The Traveler

by Trevor Worthey

He looked like anyone else traveling the ancient road in the middle of a winter’s night—only problem was, there was no ‘anyone else’. The road was completely bare of life. One might wonder how he had made it this far, in the dark; but what one wouldn’t realize (had there been one to observe him) was that he carried a small lantern between towns. He hid this in a snow bank or a tree hole, before entering the settlement, through which he traveled by the light of the streets. Each time he left a village, he took the effort to trudge all around the village, through the knee-deep snow, to where he had entered, to retrieve his lantern from the cold wet snow. The light was crucial; this man only traveled at night.

His appearance was common enough, for a traveler; his skin boots tied tight just below the knee, his woolen parka kept close around his mouth, his thick belt keeping everything against his torso. Trinkets and jewels lay all about his body—souvenirs from places unknown. But these were just the trademarks of a traveler. No one would have questioned him beneath the thin lampposts, had they seen him. Nor would they have made an effort to meet him in the bitter cold.

But there was no need for any of the town’s inhabitants to leave the warmth of their houses to meet him. They knew he would stop—every traveler did. It was because the next town on the road was fifty miles on. And he would have walked twenty-three miles already, if he were coming from the town before. During these bitter months, no traveler trained by a ranger could survive a night’s march on that scale. The distance was too great, the stops too few and far between. If a traveler started that journey by night, he’d die by morning. And anyone stupid enough to try was well aware of the constant reports of lifeless, dehydrated bodies brought back by the highway patrol.

So when the thick-booted, tightly bundled traveler walked in front of the pub, the bartender glanced nervously up. He was shaking from such a busy day, and he hoped against hope that the man he saw was just a late return from the hunting party that departed earlier. He wanted so much just to go to sleep, to have no more business until morning, to join his wife so tenderly waiting on the feather bed upstairs. But his mind registered reluctantly that it was a traveler. For less than he was allowed, his mind simultaneously flooded with elation—and gave into fatigue. But soon, he realized that the man outside was not stopping at his pub at all, but walking straight through the town. His mind abandoned the short-lived relief in favor of a less affected, more nonchalant disconcern. What was it his matter that some idiotic traveler thought himself so powerful as to traverse from one town to another over-night on this godforsaken plain? He was now free to do whatever he wanted—suddenly he didn’t feel tired at all. He thought he might even do something with himself before going to bed. There was a book sitting on the shelf that he hadn’t picked up for a week. Maybe he’d try to get somewhere in it.

He put the mug he was drying back under the bar, still half-wet. In a leisurely daze, he floated over to where the book lay, and plopped down with it in one of the big armchairs in the common room. He opened to a spot a few pages before his last read, to familiarize himself again with the story. After ten minutes, he forgot all about the already dead traveler.

After half an hour of easy reading, the barkeep’s eyes began to droop. The book laid itself down on his chest. His head lolled with the effort of keeping his body awake. A few vain attempts to return to the book failed miserably, and the man’s breathing started to become regular and undisturbed. Just before he committed to falling asleep in the blue armchair, rather than retreating to the lofty room with his wife, a loud rapping sound literally threw him out of his chair.

Instead of feeling groggy and unaware, as he would’ve had he started to sleep already, the disturbance made him unwillingly alert—and rather agitated. He looked around for the source of the commotion, but, still being sleepy, it took him a moment to connect the strange, alien noise to the familiar, regular sound of a knock at his door. A knock that asked for business.

With this thought in his reawakened mind, the landlord approached the door. “Who is it?” he half-yelled, not wanting to shoo away customers. His voice caught in his throat from not using it for a while. He parted the curtain that was closed around the window, and peered into the face of the traveler he presumed to be dead.

This gave him even more of a start. It was amazing that he was still in the village. Perhaps because he was so sure this man was dead, the bartender was ultimately much more congenial than he would have normally been at this hour. “I need drink, food,” said the traveler in a voice that sounded, even through the door, as if his vocal chords were lined with shards of glass.

“Yes, yes, of course!” exclaimed the bartender, not daring to imagine why he had kept him out even this long. He opened the door and let the stranger into his pub (and house). “I’ll go get food, and mead.”

The traveler didn’t say anything in return—he merely sat down on one of the stools in front of the bar. The landlord supposed this was because he had been outside for so long—the sudden return to warmth is not an ordeal one talks through. He now completely disregarded his previous sentiment toward the man—probably because he was scolding himself for being so foolish, and on so many levels.

The bartender busied himself with making a sandwich for the traveler. His limbs were shaking again, and his feet still stumbled from having just awoken. He kept throwing glances at the mysterious man sitting at his bar, not saying a word, just gazing at the row of whiskey. It seemed very strange, that a traveler should arrive here, in the dead of night, and spend an hour in the village before visiting the pub. The only other men who had come here at night usually threw themselves on to a bed, without even having a meal. Their hike took so much out of them, just the warmth and shelter of a lodge was reward enough from them. Even though there were only twenty-three miles between here and Haridan, it was a market town, and anyone journeying at night would have waited for the fair to end, at sundown. They usually didn’t arrive here, in Tarington, until well after midnight. Currently, it was only the tenth hour past noon—if this man was coming from Haridan, he must have started halfway through the fair. It was impossible, the landlord knew (from experience) to leave the fairgrounds before the merchants started to pack up. The man would have been taken into custody.

No, he thought, this independent was coming from somewhere along the road, somewhere he had put down for the day. He must’ve continued on just before sunset, to be ahead of any spare wanderers out of Haridan. To boot, he must have been straight out mad, to set down during day in the forest—if, of course, that’s where he had stayed. The landlord couldn’t be sure this was a disguised agent, coming through settlements on behalf of the government.

His suspicion well renewed, the bartender decided to stay at the bar while the stranger ate his sandwich. He had thrown it together out of cold-cuts; he didn’t have anything else ready at the time, and this man needed food before he passed out. There wasn’t time to heat up the grill.

He took his place at a high stool, watching the man before him. He wasn’t eating ravenously, as he perhaps should have, after that march. But he did seem hungry, unbearably so, and he seemed to have to fight to keep his hand steady.
After devouring his dinner (the sandwich disappeared surprisingly quick), the man took a large swig of mead, and the first words since “drink, food” crossed his lips. “You’ve got a lovely place here, monsieur.”

The accent surprised him. He hadn’t been able to pick it up through the door, had only heard the raspy, harsh quality. To hear someone so gruff and rugged speak French seemed, for some reason, completely alien to him.

“I’m glad you like it,” said the bartender, thinking the compliment was undeserved. This voyager, however, would have seen several pubs in his journeys, and he eventually took it as high praise. “I don’t normally get travelers this late at night. What’s your destination, voyager?” The man looked up.

“Arhwuith, what else?” he questioned jokingly.

Of course. Arhwuith palace was the only thing that lay on this road, the only thing of real value. Everyone going through the town was headed toward Arhwuith. He didn’t know why he asked the question, really. He was not one to make small talk. But he wasn’t about to ask the traveler what he wanted about Arhwuith. Better let him keep that information to himself.

“What brings you on such a cold night? Would you not bunk down one more day in Haridan? They say it should get better tomorrow. It would have been wiser to stay there.”

“I did not stay at all in Haridan. I merely passed through.”

So that’s why this man was here at such an odd hour. He hadn’t lay in Haridan the previous night. He really must have come from a stopping point between the towns. The bartender marveled at this, and thought to himself: this man is mad! He truly is, simply mad! “Why wouldn’t you stay there?” he inquired.

The man at the bar said exactly what the barkeep knew he would. “My reasons are my own.”

But he didn’t say this with any harshness. He didn’t remove himself from the conversation upon receiving such an insult. Instead, he spoke with the same, easy, matter-of-fact manner, that was almost whimsical as it was mysterious.

“Then surely you will stay here tonight? You can’t continue on past this.”

“No.” Here the stranger was definitive and authoritative. “I will not stop.”

“That choice, my friend, is yours to make. I would advise against it, though. The next town is over twice as far as Haridan. You would never make it. It’s a suicide march. Surely you’re aware of how many people are found dead on that road, even in the day?”

The man’s voice resumed its gaiety. “I know the danger, monsieur, and I appreciate your concern. But I know what I am doing, and I will not stay here. No offense to you or your lodge, but…I will follow my own advise. I do not need to sleep this night. Company, though, I would be grateful for.”

The bartender was taken aback. For the first time, he thought: this is a truly remarkable person! He dropped his suspicions, and thought to stop asking so many questions. He decided this man would share with him the things he wanted to.

They talked for about an hour. Their conversation ranged, from politics, to the arts, to even housekeeping and handiwork. The one man seemed to have experience in nearly everything, but he always seemed to be ignorant about some part of it, and would ask eagerly for the bartender to share his knowledge. The bartender heartily enjoyed talking to this man. He had a way of speaking, a set of mannerisms, that seemed to the landlord almost intoxicating. He seemed to have a definite philosophy on life, a stand on most things, but his words were so easy it was hard to believe that it really mattered. He could laugh about anything, and his laugh was contagious; big and boisterous, but cheerful and amused. The room filled with their dialogue.

When the man made to get on his way, the bartender got up quickly, not wanting him to leave. “Won’t you stay the night, my friend? I ask only out of concern for you. You are too great a man to die by the tracks of the road.”

“I understand your concern, good sir, but I must truly be off. The evening grows late, and my back grows weary of sitting. Thank you for everything.”

“Well, do you need anything? I mean, surely, provisions, and supplies. Your bag looks empty. You can’t make it with what you have!”

The traveler stayed the bartender with a big, comforting hand on his shoulder.

“Trust me, my friend. The appearance of a bag from the outside is deceiving to what is held on the inside. I will be alright. I have made this trip before.”

The barkeep didn’t know why, but having the man touch him was so…reassuring, all worries were erased from his mind. But when he looked into the man’s eyes, he saw that this man was honest and good-hearted. He only strived to make a difference in the world. The bartender fought hard to hold back a tear. Before he could be seen weeping, though, he embraced the traveler, and patted him on the back. “Very well,” he said, “you’ll do well.”

“Of course, monsieur,” said the traveler. “Farewell.” And with that, he was out the door.

And in front of the fiery pub, as the snow fell thick about the street lamps and the sleeping village glimmered with candlelight, the bartender watched the traveler—the dead, suspicious, remarkable voyager—tread softly onward in his great trek.

Visit the Library Home Page                                                       Read the latest Library news in The Circulator