The Path

A short story for IronAge Media's weekly prompts

The sky was gray with the coming storm. The traveler kept walking on the stone path. The same stone path he had been walking on for weeks now. The path was made of perfectly cut, square stones one after the other. Big enough for four horsemen to ride abreast and still be on a stone. Stones seemingly made by giants for a footpath for which no one knows the reason. It didn’t matter to the traveler. The path led from one city to another now, and whatever giants built it are long gone.

The traveler wouldn’t mind stopping for the storm, but no shelter was nearby. Never was on the giant’s path. Trees never grew by it for some reason. The way you hear some people tell it, giants used magic in the creation of the path, and that magic seeped into the ground, causing it never to sprout a sapling. That was just as good an explanation as any for the traveler. He didn’t know why trees didn’t grow close to the path and didn’t care. All he knew was the path wound through frozen tundras, deserts, plains, and now through grasslands with tall, imposing mountains. Mountains impossible to climb with their near vertical cliff faces. Why anyone would ever want to build a path through here, he couldn’t fathom.

The traveler didn’t care why the path was made, how it was made, or even where it led. He wasn’t on this path for a tremendous philosophical reason or some great exploration. He was trying to reach the next city. His uncle had sent him a letter several months back inviting him to take over his business. The traveler didn’t necessarily want to take over a business for which he knew nothing, but his parents had convinced him it would be an excellent way to start life by himself. Rather than disappoint his parents, he set off to take over his uncle’s business. However, with the storm approaching even faster now, he halfway wishes he had refused and stayed home.

Reluctantly, the traveler steps off the path to set up his shelter. An old, cheap tent that barely kept the rain out. It wasn’t elaborate, but it kept him dry. Now, if it only kept him warm, he could deal with a little chill. Anyway, he didn’t have a choice as there was no wood. The curse of no trees on the path means no fire. The traveler walks for a few minutes away from the trail before looking for a suitable place to pitch his shelter. He found a good, flat spot higher than the area around it and pitched the tent. He unrolled his bed roll and crawled inside the tent, settling for a long night in the storm.

As the rolling thunder crept closer and closer, the traveler started to hear the rain falling around and on his tent. No leaks had yet to appear, and for that, he was grateful. As he sat on his bed roll, he pulled the last of his dried meat and a bit of his remaining bread out of his pack and ate his bland but filling dinner. After eating, the traveler stared into his bag. Something was staring back. It was the skull of a fellow traveler.

He had come upon the body a few days back. It wasn’t unusual for people to come across the bodies of dead travelers on the path. Nor was it uncommon for them to be searched for valuable supplies to help with someone’s journey. What was bizarre, however, was for someone to take the skull of one of the dead. It was a weird spur-of-the-moment for the traveler. He had searched the decayed body of bones, mummified flesh, and tattered clothing for anything useful, but he found nothing. What he did find, though, was a letter the dead man was carrying. He pocketed it without reading it and looked up at the skull. Its empty eye sockets stared into his soul. They were accusing him of taking its last written letters on this earth, pleading with him to take it with him, to return it home wherever it was. The traveler threw his bandana over the skull and shoved it into his pack.

Sitting in his tent days later, listening to the storm, the traveler removed the skull from his pack and unwrapped it. He wiped it down the best he could with the bandana trying to get some of the dirt off it. He held it in his hands, rotating it, twisting it around, looking at it from all angles. He couldn’t tell you why he took the skull, but he had to take it for some reason. He needed to take it. He reached back into his bag and pulled out the letter. He had yet to read it but decided that he should read it. If for no other reason but to help him find out more about his new companion. He took out his knife, slid it into the envelope folds, and cut it open. He pulled the letter out with hands that were trembling for some odd reason. Maybe he felts some trepidation at finally revealing the contents of the letter?

After taking a breath to calm himself, the traveler unfolded the letter and read it. Then he reread it, and again, and again. He must’ve read it half a dozen times before staring at it. It was a short letter, simple and sweet. The letter read as follows:

“Nathan, I want you to make your own decision in this matter. Don’t just do what others want for you. Follow your path.”

The traveler looked at the skull again. He had found a kindred spirit that was probably on the way to doing something someone else wanted him to do. The letter was obviously from a loved one that saw that he didn’t want to do this thing. At least he had a loved one willing to write him a letter to let him know he had a choice. The traveler didn’t have anyone who would do such a thing for him. Not because no one loved him but because they all thought his best choice was his uncle’s business. The traveler began to see himself in the skull. He started to put himself in place of Nathan in the letter. His thoughts and emotions were now in turmoil. The best and safest choice for him would be to take over his uncle’s business, but now he was wondering if it was the right choice. Is the safe option the right path for him? Now he didn’t know.

The traveler looked back to the skull and covered it again. He rolled over and went to sleep with his troubled emotions and thoughts. Listening to the storm as it rolls through.

As the morning sun awoke him, the traveler felt a renewed purpose in his life. He left his tent and broke it down, leaving the skull and letter out of his bag. The storm was relatively light and caused no damage. The traveler looked at the head and letter and decided then and there his course of action. He took out his knife, knelt on the ground, and started digging a hole. He used his knife to break the ground and scooped out the loose dirt with his hands. He did this for a few minutes until he judged the hole deep enough. He grabbed the skull, wrapped it in the bandana again, and laid it into the hole. On top of the wrapped skull, he lay the letter. Taking a moment to give them a final look, he buried them both.

Retaking his knife, the traveler cut some branches and lashed them into a rough marker for the makeshift grave. Sharpening one end, he shoved it into the ground by the grave. Laying one hand on the marker, he muttered, “Thank you.” Turning around, he walked back to the path, but he wouldn’t be heading to take over his uncle’s business. He would keep moving but on his course this time. He wouldn’t be traveling another’s path.

The traveler reached the giant stones of the path. He stepped on them once again for another day’s worth of travel. This time, it was for his reasons and not someone else’s. He started walking down the path.