphed into a vision of the abandoned city, in its earlier incarnation as a small but thriving 19th-century railroad town. The buildings were new, the boardwalks all had horse posts along the businesses, and the handrails had just been constructed along both sides of the street. Then in his dream, he hears music, of the orchestral variety, and somewhere back in the very back of the auditorium of Night Jogger’s mind, a voice said, “That’s the music you heard when you were watching the house on the hill.”…that’s the exact music. It’s a song I should know, Night Jogger thinks, and if I could think of the title, it would somehow help me figure this whole thing out. It would probably be in French or German, perhaps even Italian or Spanish. And the title would be a word that has no equivalent word in English, only an emotion representing the proper translation. Then Night Jogger realizes the music isn’t in his dream, it is actually playing in the house where he now lies, on a couch in the front sitting room. He feels himself coming up from the abyss, paddling up toward the moonlight above the surface of the dreamy, ethereal, warm waters of sleep, and comes to with a shiver on the couch. He lies exactly the way he did when he fell asleep, as he has not moved at all. Softly in the distance…music? Yes, it’s real, it’s no dream. Upstairs? A very dense orchestral movement. It is coming from upstairs, up and maybe to the right of his location, presumably from the room with the light on (and the person who was watching me) that he has been focusing on since he spotted it from the other side of the Valley. The music sounds very familiar, yet he cannot place it, even though he is quite sure he has heard it somewhere before. The only light visible is trickling down the staircase to his right. It’s one of those fancy old circular staircases with stately banisters and what looks like oil paintings rimming the walls of the ascent to the next floor. Fearing a return of the things (it’s them Ha’ants boy, ca n’tcha get it right? Yer Pa-Paw toldja bout em.) of the town, he walks over toward the stairs. Pausing and looking up, Night Jogger holds his breath and goes completely still, listening for any noises he can hear. There is a deep and seemingly old-sounding silence save for one continuous noise, a steady creak up above, from the upper floors somewhere. He lets out his breath, then steps up with his right foot on the first stair and begins his ascent.

The first steps of the climb produce a few creaks, similar to the ones he heard all through the Valley in the moments prior. For a brief moment, Night Jogger regretted his choice as he did not want a return of the things which had chased him within an inch of his wits before melting away back to their dwellings (or wherever it was those things went). He pauses, listening after the first precarious steps. The brief nap he has taken has not left him more rested; instead, he feels even more groggy and disoriented. His slumber took him all the way to the edge of a deeper level of sleep, and then the rug was pulled out from under him just as he began to slip over the shelf into the deep. He knows he must lie back down soon, but in the unfamiliar surroundings of the house, he knows not where he may be able to do this. My legs are killing me, he thinks to himself. Better than those things killing you, the other voice answers back. He has taken to referring to them as “those things” in his mind since he has no other term or explanation for their existence, nor does he grasp where he is or how a place such as this exists.

In this state of ethereal thoughts, the mind is just out of the phase of sleep, and there are vague remembrances of dreams had down deep in the subconscious mind. Maybe whoever it was that was watching me can give me some answers, he thinks. This thought emboldens him and gives him a place to direct his frustration and anger. His dreams of earlier now fading, he begins a new conversation inside his own mind: Yes, I want some answers, and someone had better give them to me, he declares to himself. This is unacceptable, he glowers. No cell service, no lights anywhere, and the place smells like a garbage dump wrapped up in a sewer drain. He takes a few more steps up the stairs and stops. The music has stopped, too. The house is still and quiet as if in expectation of what may come next. Night Jogger continues his slog up the staircase, sensing that in the quiet someone is listening. As much as he tries to be quiet, it is virtually impossible since this house, and all the houses here in this forsaken place, are so old and decrepit that a certain level of decay has long ago set in. This produces many little creaks and groans as any progress is made, thus making it virtually impossible to traverse any part of the dwelling. Night Jogger looked around him, surveying the walls of the curved, banistered staircase leading to the landing on the 2^nd floor. From floor to ceiling were paintings of old cities, rivers, horses, ships, and every other imaginable scene, for there were literally hundreds all about the walls. Here to his right was one with a large castle off in the distance, and a man holding a sword with jewels about the handle stood prominently in the front lawn, at the ready with posture and scabbard. He held his gaze on this one momentarily, for the setting appeared to have the similarities of the house he was now in on the hill off in the distance over the man’s shoulder, although in this version, the house was a much older architectural style. Another, just above and a little bit to the right of the castle print was one which, in the faint light of what looked to be moonlight spilling in front a window down the hall from the landing, caused Night Jogger to stop on the stair he stood upon in his climb up to the top of the stairs. This one depicted a landscape shot of a view of a city, looking down from a high hill or mountain. The city, framed by trees on either side of the little valley in which it lay, was bathed in the sunlight of a beautiful day. The structures were familiar-the large gymnasium-style building at the entrance to the town on perhaps the west side, with the little row of shops across the street. The train station was visible at the top of the painting, and the steam was visible rising up from the engine of a long black set of shining cars. The detail of the painting mesmerized Night Jogger as he stood there looking at it for what soon became quite a long time. Yet another was a vaguely familiar landscape of the Valley town, this one from the other side of the little rise near the entrance of the village. Newer-looking buildings yet still with the streets of dirt and gravel, this time with horse-drawn carriages going down the main street past the gymnasium. After a short gaze at this particular artwork, Night Jogger noticed a figure in many of the windows of the homes, looking down toward the street. This minutia of the painting would not be noticed upon first inspection, as the eyes are drawn to the street populated with carriages and pedestrians. A few more glances and a pattern appears, as each figure’s head is drawn with oversized bulging eyes glaring out at the patrons on the street. They are everywhere in the painting, and also included in some of the others as well. He imagines those things looking at him in this manner when he entered town, and then deciding to pounce when he tripped over the old barrel on the corner, I wonder if “those things” have always lived in this town of doom? (and they just about had me, he thinks) His eyes continue to find other little details that remind him of his entrance to the village and his mad run through the main street toward the house he now explored, with the moonlight now spilling in through the windows. In fact, all of the paintings from floor to ceiling on the rotunda-style staircase are lushly rich in detail, and all depict some view of the village from the various time periods they were painted. Familiar to some are the arched windows of the community center, which lay directly across the street from the gymnasium, which was of hangar-style construction. These buildings were clearly visible in most of the paintings, in various stages of their development and showing their age and dilapidation in many others.

Realizing there was no way to inspect them all, though wanting to and feeling regret that he could not, Night Jogger navigated the 4 creaky steps to the landing. This led to another staircase and another grand window view of the dilapidated valley acreage, with the bay window overlooking a black forest. Above this, the moon had risen partway up the sky, and now an opaque glow illuminated the formerly pitch black Valley town. A very bright waning gibbous hung there, lonely looking and with absolutely no competition in the black sky, loomed over everything with a grace and menace all at once. Over to his left, the square, opaque glow of the moon’s unfettered light casts through the landing window, a milky white elongated rectangle on the floor, and the first few stairs of the next level up.

Suddenly, the music begins again, this time not the dense sound of the earlier tune. It is now an up-tempo march with bright violin and trumpets. Night Jogger realizes it is coming from the end of the hall at his left, which has a small staircase leading up to a stately-looking door, up from his current position. While it must be from a recording or some device, he thinks, it almost sounds as if the instruments could be live and in person in the room up the little staircase. Does this place even have electricity? He thinks. Night Jogger realizes this must be the window he had seen when he first entered the Valley town, and then thinks about whether he should go to the door and knock.

Here goes, he thinks…and just as he reaches for the door, the music comes to an abrupt halt. This causes him to hesitate, as it startles him. “Come on in,” he hears plaintively in the silence. A strong voice with no accent detectable. A bit shaky, he knocks on the thick wooden door anyway, even after being beckoned already from within. He hears the distinct stirring of someone on the other side, as one does so often when knocking on a strange door. The noise creeps closer towards the door. Then, silence again.

V.

“The door is unlatched, you may enter,” came a deep, distinguished-sounding voice from the other side, much louder and closer than the first time he had heard it. Surprised at first but then succumbing to this due to the calm and reassuring nature of the voice, Night Jogger reached for the brass door knob to open the door. As he entered, he noted the large wood-paneled room spread out in front of him and let the door go. The big door swung away rather easily for such a large door, Night Jogger thought. Like a castle door, he thought randomly. To his left was a big window which looked off to the east of the city, with the illumination of the now fading Moon casting pools of shadow on the right side of all the rows of houses in his view. No light burned, the vision was of shades of black broken by the gray visible parts of the shanty town homes. But Night Jogger thought of all the beady eyes in the windows of the paintings and of his run of his run through the town and knew the places were not empty, and what filled them gave Night Jogger a shudder as he thought of those scenes. “Are you troubled by your thoughts, my good sir?” said the distinguished voice with a touch of concern. “It is on your face, the worry of it all. Please, come and rest here.” He gestured towards Night Jogger. Night Jogger looked to his right, and there, sitting in a large skillfully carved wooden throne-like chair, was an old man with white hair and a long white beard sitting next to a large table. A little way over from that was the fire, providing heat and light to the room. On the big Oak wood table were what looked like old maritime route maps spread out, along with handwritten notes written on several leather-bound journals. The man looked at Night Jogger and said, “What is it you seek, young man? What has brought you here to visit such a place on this night?” This development had put Night Jogger into a sort of shock, then the man said, “Well? What is it, my son? Speak it to me, can you now my son?”

Night Jogger heard the words coming out of his mouth more than he thought of actually speaking them, when he said, “I want to go home, I am lost, I want out of here.” Night Jogger half-coughed, half-cried out the words to the old man. The man now regarded Night Jogger with his gaze, and said, “Wouldn’t you like to just come in and have a seat on this couch, my couch over here? Sit and rest, and we will talk of this place you want to go.” This was an excellent development, Night Jogger reasoned. Yes, this is such a nice change from the earlier terror and utter chaos of running through the town, he thought. An actual person to talk to and reason with, finally. He walked three steps over and had a seat on the big couch on the other side of the old man’s table. Flanked also around the table were stools and other chairs, along with the theatre-style couch, similar to the one Night Jogger had fallen asleep on downstairs just after entering the house. The second he sat down, Night Jogger felt a relief he had not felt since his entrance to the Valley town. He finally felt some measure of ease with himself and the situation.

“Now, where was it you said you wanted to go?” the old man said.

“I want to go back, up through the town and out and back to my house in Oak Park. Have you heard of Oak Park? It’s one of the newer subdivisions in Jeff City. Do you know Jeff City? That’s where I wanna go,” Night Jogger babbled on, “Yeah, I really wanna get on back. Can you ask your friends out in the town to let me go? Getting chased around like that, well, I just hope it doesn’t happen again. I have a homeowner’s meeting tomorrow, I really need to get ready for it.” Realizing he had said too much and then feeling uncomfortable and awkward, he abruptly stopped speaking, leaving an awkward silence. The fire crackled on, casting its glow and making shadows dance on the far walls.

“I see,” the old man said. “You want to find a passage back home. Perhaps you have been lost already before you made it here? Or was this place the first time you had felt lost?” The old man never let his gaze leave Night Jogger as he spoke, his voice never rising above the volume of a quiet conversational tone throughout. Always, when he finished, he held eye contact as he glanced straight at Night Jogger, as if to make the point further and coax some sort of reply.

Night Jogger thought of what the old man said and then remarked, “Do you mean when did I know I was lost? When I got to the town, I was disoriented, and the smell…” he continued, “and then those things chased-“

“Those things?” the old man interrupted with a higher level of volume than before, to which Night Jogger immediately stopped in mid-sentence.

“Those things,” the old man repeated, “have made their home here for quite a long time. You did not like their reception when you arrived? Perhaps you have not considered the way you must look to them. You are only concerned with how they looked to you. A new visitor in your town also makes news, am I correct? A new person in, where did you say, Oak Park? What would the reaction be? You were also a new visitor to their town. You mistake their excitement for some other reason.” The old man concluded this brief speech by picking up his violin and bow and positioning it in proper form under his chin on his left shoulder. Night Jogger had a notion to speak, but then the music began vibrating out of the beautiful mahogany violin the man had begun to play. The song, while at times familiar and other times not, doubled back over itself and droned on as Night Jogger listened. He felt the inclination first to lay his head back on the couch, and then moments later to lie full out on the spacious and soft yet firm cushions. Soon, he was sound asleep as the music played on and on, taking the song on a new journey as it progressed in the old room. An unknown amount of time passed as both men went on with what they were presently doing, which was the old man playing the violin and Night Jogger sleeping away on the couch. Time was hard to measure in the environment of the Valley town with so much darkness and quiet all around. Little movement was evident here, but there remained a tension under the surface of it all due to the knowledge of who inhabited this land of shades of black and grey, and the experience of seeing them in action would not soon want to be repeated. This was what Night jogger dreamt of as he once again slipped off the shelf and into the deeper water of slumber. Such had been his discomfort in seeing and being chased by those things, Night Jogger now had this vision stamped under every thought he had about the place he now found himself. Would they come back? How could he get out of the town? More specifically, and this thought had been a more distant thought to Night Jogger earlier, how could he go back through the town and risk awakening the inhabitants again? Never, he thought to himself emphatically. I cannot do it. If they catch me this time, if I don’t have the energy to outrun them…but what other way can I get back out? These thoughts bounced around in his head as he rested.

He felt a jolt in his warm dream state, and soon was brought straight up from the ocean of sleep by the realization that the old man had come across the room and placed his hand on Night Jogger’s left shoulder, gently tugging at it and awakening him in a non-jarring, peaceful way.

“Would you like some bread and oil? You look famished, my son. Let us break bread together, literally break bread, and share what we have and call it our feast, shall we?” with this he threw his head back and laughed a hearty bellow. “ha ha break bread, that is always an amusing turn of the phrase to me, how do you say such a thing my son?” he continued a few little laughs, and then produced a decorative tray made of wood, and ornately carved with scenes of horses, like the horse paintings of the American West of the late 19^th Century. On the tray was a rich-looking loaf of Italian bread and a small porcelain bowl of what looked like olive oil. The bread had a few pieces sliced, but the rest was whole. The old man picked up the unsliced chunk and offered it to Night Jogger. Seeing his hesitation, he proclaimed, “The night is fair, I have bread to share! Mine shall be your bread, take this and eat and be content, my son. Peace be with you.”

Night Jogger looked at the bread offered to him and took it, nodding his head in thanks as he took a bite and chewed the first food of any kind he’d had in…how many hours? He didn’t know for sure, since he had fallen asleep now twice for unknown amounts of time in the house, and also since he had gotten so far off track from Mount Eagle. The bread was excellent, not too dry and just moist enough that he was able to chew and swallow it even though he felt the pangs of thirst as well. It was quite possibly the best bread he had ever tasted.

“How impolite of me to my honored guest. I have not offered you any refreshment for your no doubt parched palate, any agua, any acqua, or perhaps vino, or wine for you? Rahat misin efendim? Oh, pardon-moi, some of my other languages may slip in or out…I have learned French over the last years as well. Parlez-vous?”

Night Jogger reached up and took the large glass chalice full of water. The old man had drawn it from a well-like apparatus in the corner of the room inside an oaken cabinet. No words were spoken for a moment as he ate, and he for the first time surveyed his surroundings and noted details. First, he saw the large window that framed the old man. From this view, it was evident that this was in fact the window he had first seen when he stood atop the other side of the valley, before he descended down the hill path and into the Valley town proper. How long ago had that been? he thought. It could have been 30 minutes or 6 hours, hard to tell. Over to the right of the window was a little fireplace with a bustling fire, the source of the smoke and reason for the chimney he had also earlier sighted. The whole town lay out in this vista, with the street where he had entered town in view and up to the left. And even the old barrel he had kicked over to start the race of his life earlier was barely visible. It was there, on the corner where the barrel now lay, that Night Jogger had awakened “those things” and made his desperate right turn and dashed for the hilltop house with the only light he had seen illuminating the window. Even then, he had felt he was being watched by the silhouette figure in the window, and even then he had felt, as he now felt, that this old man was somehow watching over him and was going to help him. Wanted to help him. The man seemed to be waiting for him to ask the right question or make the right movement, and his problem would be solved.

“Are you, ah, te en kenyeret? My Hungarian is a little on the, how do you often say..’ rusty’ side, mi paesano. What I do mean to ask is, do you like the bread? It does give life. Yes? Have as much as you would like. I have another loaf coming out of my oven very soon. We shall have our bread together with the finest oil of the Mediterranean as an accoutrement. Break the bread in remembrance for all of our good fortune this night, yes?”

Night Jogger greedily chewed down the bite he had been negotiating, and took a long drink of the cold, sweet water in the crystal chalice. “Why, yes, the bread is good. I don’t understand all of those other languages. Could you just speak American now?” Night Jogger regretted instantly the impudent tone that had been in this diatribe of impatience despite his comfortable surroundings, and opened his mouth to speak again. “I-“

“Please, please, forgive me sir,” the old man interjected, in that calm and distinguished sounding English of his earlier speech, “I will accommodate you in your native tongue, of course I will sir. We can be of one accord without such a Tower of Babel between us, correct sir?” the old man raised an eyebrow on the last syllable, in this case the word sir, and Night Jogger once again relaxed and slumped his shoulders with relief and sighed, “Yes, great.” This seemed to take great effort, and Night Jogger appeared spent of his energy once again.

The old man continued, “You know that story, do you not, of the Tower of Babel. Some say it is a fairy tale, but I can tell you it is true, down to the heart of it all.” Night Jogger was at a loss, and the silence hung in the room once more, again with only the crackling of the fire making a sound. The man spoke again.

“Sir, shall you take a drink of this wine? You still look to be famished, and this is a concern of my attention. I am only here to see to your needs. Will you need a bit of broth, or perhaps some greens from my humble garden? Not of the same glory as the one originally I had for you, but suffice it is pleasing to your needs, good sir.” The old man now brought a tray to Night Jogger and set it next to him on the table near the couch. “Here is more nourishment for you now, a bit of broth will suit you, I believe. And drink your water. I have more if you need it. And here, I must speak this term for it is dear to me, vino, yes vino, you know of this word, yes? You have enjoyed being back where you call your home, yes? This Jeff City of which you speak, is this home for you?” He gestured toward the window in a broad motion, indicating perhaps that was the direction of home for Night Jogger. This did seem right, for from this vantage point, he could trace his route of arrival to his current point of existence. The wide road through the middle of town, the shanty houses, the other familiar visuals of his walk, then run, up to the hilltop house where he now sat comfortably on the couch of the old man.

“Yes, home. Actually, Oak Park, but yes, Jeff City is where I’m going. Can you tell me the way? All of my devices, you know, my cell phone, my Fitbit, my GPS, everything, all my apps…it all went black, dead on me. I’m clueless. I don’t even have MapQuest or any type of MapMyRun app to help me with directions.” Night Jogger produced the thin little band of the Fitbit and tossed it on the table. The old man regarded this with a quick scoff of air and a look of disdain.

“Those little trinkets are of no use to you right now. I can give you the map you need and the way home. But now we are having bread, my good sir, and let us just enjoy the breaking of bread,” the old man once again giggled at his own phrase, “please just relax. This will be an easy fix when you hear your choices for returning home.” The old man tossed off this last part with a wave of the hand and a turning away of his shoulder as he produced from a brick oven another golden loaf of bread, which he extracted with a long stick and metal plate contraption, obviously homemade. The smell of it wafted up into the air and filled the room with a warmth and doughy, full aroma. Night Jogger found that he indeed did want a bit more bread, as he had enjoyed the other portion, especially the rich oil in which he had immersed his earlier chunks. The bread and its smells, and the warmth and glow of the fire, had provided quite a comforting aura in the room. It would be hard to leave when the time came, but he knew the time was soon for his departure. He and the old man would stop dancing around it soon and talk of it in real terms, Night Jogger was sure of it.

“Again, my good sir, I must apologize. I have never asked your name or what you are called. Will you please, sir, tell me your name now? Again, I am sorry for not already having asked-“

“Nathaniel Johnstone. That’s my name. Nathaniel…Johnstone,” he blurted out, interrupting the missive of the old man, then continued with some pause on the second time, calling out his own name. Again, he was hearing the words come out of his mouth but not seemingly grasping where they were coming from, or thinking of them before speaking. It was as though he were watching the events transpire here in the old creaky hilltop house rather than actually experiencing them in the first person. He did not let his mind dwell on this, for he had learned quickly that allowing such a digression added to his state of despair rather quickly, considering everything that had transpired up to this point.

“May I call you Nathaniel? Or Mr. Johnstone? I shall succumb to your preference, of course, my good sir.” The old man now rose and bowed towards Nate in a position of deference.

“Nate is what most people call me at the Institute.” He said matter-of-factly.

“Yes, of course, Nate. This is a strong name that I think will suit us both.” The old man then held the gaze of Nate, and Nate took a second for it to register. Then, catching on, Nate said, “So, tell me your name too,” between bites of the warm bread soaked in the oil.

“My name? Well, thank you for asking. One of them is ‘Opzichter,’ even though you have said you do not like the terms of other dialects. Another that may be more familiar to you is ‘capita.’” The old man again picked up his violin bow, but this time opened a cabinet on the wall nearby and took out a larger instrument. Nate saw that it was a sort of cello, with decorative carvings in the body giving it quite an exotic and ancient look.

“I have many names, and I am many things to many different people. But one thing that is a commonality is that I am the overseer, the watchman of the gates. I observe near and far, and always hope the best for all in all situations.”

The old man then waved to the instrument and said, “Will you play for us now? Or shall I attempt to make sense of this thing here?” As he said the word “here”, he reached for and grabbed the instrument and gave a long pull of the bow, and created a harmonic sound between multiple strings. The sound instantly filled the room with a unique reverberation, and Nate was again transfixed by the man and the music he made. The old man made a few more quick adjustments and then seemed to find his comfort level with the instrument, beginning a song with intricate fingerings and a delicate tempo.

As he began to play, he said, “To your earlier question. I am the overseer, the lookout, the surveyor of all things, and I can help you with safe passage not only now on your journey, but for eternity. Oh yes, such a strong word that is. But are you not interested in eternal things? You should be, my son, for a path has been paved for you on this trail. I can tell you of these things, all of them. You must only accept the answer and commit to this result, not only in your mind, but most importantly in your heart. Your heart of hearts, as you would say, my good sir.” The old man concluded speaking and seemed to intensify his effort in playing the instrument, producing an even more passionate and chordant sound from his work. The beginning notes gave way to a much more fluid passage, a minor movement with flourishes of bright major tones in the refrain. Once again, as in the earlier stylings with the violin, the old man turned the song back on itself and, with each new pass through the various parts of the tune, added more intricate and layered textures to further emote the message behind the notes. He scarcely moved his body as he played, only a well-placed head movement to accentuate a particular note was seen as he continued, making beautiful music in the utter silence and desolate surroundings.

Nate spoke up over the sound with “Yes, please, help me get home. Is that what you wanted to hear? Please? I just want to get back home and charge my phone back up. I think I can just go back through the town, up the hill path, and back towards Oak Park. Is that possible?” Nate finished up by motioning in a jabbing way toward what he perceived was Jeff City, but was uniquely unsure if he was in fact gesturing in the correct direction or not, since he did not actually know the precise location. His sense of place and direction was completely gone, and he saw no way for it to return anytime soon.

“I do know of a path you may go on now, if you like. Or you may stay awhile longer and refresh yourself, nourish yourself for your coming journey.” The old man did not look at Nate as he spoke, instead focusing on the cello and the ministrations which were currently producing an angelic sounding vibration. He continued on for a minute or so more, then put the cello away and spoke the words at the same time, ending what he said the second he shut the cabinet door where the instrument had been and was now again stored. Nate found himself with a feeling of disappointment that the music had stopped, since it had been so striking and beautiful. “Or, there is another way, one which may be fraught with a few more obstacles in the early stages, but richly and in the end, the most gratifying conclusion for you. Now, as well as in your future. You are interested in your future, yes, my good sir?” Nate and the old man locked eyes, and more was spoken in their stare as they held each other’s gaze for just a second longer, leaving even more unsaid in the air. Then Nate spoke up.

VI.

“Tell me about that one, is it shorter, or easier, or longer, or what?” Once again, Nate had an overwrought tone, making him sound unconfident and unsure. Well, why not, he thought, that is how I’m feeling, without a doubt. How would he ever explain this to anyone? “Just give me the easiest path. Back the way I came seems to be the best way, but I just need those things not to come back out of their shacks this time. Can you do that part?” Nate tilted his head and gestured out towards the Valley town as he said the last few words. The fear of the earlier encounter was still fresh, and Nate wondered if it would ever subside.

“Hear, hear, my good sir. Let me now tell you of the paths you may choose to reach your goal. Home, am I correct? That is what you seek?”

Part III. Chapters 7 and 8- The finale, posted later this month,

by Brad Barnett

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