The Wanderer

Chapter 1 

A faint sense of awareness rushes back to him as the Wanderer regains his bearings. oblivious to his situation he begins to look around in confusion, turning his head every which way. Looking to his right, his focus is caught by a beam of light piercing through the darkness. He tries to get up, but he can't. He is drained. Instead, he lays, propped up with the cold weathered wood at his back, rocking to the tide. As the sun climbs persistently into the dawn sky the Wanderer regains a sense of self and his surroundings. A boat, yes. In a  daze, the Wanderer reaches forward in an attempt to lift himself out of this ocean casket. In front of him lies an expanse of water, for miles and miles and miles. He turns around in the hopes that there might be something other than water waiting for his gaze. A bright white sand beach basking in the sun warms his soul and entices him to feel the shore under his feet. With the little energy he has, the Wanderer  trudges forward onto the radiating sand of the bank. He looks back one final time to see the dingy, cracked, and worn, torn apart from the constant battle with the ocean. He must leave this past behind and move on with nothing but the washed clothes on his back and the dry skin they cover. 

He begins to look for relief. Food, water, shelter, anything that can ease the pain of his predicament. The land appeared ambiguous and low-definition to his newly adjusted eyes. His hazy sight did not allow him to see any trees or find shelter, much as it was in the boat during the grasp of night. Nevertheless, he stumbled aimlessly in any direction away from the waters he came from. After several hours the Wanderer cannot go on any longer and is forced to take a break. In great fortune, contrary to his previous luck he stumbles upon a sturdy palm rustling in the wind as if it was performing a welcome dance for him. The Wanderer barely made it into the shade of the leaves before collapsing to the ground. As the Wanderer props up against the brace of the tree he feels himself nodding off. The weight of his head is increasing. He knows he must try to stay awake and go on, but he can't fight it. The cool breeze and warm fine sand of the beach lulled him to sleep like a siren's song that he couldn't resist. In his slumber, he dreamt of a home and a past life long before now full of comfort, family, and community, but it was not his, for he could not remember where he came from. Oh, how he longed for that now. Just as he was reaching a deep sleep a loud *crack* woke him up. The wind had picked up and broken off the branch that was sheltering the Wanderer from the unrelenting sun. Immediately woken up the Wanderer felt just as tired as before his rest but hungrier. As he gets up with the aid of the tree, he notices something peeking through the sand in a berm a few long steps away. As he gets closer to investigate, the Wanderer notices what it is; a bag. He quickly brushes the loose sand off the large burlap sack and pulls it out of the ground. It felt like lifting a steel plate, though he knew the bag couldn't be more than a few pounds. He also notes that the bag must have been put there recently as he did not see it before resting his eyes just before. His reason and judgment are tainted by his dehydration and lack of nutrition, but he knew this was not a mirage.

The Wanderer slips his two frail thumbs into the top of the bag and looks down intently as if he was expected to discover god itself. Though he was not met with the face of god, he did find something that lit his face up with excitement: a cold jar of liquid and a piece of bread wrapped in paper. The life that was drained from his body over the past few days found an almost instantaneous resurgence as he quickly unscrewed the jar and unwrapped the twill string to prepare his feast. Though he knew he should keep some for later, he could not resist ingesting every last morsel afforded to him. The crumbs slowly fell off his barren chest as he rose once again to continue his journey. As he reached to pick up the sack he noticed the weight was the exact same as before he had taken out the jug of water and loaf of bread. Puzzled, he peered into the bottom of the sack unknowing and perplexed. This time his gaze and hand were met with the supple and soft touch of a light fabric. One piece after the other he pulled the clothing out of the bag. A hat, a vest, a pair of pants, and a bag. After appreciating the gift he had been given, he donned his newfound uniform and saved the burlap sack in the new bag. The hat was light but sturdy and kept the sun out of the Wanderer’s eyes. The vest and pants were constructed out of light checked linen that felt like camouflage on the expansive sandy background. The clothing was supple and flowy which allowed the breeze to carry on through the clothes but was thick enough to keep the sunlight at bay. This gave Wanderer’s skin a brief intermission from the constant rays of the summer heat.

Confused but grateful the Wanderer loaded up his bag and continued his journey with a new sense of hope and perseverance. Not long after he began again he stumbled over a bluff and was met with the sight of something he had never seen before. As he walked closer he was able to start making out what was going on. It was a drum circle. As the wind died down and the Wanderer got closer to the circle the sounds and percussion became ever more clear. He was instantly put into a trance. His first instinct was to watch from a distance, but the drums called his name and he couldn't resist. The Wanderer took a seat among the drummer in this range of sand with shrubs and either side, providing their song to aid in the harmony. As the Wanderer sat down the drummers noticed him and did not say a word Instead they handed him a drum. They looked much like he did. The same dark cracked skin and unkempt facial hair like ivy on an abandoned building were the primary characteristics of all those sharing in this song. But he noticed something else; they were all wearing the same clothes that he was, even down to the bag. Are all of these people castaways too? Could they have gone through the same thing he did? It didn't matter. Now was a time for songs. As the day, which felt like months, winded to a close, the circle was met with the cool kiss of nightfall.

Over the next few weeks the Wanderer lived with the drummers and the rest of the villagers in a small makeshift town just a few minutes walk away from the initial drum circle he stumbled upon. During this time he was able to learn about the culture of the locals and allow his body time to rest and digest. He talked with the drummers for hours on end about what had happened to him with the shipwreck and how he came across the bag. He asked question after question but nothing they said to him made anything more clear. In these short weeks, it became apparent to him that he was on an intentional path, but he did not know what or where yet. This sense of community that was fostered while staying with the villagers helped him grow and reclaim a certain sense of self, but he was still looking for more. He hears word of a town inland from the villagers and prepares to depart in hopes that this town might show him the way. After packing what little things he has, he thanks the villagers for their help and says goodbye one final time, with nothing but the search for purpose on his mind.  

Chapter 2

The Wanderer follows the line set by the head villager indicating a town far far away, which could hold the answer he is looking for. He walks for miles each day, and with each passing sunrise, his clothes and spirit become more worn. After weeks of long treacherous roads inland, the Wanderer finally finds himself in range of a tall bluff, perched intently on the top of the winding hill. Without any guidance or direction, the Wanderer decided to ascend the bluff in hopes that the elevation might reveal something about the valley below. As he climbs step by step the ground gets more rigid as the cool mountain breeze repeatedly thrashes the mountainside. Finally, after much toil and trouble, the Wanderer takes one final step over a complex mosaic of dense roots, almost like steps, provided by the large oak tree that initially caught his attention at the beginning of his endeavor. With one final step, he overcomes the hill and reaches the summit. Taking a moment to breathe he looks out at the vast sky. Everything freezes for a moment. The clouds stand still showing the Wanderer a sight of splendor. As his sight creeps down the mountainside he sees a vast town nestled in the desolate valley below. With haste, the Wanderer descends the bluff paying little attention to where his feet were going. In much less time than it took him to get up the bluff, the Wanderer was now at the very bottom of the valley with no more than a few scrapes and some dirt on his knees. 

The Wanderer gathered himself and brushed off his knees as the sun said its final farewell to another day. The valley and the town within it quickly became dark and impossible to see for the Wanderer. He had to keep going, only another mile or so, but how could he? He knew the town was straight ahead, but he would not be able to avoid the rough terrain and obstacles along the way. Sitting down to think, the Wanderer closed his eyes. He thought about what he was doing and why he was doing it. He was so tired but knew he had to keep pushing forward, even if it meant walking in the darkness of the night. He felt himself choke up at the thought of it but quelled his emotions for now. Ready to push forward once again the Wanderer opened his eyes and noticed a glimmer dancing in the tears pooling in his eyes. After wiping the tears away, the bright glimmer turned into an orchestra of lights coming from seemingly every building in the town. The presence was so bright that the path was perfectly illuminated, even all this distance away. It wasn't much further now, the town entrance was in sight.

He ambled along with determination and hope. As he walked along, the cold dirt started to recede, being replaced by a grey cobblestone laden with snow. He breathed a sigh of relief as the idea of other people was once again tangible. The town entrance stood tall, and the gate was cracked open almost as if he was being invited in. The hour was late and there was not a person in sight. He walked along the main road only being kept company by the song of the wind and his footsteps crunching in the snow. After reaching what seemed to be the town square, he noticed that the lights were starting to go out. A feeling of desperation quickly crept up behind him. He knew he must find someone before it was too late. Looking around anxiously the Wanderer begins to scan the houses and streets for any sign of life. To his left, just on the other side of the fountain, he noticed a shimmer coming from a storefront. Without hesitation, he quickly raced to the store where he was greeted by a large sign creaking in the wind that said ‘Town Hatters.’ Perfect, now maybe he could get some warm clothes and a place to stay for the night. Covering the side of his eyes the Wanderer peered into the broad glass storefront hoping to find a worker but was instead met with the sight of countless intricate hats propped up and displayed perfectly on shelves, hangers, and racks. Before he could raise his hand to knock on the glass a figure appeared in the doorframe of the back room. It was a woman, older, with hair grey and messy looking right at the Wanderer. He felt a chill shoot down his spine, but it wasn't the cold. He took a deep breath and gathered himself as he attempted to knock again but by the time he raised his fist again, the woman was already gone. With what little time he had left the Wanderer continued to go from door to door, knocking and calling for help, and every time he was turned away. Fatigued and discouraged the Wanderer stumbles across an alleyway, cold and dimly lit to rest for a while away from the persistent gale racing through the valley town. As he sits and curls up he knows he must find clothes and food before it is too late, but the call of sleep is too much. Weak and hungry he dozes off into a slumber. 

 With the call of a rooster, the Wanderer is shot awake taking in the sights and sounds of the morning town before the feelings of pain and hunger can remind him of the situation he is in. From the depths of the alleyway, he sees carriages and people strolling up and down the street. Time to find help. He gets up, brushing the thin layer of snow off his pants before making a push into the sunlight. He stops the first person he sees, a distinguished-looking gentleman in a black suit and top hat, asking for anything, even a slice of bread. He makes his plea by explaining the long journey he endured, hoping this would evoke a feeling of empathy and pettiness out of the man, but to no avail. The man glanced at him and turned away, carrying on with his day. That was no matter, he had to try again. Person by person he states his case, and person by person he fails. What was the matter? He knew they could hear him. Everyone looked him dead in the eye but not so much as even a word was returned. It was almost as if he was invisible. He stood in silence at the base of the fountain, dry and frozen, as the world turned around him. Day by day this occurred. He made his attempts and even tried to sneak some bread at the market but nothing worked. 

Since arriving at the town all those days ago he had not heard the voice of another person, nor felt the warmth of a single building in this town. Discouraged and wretched he resulted to do the last thing she could. Slowly but surely a building of his own was completed. The Wanderer took miscellaneous boarding he found strewn around the town and constructed a makeshift shelter. He was able to feed himself by rummaging through the trash bins in the square since he knew what times they were changed and could watch when someone would throw away perfectly good pastry from the market. For months he lived like this, day after day. He was surviving but not in the slightest bit thriving. The winter blight took a toll, with the wind chipping away at his spirit day by day. Eventually, he found himself in the place he was when he first entered the town, curled up, shivering, and dozing off into a slumber. In his dream, he found himself in absolute darkness with nothing but the cold. The gale continued to blow strongly, even stronger than before. A wisp of snow and a sheet of ice is all that remains between the Wanderer and the darkness. It is cold; he is cold. The sensation is enough to freeze him right where he stands, causing him to wince and shiver in uncertainty and discomfort. He closes his eyes in an attempt to shun the cold and put himself in a more pleasant place. Though the cold breeze chills his face, the Wanderer finds himself able to center his mind on something in the distance; a birch tree. Standing askew and almost illuminated he notices its branches are frail and its bark is chipped, but it is still standing. Its thin frame heeds the command of the gale, swaying every which way, while still resisting the weight of winter. It is waiting for the call of spring, just as he is. He awakes from his sleep with a feeling of spirit that reminded him of his experience with the tribe on the beach. His hopefulness returns in part, but he is unable to muster the strength to move. He lies there, defeated by the gale, looking up towards the pale grey sky.