Wanderlust

Thin air burned in his lungs. For a moment, just a hint of a moment, he considered the wagon slowly trundling along behind him. But that was pointless, he would still only be able to travel at the pace of the slowest porter; and besides, it was better to spare the horses at these altitudes. Not for the first time, he looked around as a broad grin split his face. Mountains are never so glorious as when one is on foot between their massive shoulders.

Resisting the temptation to shout at the top of his lungs to hear the echo, the packmen being superstitious about wind spirits and avalanches, he turned and looked back the way they had come. The mountain road stretched long, winding down and out of sight in less than a hundred meters. He thought it incredible that they should have come so far or so high.

Remembering the distance travelled so far, he smiled ruefully at the memory of what he had wanted to wear on this journey. How completely mad it seemed to him then, standing at the top of the world, to have ever worn anything like the gentleman’s shoes to which he was used. Even an evening in a ballroom occasionally led to hours of pain from their strict confines, the thought of having to walk so long and so far in such shoes sent a shudder of revulsion through him.

“A good pair of boots, Young Lord,” the respectable merchant a quick bribe had landed him with, and who refused to acknowledge his lack of title, had said. “That’s the thing if you’ve a mind to go up those mountains. The ancient capital is up there, mighty worth looking at if you ask me, especially for one such as yourself. But, if you’ll excuse my being so forward, those shoes you’ve got on will make you wish to take the fast way down before long.”

So, when his man had nodded, Charles had taken the boots. In fact, he thought he had allowed himself to be rather taken in by that merchant. Boots, sweaters, jackets proofed against the wind, long socks, scarfs, and hats. Why, when they had left, having hired the merchant’s son to port their new possessions for them, they almost seemed to have purchased the whole shop.

In the end, he called it a worthy investment. The craftmanship on the boots was so fine that they needed almost no breaking in. Soft and supple leather of the highest standard and a quality of construction that more than earned their high cost. Even his manservant, ever fastidious and sometimes disdainful of foreign cultures and clothes, had been forced to admit the excellence of all they had bought.

Stumbling slightly over a sudden dip in the paved road, he grinned again. Enjoying the warmth of exercise that burned in his legs and his chest. Truly, the advice that had been given to him by the packmen when they first started their journey, to walk rather than ride, had been correct. It was more satisfying, and since his father had always believed in the importance of physical training, he was well suited to it. Perhaps this was one of the benefits of being of an untitled family.

Ungentlemanly, yes, that was what some people called it. Even this, his being away from home in such a way and walking rather than riding, was uncouth. Now that he was far away, he was coming to understand that it was they, rather than himself, who were mistaken. What good was it to have the money and connections that his family had managed to collect these last generations if one would only spend it on stuffy balls and ostentatious furniture?

The pride and the conceit of the higher laity and lower nobility he had been raised to know disgusted him. Not one among his fellows had engaged in the Grand Tour, least ways not in the same vein that he himself was. No, no, they had gone to the City of Canals or of Roses. They had spent their time abroad in venues that were no different to their own lives save the language and styles of dress. What were such amusements to mountains and exotic food?

Not only the food was exotic and exciting. Everything from the unfamiliarity of the air, to the taste of the water, to the smiles of foreign ladies, and the delights of foreign culture, enraptured him. He was completely unknown to the society of the great in this part of the world, and though he had received many invitations from likely bewildered landowners, he had found ways to politely refuse them all.

He saw no occasion whatever for calling on them, and had no inclination to spend his evenings in the sole same society that his tour was supposed to get him away from. Eventually, he knew, and the thought dimmed his smile somewhat, that he would attend some few of those gatherings. Family dinners and little parties or small assemblies. He must do his duty to his rank and his family and attend them.

If, for no other reason, than that his family’s fortune had been acquired and maintained by trade. There were luxuries aplenty in this country that would fetch a handsome price at home and he had already placed some orders and arranged for transportation home with them. Assuming that this place was the same as any other, then there must be some socializing with the local families before any such trade could be done.

“Master,” said his man to him, “is something the matter? You look unwell.”

“No, Richard, nothing is at all the matter with me. Save only that I must descend this mountain again and face all the intrigues, if only to secure the ice salts and mountain peppers that father will want in trade.”

“Would you care for some water, sir? I understand from our attendants that we are obliged to stop here for some time as they correct something or other with the cart.”

Charles accepted the bottle and drank deeply, taking the opportunity to gaze around him again at the soaring peaks and stunted trees. Shielding his eyes against the sun, he looked over the porters as they argued quietly amongst themselves, then to the left of the road. Taken by a sudden inclination to look down at the world he had left behind he strode forward and examined the piled stones that served at a bulwark against falling.

The whole arrangement looked steady enough. Experimentally, he thrust his walking stick – a tall, sturdy thing purchased in the town and a far cry from those carried in polite company – against the stones. Again and again he repeated the action, attracting more than one curious glance from his fellow travelers, until satisfied with the stability of the formation.

Just as he raised his foot to slowly begin his climb, a wind whistled down from the upper slopes and snatched his knitted woolen hat from his head. With a small cry of surprise, he lunged forward to reclaim his property and found himself atop the piled stones, looking out at a scene of purest wonder.

Joy in freedom from the strictures of court, worry about the stability of business, enjoyment from the burning of exercise in his muscles were all forgotten. Before him lay what must have been one of the greatest wonders of the world, a vista of beauty untamed and unmarred by human hands. Stretching before him to the edge of vision, mountains and foothills rolled through a roiling mass of cloud and fog.

In the valleys below, it must have been raining, but the blended grey and white clouds below him only churned and frothed like an unquiet ocean. The sun gleamed down from a purest blue sky like the eye of God, breaking through the uppermost layer of mist to show the shadows of trees on distant summits and smaller peaks.

An ocean of fog spread out before him, spits and juts of rock and wood thrusting themselves up into the light. Somewhere below the grey and white sea, thunder rumbled and as another wind kicked up, he could almost believe he were aboard ship again. Icy wind tore down from the mountain, making the length of his coat ripple around his legs as he stared, simply stared at the vision before him.

“Young Lord,” said one of the porters. “Away! Down! Er… ah… is not safe! Long fall!”

With difficulty, he tore his eyes away from the rolling mass and, hat still clutched in hand, turned back to the company. There were the porters, looking at him with naked concern as he stood on the edge, and his manservant stood with, of all things, a journal in hand.

Descending with almost exaggerated care, he came to stop beside his manservant and tried to catch a glimpse of what the man was doing. But to no avail, as soon as he approached, the man closed the book and stowed it back in his bag. After a short bow and questioning whether the young master required anything, the man walked off and watched the porters at work.

Disconcerted, and feeling quite useless, the young man returned to the edge of the path. Out of compassion for the porters, though he did not climb the rocks again. Instead he leaned against the wall, and allowed the fatigue of the climb to wash over him as he stared into the swirling clouds.

Most likely, he might have been able to stay there for hours yet. And he almost suggested that they make camp for the night, though before he could, the porters announced that all was well with the cart and they set off again. He threw one last look over his shoulder, the image of the clouds and the lower peaks just emerging from them burned into his mind, his skin tingling with the remembered sensation of the wind.

-0-

Night in the mountains is colder than he had ever experienced before. Grateful for the fire, he huddled close and accepted the strong, hot tea distributed by one of the porters, holding it in his hands a long time before drinking, enjoying the spreading sense of heat through his frozen fingers.

On the first night, Richard had been somewhat scandalized that Charles had wanted anything to do with the porters at night or at mealtimes. Though he had not worked out the particulars, the manservant had intended to continue his regular duties while on this expedition. However, the master had been firm, “it’s useless to maintain such things in a place like this,” said he. “Are we to burden ourselves with food fit for me, and then the rest of you? Think, man, it would be simpler to join them around the fire and allow their work to feed themselves to do for us all.”

Richard, being a well-bred young man, eminently suited to his situation, had harboured some doubts and would have continued to do so, if not for the skill at cooking of one of the porters. He had watched with great interest as the man, prepared the first meal. Then ate it with properly disinterested curiosity.

After that first night on the road, he watched the man like a hawk to try and recreate the recipe.

Charles, gazing straight through where his manservant was trying to engage the cook in conversation without seeing him, could not wipe the sea of fog from his memory. Though he tried to focus on the matter at hand, to even taste his food, the power of thinking elsewise was completely beyond him.

Sipping his tea, the leaves for which he must find in the town before departing, he could still feel the wind lifting his hair as it blew down from the peaks.

When a bowl of thick, rich stew packed with vegetables and some dried meats, was pushed into his hands, he looked up. His companions were all talking amongst themselves, and in their own language, with the exception of Richard, who had his notebook open and tilted to catch the firelight. Considering the quick, deft strokes of his pen, the man could only have been drawing something.

He knew that the man had some skills with drawing, and that he took great delight in capturing images seen on their journey, with flowers and profiles of pretty women being his favourites. Knowing that it would be useless to ask for a sight of the sketch until it was done, Charles struggled to put the desire out of his mind.

Easier, however, was such an inclination to state or believe that he held than it was to complete. Especially when he remembered that Richard had started this particular sketch while looking at himself upon that cluster of rocks. His curiosity was positively burning in his breast.

That curiosity, however, did not long survive the first sight of the ancient capital that was their destination.

“Look, Young Lord!” shouted one of the packmen, his voice echoing back at them from a hundred angles. He was soundly clouted by his friends, who instantly began a prayer to one of their gods for protection from fools and forgiveness for passing through the realm of the avalanche spirits. But Charles was blind and deaf to it all.

Gaze following the outflung hand of the packman, he saw the first spire of the ancient capital as it crested a small rise before him. It was a thing of marvels, tall and straight, capped with a pyramid of hammered gold, it glinted in the sun, drawing all attention to it.

“What in the name,” he started, then as words failed him, he simply stared.

This was what he most wanted to see. It was the whole reason that he had acquiesced to his father’s insistence on a Grand Tour of any kind, despite its lack of fashion. And it was the reason that, after acceding with poor grace, he had decided on this style of journey. To throw off the trappings of the great and the grand that he had been brought up to know. To show not only his distain for the finery and foppishness, but also in an attempt to mortify his father.

A wonder of the ancient world. A mystery buried in time, now glinting above him in the sun.

“I would have thought,” he said, recovering himself after some minutes and staring forward again, “we would not find any gold here.”

“I dare say, sir,” puffed Richard, who had been beside him and also looking at the obelisk. “I dare say that we will find nothing of worldly value on the ground, or high as can reasonably be climbed. When the Conquering came through here, they would have stripped the place bare wherever they could reach.”

Often, the last miles of a journey seem the longest. The fatigue from a long road, or the anxiety of arrival, stretch the world between the ending and the place one stands. However, Charles practically flew the last miles to the Ancient Capital, as the locals called it, since its true name was long lost. Out pacing his companions, his lack of burdens and youthful exuberance drove the soreness and fatigue from his legs, bringing new breath to his lungs at finally having arrived.

Enormous, defaced guardians carved of single stone blocks guarded both sides of a grand arch in what would have been a mighty wall between two sheer faces of stone. The Conquering of a few centuries before had clearly understood the artistry of these monoliths and their arch for, though defacing the delicate lines and planes of the statues themselves in the name of their crusade, they left both intact when they took the city.

Moving with reverence between the massive creatures, on which the outlines of limbs and grotesque heads could still be seen, Charles gasped aloud at the city itself. A broad boulevard stretched before him, wider than any street he had before seen, straight to the ruin of a massive pyramid.

Overgrown plant life that must once have been tended crawled up between the wide paths of the boulevard.

To either side, the ruins of mighty buildings stood sentinel over a city that had once reined over many hundreds of thousands of people. If not a great many more.

Turing his head from side to side, he took in the faded and arrested majesty. Capital was too gentle a word for that place. His first steps on the broken and uneven flagstones of the road echoed through the empty, desolate metropolis. It was beyond the grandeur of anything he had seen, stone and plant, and even channels that must once have carried fresh water throughout the city… it was glorious.

Oh! What were the strictures of a foreign, or even his own, court to a wonder such as this!?

“Young Master,” said Richard, coming up to his side. “Are you – wow…”

“Isn’t it the most incredible thing you’ve ever laid eyes on, man? I declare: if I were to go through the whole of the world I should not see it’s equal.”

“Very impressive, sir. Though I must say that to have seen it in its prime would have been something special.”

“So it would have been,” Charles shook his head, a smile of almost boyish delight on his face. “I believe we have two nights set aside here?”

“Yes, sir. We have enough food to do so and make the walk back to town.”

Throwing a look over his shoulder, Charles saw that the packmen were making some kind of obeisance to the ruined gates and towering guardians. They laid a selection of dried fruits before the feet of the beast to the left of the door and the skull of an ox before the one to the right. Once done, they all bowed three times to each before walking through the gates with eyes shut tight.

Frowning as he watched them, Charles wondered at this reverence for such statues. If he had asked them, in their own language, then they might have told him the significance of it all. But then, he was not certain that he would fully understand. The Conquest had stripped from these people so much, and put them under the heel of a monarch so far away…

“Do you ever think that perhaps our ways are wrong, Richard?”

“When I see the smiling faces of savages, or the fond treatment of children, sir, I must say that I do wonder. Though it is not to be questioned that their souls are in a better place now.”

“And yet they were able to do all of this.”

“Yes, sir. They were.”

-0-

The days passed in a wild rush of exploration. Charles, sometimes with but more often without companion, hiked through the crumbling ruins of the ancient city. He saw with wide, wondering eyes where long vines cracked stones, or tumbled walls marked the graves of mighty palaces.

Even after so many years of rain and storm, the marks of the battle that had leveled that place were still visible. Scars of blackened stone where fires had burned, bare soil that had once been gardens where the Conquerors had salted the earth. Bones too, though these were few and rare, were to be found scattered through the corpses of buildings.

He felt certain that it would take a lifetime to properly explore the city, and shared Richard’s desire to have seen it at its height. His mind was flooded with images of streets thronged with people, brightly adorned with feathers and coloured skirts. As he passed a large square that could have been a marketplace, he saw through the eye of fancy, a bazaar to rival those he had seen depicted on canvas from abroad.

Sadness lingered in that place, too. Echoes of a world lost to time, slowly being torn down by vines and dwarf trees as the mountain reclaimed itself. More than once, he was moved to tears at the sight of some place that would have held a great multitude, not unlike a theatre or area, now empty with a somber wind blowing dust in great clouds through the air.

For good reason, he understood, the Ancient Capital was sometimes, and less reverently, called the City of Ghosts. Had he been a superstitious man, he might have agreed that they would hover around him as he traversed their resting place. Or that he could feel their eyes on him when he paused to gaze upon their wonders. He was not, however, and so would never admit to such feelings.

And even if he did, the ghosts might have been said to be more curious, than angry. With him, at least.

Richard walked with him sometimes, exploring the dead city with his master. Though Charles could have wished more for a friend than a servant, intimate as he was with Richard, there were limits with regard to propriety, and the man was a servant after all. His task was to ensure that his master’s wants and needs were looked after; and though he was happy enough to share in the delights of the city, as he had been all the other sights of the tour thus far, his role was not that of a friend.

Each night, once Charles was seen to. He would remove himself, the better to give his master and himself a proper period of rest. In these times he would draw out his leather-bound journal, flip to a page and continue to sketch. Closing his eyes on occasion, as though to bring the image he wanted to capture to the fore of his mind.

Curiosity burned hot in Charles’s breast, though he knew that he ought not to demand a view of the drawing. Although he could very easily do so, it would not have been correct, and might wound his relationship with his loyal man beyond healing. Sometimes, those who have skill with art are overprotective of their work, and deeply resent being forced to show it before it’s time. Or at all.

Finally, though Charles did not look forward to it at all, the day of departure arrived, and he was forced to bid a final farewell to the City of Ghosts.

Turning back at the gates, as the packmen again made obeisance to the statues and the ghosts that had prevented them from exploring the city as he had done, Charles turned back to gaze again on the distant pyramid. It was a truly magnificent sight. A mount of perfectly cut and placed stones, climbing to a plateau on which, if his understanding of pyramid cultures were correct, their sacred rites would have taken place.

Beautiful. Awesome. And sad.

Melancholic, he turned his back on the city and strode on ahead, leaving his packmen to finish their ritual in peace. They had whispered in some fear throughout the whole of their time in the City of Ghosts, as though they feared a return of the Conquerors or that the spirits be angry. The unquiet dead that Charles would never admit to sensing himself, clearly held these men in a terrible grip.

He was, after a fashion, glad to be away. It was pleasant to walk with a firm destination again, and he had felt a terrible sense of loneliness as he traversed a place that should have teamed with life alone. And yet, despite the fatigue and homesickness, he felt a passion and energy that he was certain could never be expunged.

If such a place as this could be real, and so glorious in its decay, how much more wonderful could be the rest of the world. As though he had never felt excitement for his tour before, Charles was filled with joy at the prospect of somewhere new and foreign. Something exciting just beyond the next turn in the road.

There must be a word for that…

As they sat around the cook fire that night, Charles still lost in his musings about what wonders the rest of his tour had waiting for him, Richard sat across from him and said, “if it is not too forward of me, sir, I thought you might like to see this.” And, holding out the open journal, offered a view of what he had been working on.

Mind snapped back to the present with the strength of a lion tamer’s whip, Charles assented and reverently took the small volume. His brother was himself something of an artist, so he knew with how much trepidation the manservant must now be filled, despite his studiedly blank expression.

On the right-hand page, was a remarkably detailed sketch in charcoal pencil. The lines rubbed to give them substance and depth. It was an image that Charles recognized at once.

There was himself from the rear, with walking stick held in right hand and coat billowing around his legs. He was stood upon a pile of stones, and there, stretched before him was the fog. A swirling, flowing mass of it with ghostly outlines of mountains and trees just visible through the thinnest parts. Breaking through like tiny islands in a storming sea.

“My word, Richard,” breathed his master, eyes lingering on every detail of the portrait. “This is… incredible! And is that me?”

“Yes, sir. The view of you I had when you climbed upon those rocks some days back.”

“My word…”

Richard was quiet for a long moment. His face, had Charles been able to tear his eyes away from the drawing in his hands – it was so incredibly detailed that each stone of the outcrop seemed to leap out at him – he might have noticed his manservant’s discomfort with having his work so examined. Even praise can be, to the artist’s eye, distressing.

“Might I hazard a suggestion, sir?”

“What? Of course! Speak, man, I entreat you.”

“Given that we are to return to this port in a month or so, would it not be good to commission a painter to transfer this image, or something like it, to canvass? I think your parents would take great pride is having it hung in the gallery.”

“To do properly in oils would take about that long, if not a fair bit longer… Yes, I rather think that they would adore such a gift. A remarkable way to thank them for providing the funds that I make embark on this journey, eh? And here, they can share in some small part of the visions and vistas I have seen.”

“I’m glad you think so, sir.”

Now paying closer attention, Charles noticed a note of emotion in his manservant’s voice. He was clearly affected by these words of commendation, and so he checked his exuberance. Gently handing the journal back to Richard, Charles spoke of other things, including where they might find a painter to commission.

-0-

Laden with presents, Charles and Richard (on whom the majority of these parcels were burdened) returned in triumph to the family’s house in Town two months and thirteen days later. The gentleman carried a good account of his trip, managing to turn it into a somewhat profitable venture, and the servant carried with him hats and scarves and such little table ornaments that might delight the mistress of the house and her children.

Behind the two much tanned travellers, came a large rectangular parcel.

The painting, named “the Wanderer Over a Sea of Fog” by its creator, was unveiled with great ceremony before the whole of the family after supper that same evening. Charles’ father was thrilled with it, and examined the brush-strokes and blending of the oils for a long time, before clapping his son on the shoulder and thanking him most profusely.

Charles, however, disclaimed all praise for the matter. He pointed out – and produced not only the original mock up that the artist had provided, but also the sketch which had been left with him to serve as a reference – that credit for the idea and the sketch belonged to Richard Masterman. Who blushed rather deeply at this praise, though accepted it with polite humility.

The father, an excellent man, insisted on paying the servant for it. Of course, unable to refuse such a demand, he accepted before retreating to his other duties.

Stories told by Charles to his younger siblings set firm in their minds the determination to travel as he had done. To seek out strange vistas or new places and experiences, and always to return with a portrait of themselves admiring such a view. It became a tradition that, as each child completed a Grand Tour, they would return and, trying to outdo each other with showmanship and quality of art, present their own portrait.

And though he loved each of the gifts that his children were able to bring to him, Charles’s father would often be found admiring the first one as it hung in the gallery. A reminder that his push out the door had saved his son from the follies and intrigues of distinguished families with nothing better to do. Had given him a reason to continue the family line of trade, rather than enter into the slow decline of the 4 precents.

He was prodigiously proud of the boy, the man he became, and the grandsons that followed on from him. And that painting remained his favourite to the end of his life

Fin.

Note: The above painting is titled "Wanderer Above a Sea of Fog" and it was painted by Caspar David Friedrich