The Missing Traveller

Alister met Lark six years ago, on his first trip to Rindor’s town square by himself. The travelling merchant told him all about the Union and its other cities, including Bastium, the capital which was all built on a plateau, and Deemstun, the westernmost city which still operated under a king. Lark flew between all the towns and cities on Mount Era on his wind-chaser. He came to Rindor twice every year, and since their meeting, told Alister more about the Union than anyone in Rindor knew. When the kite was developed as a one-person glider to allow its riders to fly as a bird would, Lark bought one and taught Alister how to use it. Every trinket and piece of information Lark brought to Rindor only made Alister wish he were able to travel as he pleased, like Lark.

His mouth became a grim line. He never thought he’d travel because of murder.

But Lark hadn’t arrived in Rindor this autumn. Ronan’s arrival set the hairs on the back of Alister’s neck on end. Perhaps Lark’s absence was more serious than he thought.

Alister tore Ronan’s pouch open and emptied its contents into his hand: a card and a folded piece of paper. He furrowed his eyebrows at the unfamiliar card. A small photograph of Lark covered the corner, as well as a basic description of his appearance and occupation. At the top were five characters of Tahner, a script comprised of dotted patterns and used for official documents. It probably says Lark’s real name. Aside from all of his identifiers, four wax seals formed a circle on the card. Alister recognised the seals—Lark had shown him before. They were the seals of Quinsire, Clarendome, Oriamen, and Deemstun. For whatever reason, those four cities required a screening before somebody could enter, and acquiring a Deemstun Seal involved, according to Lark, the most exhaustive screening of all. It was no surprise Lark’s card boasted all four Seals.

But why would he send the Seal Card to me? He would need it to get into any of these cities. A bigger question weighed on Alister’s mind. What happened to Ronan, and why was he searching for Alister without his owner, and in such a state? The bird’s grip on his arm was tight, and his wings motionless. Ronan was in pain.

Alister whipped his head around, his ears attentive. Wind rustled the nearby trees softly, and his breath broke the silence. His family were gone, and Lark wasn’t there.

He lowered his eyes to the folded piece of paper. It would be a letter, explaining everything. Alister slipped his finger underneath it and flattened the paper, and he almost laughed at what he read.

Alister—83.

His voice was hollow. “Eighty-three. How helpful.”

He tore his eyes away from the cryptic note and stared at Ronan, still perched on his arm. The hawk had small cuts underneath his feathers, and he winced when bending his wings in certain ways. Lark sent Ronan to Alister; that much was clear. If the travelling merchant had made Ronan fly across the Union in such a state, this ‘83’ must’ve been important. But why send the Seal Card as well?

Alister tilted his staff towards his arm, and Ronan stepped onto it, his wings moving as little as possible. Alister continued on his walk, his eyebrows furrowed. If Ronan tried to find him, then the bird would’ve gone to Rindor first. Alister’s leaving caused Ronan to fly further with those injuries.

What did Lark mean by ‘83’? Alister wracked his brain, and pulled out his carving knife. Perhaps it was related to the Seal Card, or did Lark send that so Alister would realise the message was his last resort? Nobody gave their identification cards away. Why wouldn’t Lark need it anymore?

He stared at the note again as he pushed his burning legs onwards. Chips of bark fell behind him as he carved patterns into his staff. Did the merchant have so little time, he couldn’t finish the note? Or perhaps he needed to make sure nobody else could understand it. Lark obviously meant for Alister to understand it, but what could the number eighty-three possibly mean?

His first thought was elevation eighty-three, about a dozen above Bastium, the capital, and the other higher cities, but nothing was there aside from The Madness. He’d heard all the stories, confirmed by Lark, about the invisible mist which choked the minds of those who wandered into it. Elevation eighty-three was so close to the edge of where the elevations were measured, it was hardly part of the Union at all.

Perhaps it was something which cost eighty-three marks, although he couldn’t imagine anything being so expensive. Something which took eighty-three days, or weeks, or years. Eighty-three lengths, pages, words, months. A collection of eighty-three objects; Alister could search the museum records of Materon when he finally arrived there. Or perhaps the library. It could be historical.

“What happened in the year eighty-three?” Alister glanced at Ronan. The bird just stared at him. He grunted. “Some help you are.”

The Union measured years from the day the flood drove people up Mount Era almost one thousand years before, but years were also measured from the beginning of each age. It could be the eighty-third day of the year. Alister did some quick counting in his head. The eighty-third day fell a week before the equinox in autumn; it held no significance Alister knew of.

He stared up from his carving to Pillian Falls Passage. How far away was Materon? As soon as he arrived, he would go to the library, or the museum if they had one, and figure out what the number eighty-three signified.

He walked until the sun descended, and day became night. All the while, the number eighty-three and Lark’s Seal Card was on his mind. Half a month away from winter, the temperature plunged after sundown. Patches of sweat from the day chilled his skin when the wind cut through his coat. His muscles tightened in the frosty air, and he almost singed his eyebrows when he held the torch too close. When he was home, he never noticed the difference in temperature so much. But when he was home, he hadn’t walked all day with a heavy pack to weigh him down, and fireplaces warmed all the houses. Rindor. With difficulty, Alister banished the thought from his mind. It wasn’t his home anymore.

The traveller’s outpost was welcome; a lack of rest and proper food tired his body, and made it impossible to determine what Lark’s message meant. Even so, Alister was apprehensive about embracing sleep. He walked in the door, locked it behind him, and hobbled straight to the sheets and bedroll. Ronan settled on the floor next to him.

He pulled out Lark’s note. The longer he stared at it, the more the two black spots he originally thought were ink looked like blood. How serious was the situation with Lark if his last resort was to send Ronan to Alister, of all people? The merchant was bound to have hundreds of connections throughout the Union. Alister couldn’t help but think Lark might be relying on him. I’m being paranoid. It could be something trivial, he told himself, but a glance at Ronan in the corner, and at the Seal Card, made him think differently. Or maybe it’s something serious, and I’m trivialising it.

With eyes wide open for what seemed like hours, Alister prayed to the silent Divine he wouldn’t wake in another panic. At long last, exhaustion took over and he couldn’t keep his eyes open for another minute. He fell asleep to dreams of home, and a red hawk in a cage.

Alister resumed his climb as soon as he woke from a dreamless sleep, after eating overripe fruit brought from Rindor. Ronan sat on his shoulder, still avoiding using his injured wings.

Surely Materon would be close; within a day’s journey at most. Then he could figure out what Lark’s message meant. Alister kept telling this to his protesting body, but he was tired. His feet dragged on the ground and he walked through the day in a daze, all too aware of the Atwood’s presence in the corner of his mind.

He ran through the possibilities of Lark’s message in his mind, carving his staff as he muttered to himself. “If it were elevations, he would be asking me to go into The Madness, and he wouldn’t do that…but it could still be years…since the flood or since the Age of Unity began? Perhaps houses in larger towns are numbered…”

He went on for hours as the day weathered on, and stopped in his tracks when he searched for a space to carve more patterns into his staff, and found none.

Alister stared at the staff. Every inch now held intricate patterns, from the bottom he used to push himself up the Mount, to the top, where Ronan perched.

So he continued his climb, his eyes searching for more trees with branches to make a fine bow. His father taught him how to make one years ago for the hunters in Kinwater, a town two meridians from Rindor. The thought of his father made him ache.

The forests had thinned throughout his climb. Where in Rindor—Alister grimaced again—trees forced every path to wind around them, only small clusters remained along every second bend in Pillian Falls Passage, and stone steps peeked through the leaves. Finally, he spotted a couple of trees ahead, and his eyebrows pulled together as he approached them. Their wood was a deep, rich brown, with bright green, teardrop leaves. He’d never seen anything like it before.

Alister gave the trunk a firm press. The wood was suitable. He frowned at the branches; those close to the ground grew too thick and strong. Thinner limbs grew higher than he could reach. Alister slid his heavy pack off his shoulders, letting Ronan hop to the ground as he did so. It fell against the trunk with a thud. He took his staff with him and climbed onto a thick branch which hung over the path. He leaped higher into the tree, his arms strong and his grip firm. There would be thinner branches further up.

He walked across the branch with confidence, in his Rindor boots, perfect for climbing trees. His hands stretched out in front of him for balance. Alister climbed countless trees in his sixteen years, so he reached the smaller branches in seconds. He swung his legs forward to straddle the branch, and a small smile pulled at his mouth at the familiarity of the action.

What kind of twisted person am I to be happy after ending someone’s life? A grimace replaced his smile as he snapped off a curved branch. The wind was quiet. The funeral for Morgana Atwood would be held today, and he wore a smile and climbed trees. A thought struck him. Without the body, they wouldn’t be able to hold the funeral at all. The family would be forced to be suspended in their grief until Remembrance Day came along, a whole season away. If Alister’s family assumed him dead, they’d mourn for him for all of winter, too. Alister’s frown deepened.

The quiet rustle of leaves snapped Alister’s head around in search of the source. A spotted jaguar crouched on the branch above him. Alister’s eyes found it only a split second before the fierce animal pounced and rushed towards him.

A yell barely had time to escape his throat before Alister’s hands moved in an instinctive blur.

He braced his yewen staff in front of his chest.

The jaguar’s snarling jaw stopped mere inches from his eyes, wide with terror. The cat roared and hissed when its chest collided with his staff. With only moments before the jaguar would recover from the shock, Alister twisted his staff to knock the animal off balance. It fell from the branch with a final swipe. Alister yelled at the pain its paw tore through his arm. He scrambled towards the trunk, and jumped down the branches. His foot slid on the lowest limb. He fell to the ground and landed hard on his knees.

Alister ignored the pain which shot up his legs, swung his pack across one shoulder, and ran back to the Pillian Falls Passage. Ronan flew to his shoulder with a screech. He shot a glance back at the trees as he ran. The jaguar’s tail disappeared amongst the dense leaves. Alister let go of a breath he’d not realised he held, and slowed his pace to a quick walk.

Of course there would be dangerous animals on a path like this. It’s not Rindor’s forests, it’s between towns. Alister couldn’t help but look behind again with uneasy lines on his forehead. Jaguars usually only preyed on animals, unless they were old or weak. That would explain how he’d knocked it back with ease.

It took several minutes for Alister’s heart to stop hammering. As the rush faded, the pain of his legs, and especially his arm, demanded his attention. He raised his arm, and his eyes widened at the long, bleeding gash near his elbow. Alister took the carving knife to his other sleeve, and wrapped it around his gash, wincing at the pain.

The jaguar’s teeth would’ve crushed his skull, if not for his immediate reaction. When this finally registered and the shock had faded somewhat, his eyes searched for a traveller’s outpost. But it had been some time since he’d passed one. As the light faded and he didn’t find another small structure, his eyebrows remained furrowed on his forehead. Ronan crooned by his ear, but its meaning was lost to him. He wasn’t Lark.

With the light of day fading, the constant field of fog, and the steep steps, Materon could be minutes, hours, or days away. His pace quickened. He struggled to disregard the sear in the muscles of his shoulders, and to ignore the sting and shake of his knees from the fall. He forced his eyes away from the blood seeping through his makeshift bandage and running down his arm, but the metallic smell rose to his nostrils. A cloud of fatigue, built up over days and worsened by the blood loss, made him desperate for a break, and doubtful of the possibility of ever reaching Materon. In his gloom, Alister felt he deserved whatever became of him. I am a murderer, after all.

Before long, he walked in the darkness. The sun set long ago, and he forced his weary eyes to squint at the path in search of an outpost. His feet dragged and his grip on the yewen staff loosened. With every step, the next seemed less possible, and Alister was certain his legs would collapse beneath him before he ever reached an outpost. When did I last eat? The stray thought received no answer.

The night was as bitterly cold as the day had been hot. Only the faint howls of the wind and the chatter of his teeth broke the sound of steps, and he found himself longing for the clammy sweat of the day.

His pace after the encounter with the jaguar faded into an exhausted shuffle, which slowed until he was too weak to put one foot in front of the other. Alister moaned and allowed his knees to give way. He collapsed onto the ground, Ronan’s screech beside him numb in his ears. With shaking hands, he reached for his bed roll and blankets, but blackness overtook him before he managed to find them.

Alister was thankful he awoke without another attack of panic as he had the first morning, but being pecked awake by Ronan wasn’t much better. At least I woke up. Bitter hours of the night seemed to persist into the morning, because Alister felt like ice.

He groaned and flailed his hands to get Ronan away.

“Sorry about that!”

Alister opened his eyes wide, recognising it was bright enough to be nearly midday—and was baffled at what was above him. An old but strong-looking man with a tanned face sat atop a huge bird. It had long, muscular legs and a neck which extended right down to Alister’s face, with bulging eyes and a thick, curved beak. Ronan was nowhere to be found.

The bird—an arglebon, if Lark’s description was accurate—honked in a crackling, guttural manner which echoed painfully in his ears.

“Juggle, no!” The man’s voice was rough as he pulled on the reins draped around the arglebon’s neck. The arglebon honked again and drew its neck up.

“Juggle?” Alister’s first words of the day as rough as the old man’s. The arglebon rider boomed a laugh; it sounded like an ape’s.

“It’s her name. Mine is Eugene.”

He swung his legs around and landed on the ground. Eugene was nimble for his age. Perhaps the tan of his face had added years to his physical appearance.

“Eugene Poels.” He held out a hand for Alister. The still half-conscious boy took it, wincing at the pain in all of his muscles as he stood. His head rushed, and he wrapped his coat around him in an attempt to stop the violent shiver which racked his body. The blood-soaked bandage on his arm had darkened over the night, and it throbbed so much it seemed to have its own heartbeat, which was concerning to say the least.

Alister was torn between the belief he deserved whatever punishment the Divine brought upon him, and being so drained in body and mind he yearned to just feel whole again. He cast his eyes around the path. His pack lay on the ground next to him, but Ronan had disappeared.

“Young man?”

Alister looked up. Eugene Poels looked at him with raised eyebrows and curious, blue-grey eyes, as if he’d just asked a question.

“Did you say something?” It seemed so long since he’d talked to another person; he wasn’t accustomed to listening. The last person he’d talked with was Journ, the lift conductor. He winced, as he always did when he thought of home.

“I was asking your name, wasn’t I? But if you’d rather not give it…”

“My name is…” Alister hesitated. Perhaps people from Rindor were still on the lookout for him, for Alister Kinross. “It’s just Ali.”

“No last name, eh?”

Alister grimaced. The old traveller didn’t say anything more on the topic, but rather pulled his plaid cap over his thick white hair.

“So why are you travelling, all by yourself, ‘just Ali’?”

Alister flinched. “I’d rather not talk about that.”

Eugene laughed like an ape again. It made Alister irritable, the joy. “You didn’t run away, now, did you?”

Alister didn’t answer and shoved his hands deep into his pockets. His fingers brushed the corner of the book he packed. “Doesn’t matter.”

Eugene waggled his eyebrows mischievously. “Mysterious fellow, aren’t you? That’s alright. Myself? I was born in Materon, but I live in Farmont now with my beautiful wife Colleen and our family. I’m only visiting.”

Alister’s head snapped up. “Materon? Is it nearby?”

Eugene laughed again, and Alister put a pin on why it irritated him. He was jealous. If only he’d waited for his friends…if Lark had come to Rindor…he could be filled with the same joy now with his family and friends back home.

“Why, Ali, my hometown is right over the next bend in the stairs! I only came down here because I used to harvest these wild laopea berry bushes with my friends when I was your age.”

“Hmm?”

Alister watched the man bend down at the bushes that lined the path and pick the small, white berries that grew. He hadn’t known they were edible, else he would’ve eaten them in the last few days; the bushes grew along most of the Passage.

Alister almost laughed. Materon was only minutes away, and he collapsed on the side of the path.

Eugene chattered on as he plucked the berries and tossed them into a leather pouch. Juggle the arglebon leaned its neck down to inspect Alister. He raised an amused eyebrow. Arglebon were far from elegant birds. He raised a tentative hand to stroke Juggle’s head, and the animal jerked her head back and ruffled her wings.

“Laopeas, snowberries, call them what you will. They’re delicious, aren’t they? So, you must’ve gotten yourself in quite a fix to have slept outside in the cold last night, eh? And still sleeping so late! I thought there may’ve been something wrong with you. That’s why I let Juggle here peck you, didn’t I? What happened, my dear boy?”

Alister sighed, and Juggle inched her head under his arm with another guttural noise. His mouth pulled into the beginning of a smile as he patted the bird’s feathered head. “A jaguar. I was too tired to keep walking.”

“A jaguar? Oh my!” Eugene’s eyes popped wide, as if it were some fantastic story from an adventure book. I suppose this is a sort of adventure.

Eugene turned around, his pouch now full of white berries. “Were you hurt, my boy?”

Alister held up his arm and unwrapped the bandages. A foul odour emerged from the wound, which oozed a creamy liquid. Alister’s mouth fell open.

“It didn’t look like this yesterday,” he stammered. How did it worsen so fast?

“Oho! Looks like you’ve got yourself an infection, Ali,” Eugene said in his booming voice. “We’d better get you to Materon, yes? My dear sister is a healer; she can fix you up in no time. Come now, Juggle.”

Alister allowed his belongings to be placed atop this eccentric old man’s bizarre steed; Eugene Poels led him around the last bend of Pillian Falls Passage to Materon. He stole one last glance of the Passage, still searching for Ronan, and stared down Mount Era to where Rindor would be, far below. But it wasn’t his home anymore.