At the Crossroads of All the World

Josias attempted to stare straight ahead in a line that crept along at a miserable pace. He hoped that no fellow traveler recognized that the Wakeful One perched on the sandstone cliffs above his head was there for him. That it had been tailing him since he had embarked from Elath three days ago.

Towering at least a cubit above the tallest man’s head, the Wakeful Ones moved throughout the world, with little notice from mortals. Most mortals would go through the daily monotony of life having never spotted one.

But enough had been spied that the legends persisted. Some said that in ages past the Wakeful Ones communed with men, lived among them, rather than merely observed them. Others said you saw them only when they came to collect you at your death.

Its distinctive height was enough to frighten. Its robes were unremarkable in that they were the common reddish brown of a roebuck’s hide, the same color of the rock surrounding the valley and the same color of the robes worn by Bozrahians and others in the region. The very same sort of shabby robe that Josias himself donned. But the terrifying thing about its robes was that it led to the hood, giving way to nothingness within, as if no head existed inside.

Josias turned back and tried to put its presence out of his mind as most people did. If he pretended it wasn’t there, he would cease to see it, or so it seemed with all he knew who had been unfortunate enough to see one.

“This is your fault, you know. Your foolish schemes that you involve me in.” Josias muttered to his back.

The fiddle attached at his back bounced in rhythm to his movements, feigning complete innocence, like it knew nothing of which Josias spoke.

Blessedly, Josias had managed to wedge himself in line between a merchant’s cart and a shepherd boy with a bleating gang of sheep at his heels. Hoping to break the Wakeful One’s eyesight in the crowd, he bent to remove his sandals one at a time, knocking the sand out that was caught between the leather and the heel of his feet, using the wooden cart to his advantage. The merchant threw him a glare but immediately returned to tending to his camels and ignoring Josias. He had immediately ascertained there was no money to be made off of Josias, a Stranger with the dilapidated cloak and only two shekels rattling around in his inner pocket.

Josias shifted from foot-to-foot and surveyed before him the sea of cloaks, a blur of browns and tans to his eyes. He had been standing in this line of humanity for the last two hours, the line only inching ahead in aching bursts. At this rate, it would be dark before he entered the canyon gorge that led to Bozrah.

He surveyed the Bozrahian guards posted at the entrance to the canyon. Bozrahians were not naturally a tall race of people, but apparently they must have found the most massive and physically intimidating ones in all the surrounding country and enlisted them in the guard. The guards’ faces were obscured by boar tusks woven in rows and strung across their mouths. These face shields connected with their caps, sewn with roebuck sinew.

Eyeing the crowd, their swords sheathed at their sides, several guards milled around the archway that marked the entrance to the pass, a welcome banner to all who beheld it. A notch was carved into one of the base pillars of the arch, with a bust of the reigning king of Bozrah displayed. King Joram, or so Josias had overheard the name bandied about by other travelers. Josias had been studying the face as he waited. He contemplated whether this was the king’s true likeness as the bust was handsome and strong of jaw. Was this possibly a romanticized version in the Sidonian fashion?

King Joram was young, near in age to Josias himself. Josias marveled (and envied) that one so young could wield so much power. Though the king was in his early twenties in Josias’s estimation, he probably already had a large be‘tab with several wives and children.

He was parched, and sweat dripped down his back underneath his cloak, soaking his undergarments. His first priority, should he be admitted to the city, was to locate a well to draw water, or a pool to dunk his head in.

After several more hours of watching in curiosity the caravans with camels and horses that lined up in duos and marched together in perfect harmony before him, he finally crept to the front of the line.

The guard standing before the crevasse’s mouth and interviewing visitors to Bozrah matched Josias for height, and doubled him across in terms of muscle mass. With a trained eye, he took in Josias’ appearance. In a sign of respect, Josias removed the hood of his cloak and bowed his head to the guard, with trepidation at the exposure of his body to any onlookers.

If the guard was startled by his dark complexion, he showed no surprise and made no comment.

“Occupation?” The guard asked, his voice a formidable rumble.

“Stranger.” Josiah winced. Nineteen years alive on this earth as one, yet the distinction still shamed him.

The guard rolled his eyes, the only visible part of his face behind the mask. “Obviously. But what is your business in Bozrah?”

“Minstrel.”

The guard scowled this time. “We have hundreds of street musicians in Bozrah. Perhaps a thousand. One on every prominent rock. What makes you so special?”

Josias hesitated, the question catching him off guard. He had stood before many guards, in many city-states, and this was a question he had not encountered. At the guard’s increasingly narrowing eyes, he hastened to give the most honest answer.

“Nothing. Nothing at all.” Josias attempted to keep the sheepish tone from creeping into his voice. “I’m just passing through and need to make a few denarii before the next leg of my journey.” The fiddle thumped against his back, protesting the partial truth that passed from his lips.

The guard grunted and outstretched his hand to receive Josias’ pack, unceremoniously digging through it, tossing various articles of clothing to the dirt. Likewise, Josias removed his cloak at the guard’s request and pulled out the pockets to reveal no weapons or any other materials useful for ill intent. Josias removed the fiddle tied to the back of his cloak and held it out for the guard to examine. The guard turned the fiddle over in his hands, not impressed by its scratched, faded state. But he stayed long enough, his fingertips brushing the wooden surface, that anxiety began to bubble up in Josias’ insides.

The guard lingered, bringing the fiddle closer to his eyes. “Do you mean to finish your business in Bozrah in two weeks?”

“I mean to be gone in two days, tips willing.” Josias longed to reach out for his fiddle, but instead balled his fists at his side. He consciously unballed them and hoped that the guard had not noticed.

The guard grunted again as he returned the fiddle to Josias and dug out a Certificate of Passage from his belt pouch. Handing it over, he waved Josias forward towards the canyon mouth.

“Get on with it then,” he growled without a second glance as Josias stumbled down to collect all that he owned tossed on the sand. He snatched it up from the ground in one swoop and stuffed it all down into his pack.

Then, Josias simultaneously tied his fiddle to the loop on his cloak’s hood as he examined the Certificate of Passage. It was stamped with the king’s seal and granted him a fortnight in Bozrah. The fiddle skipped at his back, joyous at their good fortune.

“Do try to keep yourself concealed next time, why don’t you?” Josias mumbled. His attitude darkened at the near exposure, but the fiddle granted him no mind. It had thoughts only for exploring Bozrah, the possibility of adventure ahead.

At risk of catching the fiddle’s optimism, he cautioned it. “Don’t get your hopes up too high. Bozrah may very well be a disappointment as all the others.”

He paused to steal a glance behind him. The Wakeful One was no longer in the cliffs. It glided several paces behind him, as if it was sliding on air without use of its feet. Josias whipped back around, a jolt of fear nearly stopping his heart.

It followed him into the passageway without a chirp of dissent from any traveler, and the largest and mightiest men in all the kingdom who stood guard about the entrance didn’t see it. Or more likely, they couldn’t, or wouldn’t, intervene to prevent it from passing.

Its hooded head swiveled back and forth, its gangly limbs swaying in time, the opening of its cape as dark and mysterious as a cleft in the rock of the city’s heights.