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 lies, propped up by 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 dinghy, 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 to his newly adjusted eyes. His hazy sight did not reveal any trees or shelter in the distance, much like it was on the boat during the grasp of night. Nevertheless, he stumbled aimlessly in any direction away from the waters he came from. After several hours of walking, the Wanderer could not go on any longer, forcing him to take a break nearby. In great fortune, contrary to his previous luck, he stumbles upon a sturdy palm rustling in the wind as if it were performing a welcoming dance for him. The Wanderer barely made it into the shade of its leaves before collapsing to the ground. As the Wanderer settles against the base of the tree, he feels himself nodding off, the weight of his head 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 lull him to sleep like a siren's song that he could not 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* startled him from sleep. The wind had picked up and broken off the branch that was sheltering the Wanderer from the unrelenting sun. The sudden disturbance left the Wanderer feeling just as tired as before his rest, but hungrier. As he picks himself off the ground 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 recognizes it to be 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 weigh more than a few pounds. He surmises that the bag must have been put there recently, as he did not see it before resting his eyes. His reason and judgment are tainted by his dehydration and lack of nutrition, but he knew this was no mirage.

The Wanderer slips his two frail thumbs into the top of the bag and looks down intently as if he were 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 its weight was the same as it was before he had taken out the jug of water and the loaf of bread. Cautiously, he peered down into the bottom of the sack unknowingly 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 put the burlap sack into his 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 them, but was thick enough to keep the sunlight away from his weathered skin. This gave the Wanderer’s skin a brief respite from the constant rays of the coastal 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 unfolding before him: a drum circle. As the wind died down and the Wanderer got closer to the circle, the sounds of percussion became ever clearer. 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 drummers 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 tanned, cracked skin and unkempt facial hair like ivy on an abandoned building were the primary characteristics of all those sharing in the song. But he noticed something else; they were all wearing the same clothing that he was, even down to the bag adorning his back. 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 town just a few minutes walk away from the 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 mysterious bag. He asked question after question, but nothing they said to him made anything clearer. 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 overhears 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 decides to ascend the bluff in hopes that the elevation might reveal something about the valley below. As he climbs step by step, the ground becomes more rigid, and the cool mountain breeze begins to whistle against the mountainside. Finally, after much toil, the Wanderer takes one final step over a complex mosaic of dense roots, almost like a staircase, 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 are going. In much less time than it took him to get up the bluff, the Wanderer is now at the very bottom of the valley with no more than a few scrapes and some dirt on his knees.

The Wanderer gathers himself and brushes off his knees as the sun says its final farewell to another day. The valley and the town within it quickly become dark and out of sight for the Wanderer. He has to keep going, only another mile or so, but how could he? He knows the town is straight ahead, but he will not be able to avoid the rough terrain and obstacles along the way. Sitting down to think, the Wanderer closes his eyes. He thinks about what he is doing and why he is doing it. He is so tired but knows he has to keep pushing forward, even if it means walking in the darkness of the night. He feels himself choke up at the thought of it, but quells his emotions for now. Ready to push forward once again, the Wanderer opens his eyes and notices a glimmer dancing in the tears pooling in his eyes. After wiping the tears away, the bright glimmer turns into an orchestra of lights coming from seemingly every building in the town. The presence is so bright that the path is now perfectly illuminated, even all this distance away. It isn’t much further now; the town entrance is in sight.

He ambles along with determination and hope. As he walks, the cold dirt starts to recede, being replaced by a grey cobblestone laden with snow. He breathes a sigh of relief as the idea of other people is once again tangible. The town entrance stands tall, and the gate is cracked open almost as if he is being invited in. The hour is late, and there is not a person in sight. He walks along the main road, only being kept company by the song of the wind and his footsteps crunching in the snow. After reaching what seems to be the town square, he notices that the lights are starting to go out. A feeling of desperation quickly creeps up behind him. He knows he must find someone before it is 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 notices a shimmer coming from a storefront. Without hesitation, he quickly races to the store where he is greeted by a large sign creaking in the wind that says “Town Hatters.” Perfect—now maybe he can get some warm clothes and a place to stay for the night. Covering the side of his eyes, the Wanderer peers into the broad glass storefront, hoping to find a worker, but is instead met with the sight of countless intricate hats propped up and displayed perfectly on shelves, hangers, and racks. Before he can raise his hand to knock on the glass, a figure appears in the doorframe of the back room. It is a woman, older, with hair grey and messy, looking right at the Wanderer. He feels a chill shoot down his spine, but it isn’t the cold. He takes a deep breath and gathers himself as he attempts to knock again, but by the time he raises his fist again, the woman is already gone. With what little time he has left, the Wanderer continues to go from door to door, knocking and calling for help, but every time he is 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 sweeping 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 jolted 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 has endured, hoping this will evoke a feeling of empathy and pity from the man, but to no avail. The man glances at him and turns away, carrying on with his day. That is no matter; he has to try again. Person by person, he states his case, and person by person, he fails. What is the matter? He knows they can hear him. Everyone looks him dead in the eye, but not so much as even a word is returned. It is almost as if he were invisible. He stands in silence at the base of the fountain, dry and frozen, as the world turns around him. Day by day, this occurs. He makes his attempts and even tries to sneak some bread at the market, but nothing works.

Since arriving at the town all those days ago, he has not heard the voice of another person, nor felt the warmth of a single building in this town. Discouraged and wretched, he resorts to doing the last thing he can. Slowly but surely, a building of his own is completed. The Wanderer takes miscellaneous boards he finds strewn around the town and constructs a makeshift shelter. He can feed himself by rummaging through the trash bins in the square, since he knows what times they are changed and can watch when someone throws away perfectly good pastry from the market. For months he lives like this, day after day. He is surviving, but just barely. The winter blight takes a toll, with the wind chipping away at his spirit day by day. Eventually, he finds 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 finds himself in absolute darkness with nothing but the cold. The gale continues to blow strongly, even stronger than before. A wisp of snow and a sheet of ice are all that remain 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 reminds him of his experience with the tribe on the beach. His hopefulness returns in part, but he cannot muster the strength to move. He lies there, defeated by the gale, looking up towards the pale grey sky.

Chapter 3 

With great effort, the Wanderer opens his crusted and heavy eyes to a void of darkness. A cool air is quick to follow this new sensation of blackness. Disoriented, the Wanderer begins feeling around himself for anything that may explain his strangely unfamiliar circumstance. He feels chilled, coarse dirt beneath his bare feet. Eventually, his hands make their way to a bed of rocks standing still amongst short, dry shrubs. As he cautiously makes his way further along the ground, his progress is suddenly halted by a wall. As he begins to touch the wall, he feels its gentle lean inward. Slowly but surely, he traces the wall's structure high above his head, almost out of reach, until it eventually returns to meet the dirt many careful steps away. With this realization, he knows where he is in an instant: a cave. Still unsettled, he feels reassured, knowing that if there was a way into the cave, there must be a way out. After finding the back end of the cave, the Wanderer begins to walk in the opposite direction, using the stern wall as a guide. He continues on through the darkness, over rocks and dead vegetation, hoping that his eyes might be met with something more encouraging. Eventually, a crack appears, so far in the distance that it looks like a candlelight held against the midnight sky. The Wanderer continues on, with the promise of light as his only companion.

The crack slowly becomes larger until suddenly the Wanderer finds himself at the edge of the cave, shaking hands with the early morning day. He becomes disoriented as his overwhelmed eyes try to adjust to the new world around him. As his eyes constrict, the Wanderer is met with a grand sight: a vast basin with canyon walls stacked thousands of feet tall around him in every direction. As panic begins to creep in, he starts looking for a way out—any path, trail, or slope that could lead him out of here. He sees the length of the canyon laid before him with no end in sight, and reluctantly takes his first step out of the cave. For hours, he walks with the dry basin dirt below his feet, with no sign of a way out. As the morning hours begin to fade, the Wanderer feels the sun creeping over the crest of the canyon, warming everything that lies below. This welcome sense of warmth quickly turns to a searing heat, burning everything in the dry canyon valley, including the Wanderer. He must move his course toward the east wall, where the ground still remains untouched by the sun's rays. Feeling the fatigue of the midday heat, the Wanderer becomes discouraged and starts to lose pace. His head begins to pulse as he loses clarity in his vision. The Wanderer braces against the canyon wall to keep himself from collapsing. His vision goes white… In a haze, he sees faint glimpses of a man, a woman, and a child. He hears them all talking together, but cannot make out what they are saying. He focuses on discerning who these people are and why he is seeing them in his vision. As the picture of these people fades, another picture comes to him: a house—no, a home; his home.

Though these fragments in his vision do not reveal any answers, they reinvigorate the Wanderer with a sense of hope and purpose as he regains consciousness. He continues on again, step by step, toward uncertain safety. Time goes by as the Wanderer’s tattered body continues to take on the stress of this new environment. He looks up to see the sun still delicately perched on the eastern crest of the canyon. Only a few hours have passed… Before regaining his composure to continue, he notices something standing atop the canyon wall. The Wanderer squints to focus and is met with the sight of a majestic mule silhouetted by the sun, standing stoically as if looking over his kingdom. The Wanderer stands awestruck, unable to look away. The mule looks back at the Wanderer, as if it can sense his gaze coming from the basin. The two hold eye contact for what feels like eternity before the mule turns away and retreats over the crest line. As soon as the mule leaves the Wanderer’s sight, he is inexplicably drawn to the nearby bank of the dried-up river no longer running through the canyon. As the Wanderer approaches the bank, a warm gust of wind rustles the red dusty clay, exposing something in the ground. Closer now, he recognizes what is there: articles of clothing. He carefully extracts each garment from the ground like a newfound fossil, shaking off the layers of red clay as he goes. He dons his new makeshift shelter piece by piece. First, a sturdy pair of trousers that give him the same feeling of awe he felt while seeing the mule just before. Second, a breathable pullover that blends in with the towering, layered walls of the canyon around him. Lastly, a hat that shades his weary head and shoulders from the ever-persistent sun.

The Wanderer looks up again to see the sun, now past the crest, free in the sky. With nothing left to save him from the sun besides the clothes on his back, the Wanderer realizes he is out of options. Suddenly, he begins to hear voices again. With the incessant heat, he is sure he is having another vision. He leans against a nearby rock in anticipation, but his sight remains clear and his surroundings unchanged. Bewildered, he begins walking toward the sound. One voice turns to two, and two to many more. From what little he can discern, there seems to be a lively gathering at the north crest of the canyon. Now nearing where the north canyon wall meets the basin, the Wanderer pauses. Mustering some of the little energy he has left, the Wanderer shouts deep from the bottom of his lungs. A determined and desperate “HELP!” is expelled from the Wanderer’s dry, raspy throat. The shriek echoes for miles but is met with no response. Defeated, he turns away from the canyon wall to look for one last way out he might have missed. He is met with the same sight he has seen for the past several hours: monumental canyon walls stacked much higher than him. But there is something else he notices: his footsteps, receding one after the other, far beyond his sight. Though this sight does not provide him an easier way out, it reassures the Wanderer of how far he has come and gives him the strength to start the final, unfeasible obstacle of his trek.

Reluctantly, he turns back around and begins climbing the canyon face before him, knowing the danger that lies ahead. The Wanderer makes progress ascending the canyon wall at the only speed his body will allow. He ensures his footing, move by move, keeping his composure along the way. As he rises further from the ground, he reminds himself: don’t look down. With every new handhold, he feels his muscles straining as he struggles to pull himself up. Eventually, the Wanderer is met with a shallow ledge just large enough to rest his weight on. He allows himself the chance to look over his shoulder to see his progress. Though there seems to be no end in sight, the opposing canyon wall suggests that he is already over halfway up the wall face. Before embarking on the next push, he rests briefly, admiring the layers of sediment now steeped in the clear blue sky above. What was previously just a reminder of the immense vertical challenge he had to face is now a signifier of the beauty and history that lay all around him. With his feet calloused and his fingers frail, he continues to climb. Foot by foot, he ascends, hearing the joyous chorus on the crest nearing ever closer. His hand extends high above, now met with a ledge and open air, as opposed to more of the rock that he has become accustomed to since beginning the climb. A sense of relief and accomplishment washes over him as he releases a sigh. With a salty brow and sweat-covered eyes, he leverages himself one last time toward the crest, longing for what awaits his blurry sight on the horizon.