Roadwork

Steven rose early and was out of the home of the weaver and the spinner striding away on the road toward Rich Reach before the cock crowed. He wanted no more of the dour Weaver, and was completely exhausted by the jovial spinner. He tried to mimic Sergeant Busker’s marching rhythm, tapping out the pace on his hip with his hand while he marched away down the road.

Since he was now more than a day’s walk from the city, the distances between towns and villages grew longer. Steven saw fewer people and those he saw were going as quickly as they could from one village to another, or to the castle. Occasionally Steven glanced over his shoulder and imagined that he could still see the flag at the top of the Kings castle. Soon he settled into a smooth and even one hundred steps per minute pace, and since the road was smooth and well-maintained, he covered ground at an amazing pace. By the end of the day he had covered over thirty thousand steps and was tired, but found no village to rest in. He set up a small camp for the night and continued in the morning.

The land began to rise and Steven realized he would be going into the mountains soon. He kept walking all day, lunching on the sandwich the King’s cook had given him. At last Steven came to a small town and found the Old Rooster Inn. The town was quiet and at sundown the streets were empty. When Steven walked into the Inn, the tiny common room—where a dozen people sat drinking—fell deathly silent. Steven cheerfully hailed the innkeeper and asked for a room for the night.

“And who would be asking for a room?” growled the innkeeper. Steven was surprised. All the hostellers he had ever met had been friendly and happy to have guests.

“I’m Steven George the Dragonslayer, on a quest from King Montague Magnus to the Principality of Rich Reach,” Steven said brightly.

“You’re going to Rich Reach, eh?” said the innkeeper. He turned to the other patrons in the Inn. “He’s going to Rich Reach,” the innkeeper announced. There was a moment’s stunned silence followed by a sudden outburst of laughter. “All these folks are going to Rich Reach,” the innkeeper said. “When it’s safe.”

“Oh,” said Steven, looking at the travelers. “I’m going tomorrow.” The laughter fell silent again. The people in the common room glanced at each other, then rose and slipped off to their rooms. In a moment, Steven was alone with the innkeeper.

“You can throw your bedroll over near the fire. I have no other rooms since those who are here keep staying. They are afraid that I’ll give another guest their room, so they all hurried off to guard it,” the innkeeper said. “You have coins for dinner?” Steven reached in his pocket and pulled out a gold coin. He looked at it a little surprised, but handed it to the innkeeper. The Innkeeper went to get Steven some food and drink while Steven spread out his bedroll by the fire.

When the Innkeeper returned with food and ale, Steven asked why none of the people were continuing on to Rich Reach.

“Well,” said the Innkeeper, “there’s a darkness on that road. Some time ago people stopped coming from Rich Reach. No one that went from here to there ever returned. So people stopped going. Then there’s the bridge.”

Now Steven had learned a great deal while traveling the road with Selah for seven years and was not the same naïve fellow who started his first quest. He had seen bridges—well one, at least—that spanned a river. No matter what a certain melon farmer had to say, Steven saw no threats in bridges.

“But what is the problem with the bridge?” Steven asked.

“Burned,” answered the Innkeeper. “You see, when people saw that no one was coming over the bridge, they began to fear what might come over it. Eventually, the fear of what might come overwhelmed the prospect of actually crossing themselves, so they burned the bridge.”

Steven had begun to sense a growing atmosphere of fear along the road, but had met so few people that he had not been able to examine it. Those he met were all headed toward the King’s castle, and were in a great hurry and unwilling to talk. But thinking that he might have to wade or swim across a river was truly discouraging news.

“Is there no other way across?” asked Steven.

The Innkeeper glanced around to be sure they were still alone.

“Are you really from the King?” asked the Innkeeper.

Steven reached in his pocket and pulled out the tiny flag the King had given him.

“All right,” said the Innkeeper. “Now not many people know this. They have willingly forgotten. But downstream there is a strange old fisherman named Tavis. I’m told he could get you across the river if you really need to get across the river.”

“Where do I find this Tavis?” Steven asked.

“Tomorrow morning, you leave here early so none of my guests see you go. Keep walking on the main road until you get to the river. You will know you are there when you see the burned out bridge. Head downstream along the river for a good two day’s walk, maybe more, and you will reach the sea. There, where the river meets the sea, Tavis plies his craft. He has a boat and if it pleases him, he might take you across the river.”

“All the way south to the sea?” Steven asked amazed.

“It’s not so far from here as it is from the Castle,” the Innkeeper said. “Now you could go upstream and try to cross where it is shallower, but there’s a waterfall a day’s walk upstream that is an awful hard thing to get around. You’d best go south.”

Steven thanked the Innkeeper for his advice and directions, finished his dinner, and then crawled into his bedroll. It seemed so strange to be in an inn with no rooms and no people in the common room. Steven had a fitful sleep, rose early in the morning and slipped out of the inn.

At the outskirts of town Steven came to the bridge across a river almost as wide as the river near his home. In the midst of the river were the burned out pylons of an old bridge. The far side of the river was hidden in mist in the early morning light. As Steven stood staring at the burned out bridge, a figure approached from the village as Steven stood looking out over the water.

“It’s a shame, isn’t it?” said the figure. Steven jumped. He turned to the person. Draped in a shapeless robe, Steven could not discern whether the speaker was male or female. The voice was that indecipherable tone that belongs to old people and renders gender insignificant.

“I don’t know,” said Steven, honestly. “Did anyone use the bridge?”

“Oh yes!” the old person said. “After it was built, we discovered that it was the most direct route to get to Rich Reach. Of course, when we built it, no one knew that.”

“Why did you build it then?” asked Steven.

“Why for the melons, of course,” said the draped figure. “They were never that good, though. I remember when the melons were famous. Such a shame. Perhaps it is better this way.”

“What is the name of this place,” Steven asked.

“Why this is the village that was the town that was the City of Tornlace.” The old person turned and tottered back toward town.

Seeing the most direct route to his destination cut off, Steven muttered to himself, “Bridges are a great barrier to commerce,” and turned to find the path along the river that led downstream.

For a day, the way was easy going, and Steven met a traveler or two along the path. These were quiet, however, and barely nodded acknowledgement as Steven passed. The second day the path grew narrow and there were no travelers. Twice Steven stepped into sinkholes that threatened to swallow him as they had swallowed the path before him. The third day, the terrain changed and Steven had to backtrack several times to be sure he had taken the right path into the swampy land of the delta. But at the end of the third day, when Steven was 285,132 steps from where he parted from Selah, he saw the cabin of Tavis the fisherman. He approached slowly and hailed the owner while he was still several steps away.

“Tavis the Fisherman,” Steven called. “I am Steven George the Dragonslayer and I come to you for passage to the other side of the river. Hail Tavis the Fisherman!”

There was no answer.

Steven advanced a dozen steps and called out again, thinking the fisherman had not heard him. It was just past sunset and darkness was descending rapidly around the cabin.

Again there was no answer.

Steven stood, debating whether he should approach the cabin. He had just decided that he had no other choice when a soft touch brushed against his shoulder and a voice whispered.

“Woooooo. Whoooooo comes in the night?”

“Ah, Master Fisherman,” Steven said turning. The Fisherman was so startled by Steven turning to address him that he stumbled backward and fell over a fallen log. “Let me help you to your feet,” said Steven, reaching out his hand.

“You startled me,” said Tavis. “No one has ever turned to talk to me!”

“Why would I do anything else?” asked Steven. “I was calling to you. Why would you not answer?”

“Now that is a good question,” said the Fisherman. “Why would I not answer?”

“Shall we go inside and discuss the matter?” Steven asked.

“Yes. Let’s do that,” answered the fisherman.

Once inside the Fisherman’s cabin, Steven found everything as normal as he could expect from a man who snuck up on visitors and tried to scare them. But, inside his cabin, the fisherman seemed no more normal than the Innkeeper from whom Steven had last had hospitality. Once Steven thought about that, he began to question his own sanity.

“Did you come from Tornlace?” asked the fisherman.

“Yes,” said Steven.

“Did they tell you I would help you?” asked Tavis.

“The Innkeeper said you might help me get to the other side of the river,” Steven answered, uncertainly.

“Ah ha!” declared the Fisherman as if he had just found the hole in Steven’s logic. “And you felt that this allusion to help was adequate for you to walk three days through darkness and treachery, find yourself alone in a dark swamp, and shout out to a man you have never met to give you help?”

“Well, yes,” said Steven.

“Okay. That makes sense,” said the fisherman. “How can I help you?”

“I would like to get to the other side of the river,” said Steven. “I need to master the Terror of Rich Reach.”

“You don’t think I’m the Terror?”

“You are a fisherman,” said Steven.

“Let’s not be insulting,” said Tavis. “I’m very proud to be a fisherman.”

“Why do you try to scare people who come to visit you, then?” Steven asked.

“I tell you what,” the fisherman said. He looked around and leaned closer to Steven across the fireplace conspiratorially. “I’ll tell you a story if you’ll tell me one.” Steven readily agreed. The Fisherman poured each of them a glass of wine and settled on the
opposite side of the fire to tell his story.

The Disenchanted Evening
Next Chapter: The Silver Scale