Red's CD Project Story 2: Part 24 - The Path Guide

Note: Had a hard time finding a lyric out of this tune. Not that it's a bad tune, but the subject matter is very different than my tale. Last week, I entered the first page in a contest that runs sort of like a tournament. Readers give the page a rating from 1 to 5, with 1 being lousy, 5 being great. The more 4 and 5's you get the better chance to move to the second round. It takes 72 hours for a rating to become official, so you're always a little behind on knowing how you're doing. As of this morning, I had 16 ratings, 38% at 4, 37% at 3 and 25% at 1. So it's kind of a mixed bag so far. It is an interesting way to do a contest. I may enter one my short stories in because I know its a bit more polished and has received good reviews in other contests.

Disc 2
Track 3: Winnebago – The Louies

“Let’s hit the road”

Rubbing at his chest through his long-sleeved brown shirt with one hand and holding the other up over his eyes to block away the blowing snow, Oan stopped where the path split around three boulders that were stacked atop eachother with the largest at the bottom. Behind the boulders, a rock cliff rose straight up a hundred feet. The paths led around the cliff and disappeared. One led to their destination while the other led east to the sea where the sea captains of Atlan once ruled. The witch called the three boulders the path guide. Seeing them, he knew now what she was talking about. The boulders looked like a stout little man that would lead travelers through mountain paths.

They were three days from the cave and the witch, but he could still feel her tingle in the burns on his chest. He did not know why that signified anything, but he was certain they would not feel so if she had already opened the Door to Nowhere and disappeared forever from this world. In fact, he was positive if she were gone that they would finally heal fully and stop irritating him. Being able to heal from everything within a few moments made him rather impatient with discomfort and, as Nestor certainly could attest, put him in a sour mood.

Before leaving the witch, both he and Nesor were allowed one look into the mysterious glass of the Door to Nowhere. The witch had warned them to look into but one pane. The choice of which pane was theirs, although she said the soul of each man compelled him toward one or the other. Naturally, the witch only peered into the green pane. Curiosly, Nestor had chose red. He had stumbled away from the door in a fit of panic and sprinted out of the cave after only a short glance into the pane. The witch had warned that the viewings were for their eyes only. While sharing knowledge from the door did not break any ancient code or law, the witch admitted that the images were complex and difficult to interrupt. It was wise to keep most of it inside to decide and understand. Others may only add their perspective to something they did not see and confuse things further. Oan had not asked Nestor what had frightened him so, and the man had offered nothing.

As for Oan, he had approached the blue pane of glass without much consideration. It was almost as if the other two panes did not exist. The witch had not lied. As soon as his eyes focused beyond the pane, images burst across at a speed that was nauseating. Most went by too fast for his mind to sort out while others he made out only faces – Nestor’s crying out with an ungodly amount of rage, the witch’s calm and serene face as the green drained from her pupils, another woman he did not know smiling with blood dripping from her lips, and the demon’s soulless glaring eyes appeared over and over again. All the images were tied to events, but he could not make them out, yet he could feel the memory of them imbedded in his mind. He suspected some of them he would remember when they were needed.

The last image though held still for some time before everything turned to blue like the waves of a pure sea. It was of him. He was facing away with his long black hair flowing in a steady wind as he stood upon a snow-capped mountaintop. In his right hand was a sword that pulsed white light, and in the other was a sword as blue as the pane of glass. Kekur was strapped upon his otherwise bare back. Off in the distance were three figures standing upon a rise. One lifted off the ground with wide, bent wings and flew away a line of fire blazing ahead. The second gave off a roar before sprinting away in a golden blur. The last was at first a stone and then a man then a stone again and before the view turned to only blue a voice echoed in his head.

“I dream of the wind blowing, blowing till nothing can stand. Water and stone, paw and claw and hand. Agony rolling like thunder on the wind.”

For three days, the words had circle around his mind like moths to the light of a torch’s flame on a hot summer night. There were times it took completely over and he lost track of the path that was covered with a fresh level of clean white snow. The path was marked with hoove prints, the local beasts knew where the easiest treading was even when they could not see it. The mountain goats were the most prevalent. One had provided an ample meal the night before.

The cruch of Nestor’s feet sinking into the snow woke him from his stupor as his stared at the path guide. The terrain had been too dangerous to risk the horses so they had set them free before leaving the witch. The man had whined the entire time since and was certain the woman meant to catch them to concot her stew. With the steeds gone, Nestor lagged behind in the snow and cold. He may have been fleet of foot on the dunes of the Sorna, but the man could barely stand on the wet snow.

“Well this is as the witch said,” Nestor’s voice sounded like he was spitting out venom. “Why couldn’t that bitty clue us in on which way to take to reach that palace.”

“She said the guide would show us the way to Metahischoo,” Oan said. The old palace of Marek rested in the shadow of the peak of Kekur. The witch claimed that was where the two needed to go next in order to cross the Belnor. As was her policy, she told them very little else. All Oan knew of the palace was that after Tarek Grandar broke open the heavens, the place was emptied of all not loyal to him. Those who left were the ones cursed to the foothills, the ones now called the Shadows of Marek. As far as anyone knew, those who were loyal stayed for a time, but whether or not anyone still lived up there was unknown.

“More damn riddles,” Nestor growled. “That women throws up as many walls as she sees through.”

The man was shivering uncontrollably. They both still wore the thin summer clothes fashioned by the Aldroubi. The tribes always migrated south in the winter where they never saw snow and cold like this appropriate clothing for mountain hikes in winter was not necessary. The weather did not bother Oan much other than he tired of having wet feet as the snow soaked through his soft-soled brown moccasins.

“Did you learn anything peering into the door, Nestor?” Oan watched the man flinch at the mention of the door. He had not offered any idea of what he had seen and Oan did not want to know it all. He just hoped there was information that would be helpful to their journey.

“We’re going to lose this war,” Nestor’s one-eye watched him as he brushed away his wet gray hair with his disfigured hand. Oan barely noticed his deformities any more. “I saw it. I was screaming, alone in the dark. He was there. I could feel him. I wish I had never met that witch or that door. Knowing is worse than not knowing.”

Oan found it hard to believe that was all the man had seen or that his visions were that simple, but he knew how hard the door was to understand. It had occurred to him that at no point did the witch guarantee that victory stood at the end of this for him or for mankind. In fact, she seemed almost convinced that he could not win. He did not know what that meant for Nestor if they failed. How long would they be tied together like this? Oan was not entirely certain yet that he could trust the man. There were points of his tale that did not ring true. Maybe it was all the years with witch, but Oan had hard time taking anyone’s word for truth.

“Perhaps knowing provides an advantage that the enemy does not have,” Oan said.

“I don’t see how, my boy,” Nestor answered. “All these riddles and half truths leading nowhere except the dark. I am not sure it’s even worth the fight. Perhaps, fighting is not even the right path.”

“The right path? You’ve seen this evil up close and you are considering standing aside. That is something I cannot do. Whether you continue on or not is not my choice, but I will stand against it.”

“Easy boy, easy. I am not saying give up. I do not know what I am saying. Just maybe the whole thing can be manipulated someway. I do not know. I cannot see the path ahead, I cannot.”

Nestor threw his arms up and his loose sleeve fell well below his elbow. His arms were very pale, and for the first time, Oan noticed that the skin near his armpits was turning a shade of green, as if he were molding. Oan started to wonder if the poison that had afflicted the man before entering the Belnor and in the Rock Garden of Manta was returinng. That was certainly something to keep an eye on.

Nestor continued to shout and holler in frustration and he topped it all off by kicking the bottom boulder of the Path Guide. He hobbled around on one foot after, regretting the kick. As he did, a rumble started from the peak above the guide. Oan pulled Nestor away from the guide in time for him to avoid being crushed by an avalanche of stone and snow that covered the path that appeared to lead west.

“Ah,” Oan felt a laugh bubbling up from within. He did know how long it had been since he had truly laughed. “See the guide has pointed us in the right direction. We shall take the path not covered.”

He did laugh then and, after a moment, Nestor joined him. It did not take long before they were scaling up the side of the cliff and then over. When they reached the top, they could make out the old palace in the distance with the great peak of Kekur rearing up above.

They were still laughing even as the snow started blowing sideways, stinging their faces.