Chapter 1: The Stranger
The sun hung low, its light the color of gold stretching as far as the eye could see, reflecting off the bone white clay. Trees skeletal stood black against the bright sky, beautiful in their ruin.
He walked among them.
The stranger wore dust like a second skin. Grains clinging to fabric and flesh until he shone the same color as the earth he trod. His cattleman kept the sun from reaching his eyes, though they were denied rest all the same. His clothes hung torn and stained with grime, his rugged leather boots cracked and sunscorched. A bindle over-shoulder clung softly along the rhythm of his footsteps, as his whistling led the tune.
He moved without hurry. There was no place to hurry to. Day after day he walked until he couldn't, and then he walked further still. A shadow followed his every step, though he had learned long ago to pay it no mind.
These were the lands of no winds. No bird's call reached this place, no rustle of leaves or whistle of breeze broke the silence. Some grew accustomed to the quiet and accepted it as the way of things. Not him. He didn't have to. The sound of his boots digging into clay was a guarantee to the stranger.
The movement wasn't without purpose.
He searched for dialogue, for others who still had words left in them and the will to use them.
He had conversed many times over the course of his travels, with many different people. The stranger sought more still, as they gave him something to think about. It mattered to think, to examine and to consider, as it always had. Doubly so now, seeing as there was no other action to take in these lands.
None of worth anyway.
This task had become his purpose, and he had refined his body and mind in devotion to it.
His legs had grown strong from the constant movement. Little could slow them and even less could stop them outright. There wasn't a stone to make him stumble.
His skin had thickened and darkened under the relentless sun, glazed with sweat that evaporated as fast as it came to be. The gold no longer fazed him.
His eyes had grown sharp, trained to catch the scant movement amid the sand and clay. Nothing escaped his notice.
They came into use.
He spotted the gathering from a distance. Eight or nine figures huddled close by what had once been a creek, unmoving and silent in the empty landscape. Glad to share the same air, the same horizon.
This wasn't a new sight for the stranger. Those who couldn't bear the silence alone sat together and made no sound anyway. They simply were, content with their emptiness.
He made no approach.
There was nothing to say to them. Nothing they wanted to hear. Most had given up language a long time ago, settling into the clay like the dead trees. Basking in the gold, rooted in their resignation.
He understood the impulse.
He didn't yield to it.
He wasn't like them.
His boots kept their rhythm and the whistling remained, that old tune without a name carrying him forward. It didn't need one to fulfill its purpose.
The landscape stretched unchanged before him. More trees, more clay, and a golden hour without end. In the far distance, there was a shimmer where light met earth, a place he had walked toward many times before. It never grew closer.
He walked anyway.
Chapter 2: The Newcomer
Time didn't pass in these lands. There was no sunrise to mark the days and no season to count.
The stranger didn't know how long he walked or how far he left the figures behind. Hours or days, there was little use for the distinction. His legs moved, his shadow kept pace and the trees passed one by one.
Until the stranger spotted something on the horizon. It wasn't the stillness of the rooted ones, nor the slow drift of those who had nowhere to go. No.
It was the movement of someone who didn't yet understand.
A newcomer.
He adjusted his path toward them.
It didn't take long for the figure to spot him. It was obvious they weren't wary of the stranger, as their pace quickly turned into a run.
They were young, couldn't have been more than thirty. Their clothes still held color, although this place would claim them eventually.
Hey!
The voice cracked with desperation.
Hey! Please!
They reached him breathless. There was no need to breathe hard in these lands. Alas, they hadn't learnt that yet.
The stranger stopped walking, set his bindle down and waited.
The newcomer's eyes were wide, searching him for answers or anything that made sense. There was none to be found among the dust, leather, and cloth.
Where—
Where am I?
The stranger didn't hurry to answer.
Are you a child of god?
What— Which one?
…
…
Is this the afterlife?
Some consider it to be.
…
Do you?
There ain't no life in these lands.
Ah… Fuck…
…
Is this it? Where is everyone?
All over. This place stretches far.
The newcomer's eyes looked around, heavy with desperation. A sigh broke the silence as they fell on their knees.
The stranger kneeled also.
I didn't think it would look like this.
Few do.
…
What do I do now?
What do you want to do?
Cry? Leave?
One easier than the other.
The newcomer froze for a second under the scorching sun.
You can leave?
You can.
How?
…
That's the question, ain't it.
…
The stranger met the newcomer's gaze. His hand rose slow, finger extending toward the sun that wouldn't set.
Go past the light.
The newcomer faced the sun, their face basking in the golden glow.
…
What's out there?
Never went.
Why?
…
The stranger stood and brushed the clay from his knees.
The newcomer remained on the ground, unmoving, staring at the sun.
I don't know if I can.
The stranger looked down at them and let the silence dominate for a moment.
The newcomer's eyes were wet.
Ain't my choice to make.
The stranger picked up his bindle and slung it over his shoulder. The weight settled familiar against his back.
The newcomer remained there in the clay, staring at the horizon where the light met nothing.
The stranger's boots pressed into the earth. One step after another, the rhythm returned, steady and certain.
Eventually the newcomer grew smaller, only a figure kneeling in the gold. Soon they would be just another shape on the landscape, indistinguishable from the trees and the clay and the countless indecisive souls of these lands.
The whistling began again, that old tune without a name.
The stranger walked on.
With time, the tune faded, leaving only the duet of boots and clay.
The stranger thought about the newcomer, whether they were still kneeling or whether they managed to subdue their wet eyes and trembling hands. Whether they embraced the gold.
Whatever the end, the encounter did little to satiate the stranger. There was little new in it for him. Confusion, panic, and despair kept newcomers from proper dialogue. Answers to their questions were all they sought.
He needed more than that.
His legs carried him forward, passing the trees. Their shadows stretched across the white earth. The stranger's shadow among them, moving when they couldn't.
Somewhere ahead there would be others.
He walked towards that possibility, as he always did.
Chapter 3: The Old Man
Smoke on the horizon, a sight rare to the stranger. Few could start a fire in these lands and fewer would bother.
The stranger set a new direction.
The walk was long. Not due to the distance, but the anticipation.
The smoke grew clearer as he approached, a thin column rising straight in the windless air. A figure sat beside it.
The stranger slowed his pace and took measure of the scene.
The man by the fire was old, older than most the stranger crossed in his travels. His silver hair clashed against the gold, his face weathered deep. He sat cross-legged in the clay with his back straight and hands resting on his knees.
A small pile of dead branches from the skeletal trees sat beside him. Fuel enough for hours yet.
The fire itself was modest but potent. Its light of orange and red melting into the endless gold as it danced. The flame was alive in a way little else in these lands was. Rising, falling, and twisting as it crackled and popped. Its heat distorted the horizon beyond it.
It felt wrong here, out of place. A different kind of warmth.
The old man's eyes tracked the stranger's approach. He didn't bother to stand or call out. Simply watched and waited.
The stranger came to a stop at the edge of the firelight.
The old man nodded once.
Greetings, stranger.
Hello.
What brings you here?
The stranger pointed to the flame.
Don't see that often in these parts.
Dustin' off some old skills.
…
The old man gestured on the ground next to him.
Come sit, stranger. Tell me your story. It might be a while 'til I meet another soul.
The stranger did as he was told.
I walk these lands.
You been walkin' for long?
Since I can remember.
What for?
I'm after folk worth talking to.
The old man laughed.
How's that goin' for ya?
The stranger scoffed.
Found many?
Enough.
Enough for what?
To keep walking.
That so.
…
And when you stop?
I don't.
Hm.
…
…
You leaving the gold?
Aye.
There a reason?
The old man looked the stranger in the eyes.
Does there need to be?
…
I've grown tired of this place.
Most do.
Yet they cling to the gold.
It's all they have.
They'll never have more because of it.
They'll never have less.
Nothing of worth left to lose in these lands.
…
Maybe so.
For a man to discover new lands, he has to give up the sight of the shore.
The sea is an easy place to get lost in.
We're all lost already.
…
You talk like a man who's thought on it.
I have.
Never went?
No.
Why?
…
…
I suppose I found a new purpose.
That so?
To walk. To talk.
Mm. Keeps the days movin'.
It does.
You settled?
I ain't settled.
The old man scoffed.
Of course.
…
Funny thing about this place.
You can keep your feet movin'.
But you ain't going nowhere.
…
…
You figure there's something out there?
Past the gold?
The stranger nodded.
Never really thought about it.
How so?
Don't matter much, does it.
Why's that?
Cause wonderin' ain't the same as goin'.
The stranger said nothing.
The fire crackled. The only sound besides their breathing.
The old man stood, brushed the clay from his legs and kicked dirt over the flames until they died. The smoke thinned and faded, leaving only the gold.
He picked up his belongings, what few there were, and turned to face the horizon where the light met nothing.
You comin' with?
The stranger looked at him, then at the horizon, then back at the dying embers.
No.
The old man nodded.
Figured.
He adjusted his pack as it settled on his shoulders.
Good luck walkin', stranger.
The old man turned, faced the light, and began moving toward it. One step after another, steady and certain.
The stranger watched him go, growing smaller with each step, until the gold swallowed him whole as he crossed the threshold where the shimmer met earth.
And then past it, into what lay beyond.
After a time the stranger stood, picked up his bindle and turned away from where the old man had gone.
The encounter lingered with him.
He had much to think about.
His boots found their rhythm again, the whistling returned and his shadow fell in beside him.
He walked on.
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