This Somber Road, My Last Companion

Let a spindly line of murky water drip onto a barren patch of prairie earth, watch it suck in the dust, and it'll look almost like an old highway forgotten by its masters - that's where our story begins, on a forsaken highway leading off to an unsettled horizon. Come down a little closer and the ants and bugs crawling around that sorry little trickle start to look like vehicles, mechanical workhorses trotting off toward that horizon on bald tires with the hot wind eking its way through cracks in the windshield. Go down further, and you'll start to see people - the masters of those machines, and others with only their two feet for guidance and a pair of good thumbs that maybe they can use to claim a ride for a little while. Each of those people has a story that's nothing less than his soul, and if you ask with a gentle tongue and levy a fair offer, he might just share it with you.

Down there on that highway, there's one particular young man, one who can't have seen eighteen years but has a soul that's been battered more than most, and his story is the one I'm fixing to share with you. He's not a famous man, not really - definitely not one who cares to stand out, though he can’t help but draw a crowd. You meet this man, you know right away he doesn't quite belong on that highway, even if you can't put words to the reason. He's kitted out the same as anyone else, with those clothes that must have been old and worn when they were stitched. But he is an outsider, that much anyone can see. Folks in these parts are keen to difference in a man - whether that's a change in his color, or the tilt of his eye, or the sweep of his nose, or the way his hair floats in the wind. They know an outsider, is what I'm saying. This man is a stranger wherever he goes, which is not a kind fate even in days of glory but a particular burden in the shadow of ruin.

As this story opens, this stranger among all men has found his way, after too many days on the road, to a roadstop diner - that unexceptional kind of place that still beckons always to the backroads wanderer. Weary in heart and spirit, he passes through its doors and leaves the brutality of the dust-stranged sun behind him for a blessed few moments. The people inside are the usual mix you'd expect if you've ever spent an hour at a place like this. There are those who are stopping on a journey - for freedom, for wealth, for escape in some dire cases. There are young scrappers pulled along by dreams of fresh fortunes on far shores and old sluggers making their keep behind the wheel. There are vagrants and grifters looking for a chance to cadge a meal and a ride from someone with more honor than guile. But there are also the locals, the people bound to this place by circumstance, come to this waystation for some sense of community lacking in their own homesteads. Still, all eyes turn to the stranger, this brief disruption in the routine of the road, as he passes through the door.

The proprietor, being a practical man who values money no matter whose pocket it emerges from, greets the stranger in his customary way. "Afternoon, and welcome to the Last Stop. What can I do for you?"

"I could do with a meal, sir. Anything I might afford, which..." The stranger digs through every pocket in his thready clothes for whatever change he might still have on him, leaving the coins in a sorry pile on the counter. "...Hm. A bit light. I don't know how far this will stretch."

The proprietor says, "Far enough. Menu's up top, you'll find something you can afford."

"Thank you, sir. I’ll be down the road once I’m finished, I promise." Most people wouldn't expect that kind of politeness from a stranger like this - the road’s supposed to wear down your heart until it’s like a pebble. But really, living in need of friends has a special way of tempering the soul.

One of the local regulars turns from his usual coffee to the new arrival. "Kid. Kid! You understand what I’m sayin’, don’t you?"

It takes a soft holler to break the stranger away from the menu, but at length he turns. "You speak to me?"

The regular says, "Yeah, I'm talking to you. Why don’t you talk back for a minute, be civilized."

The stranger says, "Apologies, I didn't intend to be rude. Is there something I can do for you?"

The regular says, "I’m just thinking it’s kind of strange to see one of you eating in a place like this. I mean, ain't exactly your kind of food, is it? I mean, you are a barbarian, ain't you?"

These are fighting words to some people, but the stranger isn't the type to bite on obvious bait. "If you're asking if I'm native to the Empire of Teyach, the answer is no. Am I from the northwest? The answer is yes. Yet I can't say that I claim any country right now. On most days, I feel like a child of no land." Which is a pretty good name for him, and I think we'll call him that from now on.

"Can't say as I'm used to seeing barbarians come into Teyach, least not without rifles ready," says the regular with a healthy slab of contempt. "So why you here? Raiding, s’that it? Staking your claim? Or are you scouting for someone?"

The Child of No Land laughs just a little bit at that remark. "A scout perhaps, but I belong to no army, any more than I belong to a nation. I come seeking only a better life beneath the Everpure Sun."

This line causes another man - a traveler from somewhere well to the east - to snort in shock. "The Land of the Sun? You actually believe in that? What, you a little kid or something? Only old gourd-heads and Imperial yappers still think there's a Land of the Sun. There's no such place."

"Oh? Well, it's true I haven't found the place yet, but Teyach is a land of roads, and there are so many I've yet to roam to their end." The Child of No Land turns away from his meager coins to address the diners, their attention drawn away from their meals by the barbarian in their midst. "But if you're right, and it is but a myth? Why, I'll just have to make it myself! To these eyes, this is a fine place to build paradise."

"Paradise? In Teyach?" The traveler laughs again, and this time there's no question that he's putting a point across before he even makes his argument. "Let me tell you, kid, there ain't room in the Empire for anything like that. If there was anything beautiful in this land, it's gone to dust ages ago. Yeah, maybe in the Heartland they got sun and bliss, maybe...least until they destroy it, same as everything else they get their iron fingers into. Rest of us? Why, we’re lucky to get just a taste of their dirt."

The proprietor says, "You sounding a little radical, friend. You should head down to Shekiz, make time with the rest of the Dusties. Feed yourself into the gristmill at their next uprising."

The traveler says, "All I'm saying is we could do a lot better than Emperor Luyax. The Dusteaters are a bunch of backroad ignorants, sure, but that just goes to show that even a fool can see this ain't right. Why you thinking everyone's poor all of a sudden? The Empire, that's why - no one in there knows anything about running the show. I’ve been to plenty a town, all of them in shambles - some of them are just big piles of dust - and why is that? The Emperor, that’s why. And if there is a war, that's gonna be on the Emperor too for messing up on the diplomatic side. No, friend, I'm not worried about barbarians, not when we're ruled by worse."

The regular shifts in his seat like he's holding down his rage. "Yeah? Well, you ask me, the first problem we have is that there are any barbarians left at all. Shoulda sent the Imperial Main to show them who's boss a generation ago. If we'd put boots on barbarian soil, we coulda nipped it in the bud, cut off the problem before they could rally this army of theirs. But oh no, they said, we'll whoop 'em with diplomacy. We'll beat 'em with trade. You been to Chechey lately? Barbarians own damn near the whole place, and not just the docks, neither. Hotels, taverns, mercenaries all over the place - getting to where a man can’t spend a coin without it going into one of their pockets."

The Child of No Land says, "Ah, so you've been to Chechey? I can't disagree with you more, sir, I think it's a miraculous place. Of course, all the more miraculous if you can make money there! So tell me - was it lucre that drew you to Chechey?"

The regular returns this look that's a little disgust, but mostly confusion. "What you talking about, kid?"

One skill the Child of No Land never lacked was the ability to read a man's face, and he adjust his words with no second of hesitation. "...Or should I say: Is your interest in the city for business, or is there another draw? A trip for pleasure? A new romance? Perhaps you have a tale of intrigue or adventure you wouldn't mind sharing? I’ve yet to meet the man who can’t tell me one tale or another about their time standing athwart the Golden Hill."

That little soliloquy is enough to stun the whole diner for a long second until the proprietor, at last, ends the silence. "...You sure don't talk like a barbarian, not like any I've ever heard of, anyway. What are you doing in these parts, anyway? Besides looking for the Land of the Sun, I mean?"

The Child of No Land says, "Why, collecting stories. Such is the nature of travel, yes? Everywhere I go, I take something and I leave something, yet my burden never changes. I am no alms giver and no thief, nor a philosopher nor mercenary, so what am I? Why, a storyteller, of course! There are many of my like, and every traveler is my kindred, yet I journey solely for the tale. I kneel upon the good ground to ink my name upon the very flesh of the land, and also to catch a glimpse of the names of those who went before me."

The traveler says, "So you're one of those types, huh? Poor and lost by choice? Any other time I'd call you crazy, but who isn't these days? Way Teyach is, you gotta be crazy to want to live at all."

The Child of No Land says, "Perhaps it is but a dream, and if I do sleep, then may I awaken with a tremendous howl! And if I live, then what reason not to live for beauty and discovery? For..."

The Child of No Land's voice wavers and falls away as he retreats into some private thought. Faintly, over the buzz of the wizened diner radio, there's the ragged crescendo of a well-honed motor, mighty and bare. A rider on a tuned-up motorcycle passes the diner, and for a matter of seconds the Child of No Land is fixed on the thing, eyes blind to everything but the road and the vehicle until it passes from clear view.

Just as suddenly, the Child of No Land returns to the conversation. "...Life is but a story itself, one we pen every day, so why not make a true copy that it might be shared?" He turns back to the proprietor and nudges a small pile of coins his way. "Sir, bring me whatever this might buy me."

The proprietor says, "Nothing more specific?"

"I am not a choosy man, sir. A soul of means may have his favorites in life, but a vagabond is grateful for whatever comforts he may have." The Child of No Land snatches up the rest of those coins as he prepares his show - whatever he says, he has his favorite pleasures, and what's coming up next is one of them. "But we were speaking of Chechey, and why wouldn't we? For when you speak of favorites, of comforts, of luxury - why, your mind must naturally make its way toward a trade city where all such things can be had! Ah, but the city is quite close - surely each of you has an experience of the place?"

The regular, still sporting that absent look you see when someone witnesses a bona fide freak of nature, answers haltingly. "...I was saying that it's a barbarian-infested garbage pit."

"Sir, I must disagree, for the fate of which you speak? The barbarian domination of the greatest of all Imperial ports? It was averted!" The Child of No Land is on his feet now, the better to lift up his voice to a volume so great that the tiny dining space can't contain it. "I speak, of course, of the grand struggle for Chechey, the war of Golden Hill that was ended by the selfless and noble act of but a single man..." His voice recedes by a measure or two, enough to make his point. "...Surely you know of whom I speak? No?"

Everyone's looking at the Child of No Land now, but they're not gawking at the barbarian this time. No, they're waiting to hear what comes next - because make jokes all you like, and call them crazy, but everyone stops when a storyteller starts to talk. And let me tell you, there aren't many with the same flair as the Child of No Land - it doesn't matter if it's a big dining hall or a tiny roadside diner or the fire pit of some vagrant campsite, he's going to give it his all and put his life into it.

"Well, if you’ve not heard of the savior of Chechey, or even if you have, then listen well..."

This excerpt is the first chapter in a novel/short story collection currently caught in publication hell. As of right now, it is unlikely to ever see the light of day. However, if you liked what you read, please share it with others of similar taste and I might see my way to publishing more. Gratitude in advance...