K. Blackthorn

    Stillness filled the air when Seeker and Companion reached the Wicket Gate. Beelzebub’s Castle loomed beside them, its shadow stretching over the path, but there was no sign of danger—no whistling arrows, no growling hounds, only the rustle of the breeze and the soft creak of the gate.

   The Wicket Gate was exactly as Seeker had imagined it—a small wooden door set into the stone wall, with the words inscribed “Knock and it shall be opened unto you.”  But the door was already standing open.

    He stood there staring.  Why was the door already open?  He raised his hand to knock, but what was the point?  He stepped hesitantly over the threshold and looked this way and that. Where was Good-Will?  There was no opposition, but there was no welcome, either.

    On the other side of the gate, he spotted a summer-parlor for the welcoming of Pilgrims, but no one was inside. A layer of dust coated everything—the table, the chair, and the couch. No one had used the parlor for a long time.   

    On the table was a brass trumpet, dusty and tarnished from long disuse. Seeker could almost hear the welcoming chorus celebrating new arrivals, but now it just stood there in silence.

    There was a basin and pitcher.  He could imagine Good-Will washing the dust from a traveler’s feet.  The mud from the Slough had dried on his clothes and skin, flaking away as the decaying odor of the Slough mixed with the stale smell of his sweat—he definitely needed to wash.  But there was no towel, and the pitcher was empty.

    He picked up a small tin cup from the table, his mouth dry with the dust of the road and exhaustion. But there was no water to quench his thirst.

    Companion entered the room, shrugging but with kindness in his eyes. “Times change, my friend.” He took the cup from Seeker’s hands, poured some water from his canteen, swished it around several times, and poured it out. Then he filled it completely and handed it to Seeker.

    The cool water refreshed Seeker. He swallowed every drop and put the tin cup into his satchel. He stepped outside, and the Narrow Way stretched before him, reaching the horizon, straight as a rule could make it.    

    Things were different than he expected, but now he had direction. And he had a friend. He drew a deep breath and let it out in a sigh of relief.

 

    They passed an abandoned village, its buildings silent and empty as if time had passed it by, while the wind slipped through its streets, stirring dust and dry earth into the heavy air and setting old beams creaking faintly, threatening to collapse at any minute.

    A jagged, rocky hill rose beyond it, crowned by a fortress of dark stone, its walls and towers lined with wooden hoardings—Beelzebub’s Castle.

    This must be the castle from which goblins had rained down fiery arrows at Christian.  Yet Companion showed no alarm; if he noticed it at all, he gave no indication.  Seeker noticed the unnatural silence.  The hoardings stood empty, and no archers manned the walls or towers.  The castle just stood there—dark, lifeless, and ruined, yet still imposing.

    The path passed the village and wound around Beelzebub’s Castle until, at last, they arrived at a crossroads, where the road turned and led back toward the Slough.  A narrower path branched off toward the Castle, where the hill ended in a sheer cliff, affording the fortress a clear view of a small gate set in a wall running to the distant mountains of Sinai.

    Companion pointed at the gate in the distance and said with a grin, “There’s your Wicket Gate.”

    From the distance, everything seemed exactly as his Book described.  The Wicket Gate was small and unassuming, standing in the shadow of Beelzebub’s Castle.  But something seemed… wrong.  Where was the light to guide travelers from the valley of Destruction?  And why was the way no longer guarded?

    Seeker turned to look at Companion, who seemed completely unconcerned and perfectly at ease. Seeing Companion’s calm, Seeker pushed his doubts aside and continued following him as they turned onto the path to the Wicket Gate.

 

    Companion studied the book in his hands—black leather-bound, the title in gold letters: The Pilgrim’s Progress.  He could tell from the worn edges that Seeker had read it often, but it was well kept—handled with care, even reverence.

    The book opened to a bookmarked page—at the top, the top of the page read: Christian and Hopeful at the River of Life.  The bookmark was a slip of paper, marked with a drawing of a strange bird—black and white, with an orange beak.  He flipped through the book, catching names of familiar places—Slough of Despond, Wicket Gate, Interpreter’s House.

    Storm clouds gathered behind a mountain rising in the distance, its rocky slopes jagged and steep.  Lightning split the sky above it, followed by thunder—low and rolling, echoing from far off.   

    “Look, it’s Mount Sinai.”  Seeker pointed at the mountain, then at his Book.  “Christian got sidetracked at the beginning of his journey.”

    Companion flipped through the pages until he found the part, read in silence, and nodded.

    Winding switchbacks climbed Sinai in an arduous ascent, and an occasional gust of wind carried the faintest scent of charred rock. The village of Morality perched atop the heights, its modest buildings barely visible against the sky. A cathedral steeple pierced the skyline above the clustered rooftops.

    “Now that I see it with my own eyes,” said Seeker, “I wonder how Christian was so easily led astray.”
    “If you come from the City of Destruction, there’s a faint rise—you can’t see what’s clear from here.”  Companion handed the Book back to Seeker.  “Though the path to it is overgrown now—no one wants to brave the climb and the fire.  Don’t judge a path by its difficulty, or, as I said before, by how many walk it.” He pointed at the village at the top of Sinai. “Morality is the way of rules, but the Narrow Way is about relationships.”

    Seeker placed the Book back close to his heart and then looked to the path ahead.

 

    Seeker opened his eyes.  For a moment, he thought he was still in the Slough.  No—he was lying on grass, his head propped up.  He was deathly cold.  His hand shot to his chest—his Book was still there.  He coughed and sat up.

    A man squatted beside him, tending a small fire.  He introduced himself as Companion.  There was a twinkle in his eyes—not mocking, but more like a ray of sunlight breaking through bright clouds.

    Seeker wasn’t quite sure why he’d said he was from the City of Destruction.  But something in Companion’s gaze—steady, knowing—made it impossible to hold the rest back.  His story came pouring out, or at least the part about his journey.  There was no judgment in Companion’s eyes.  Only understanding.

    He ate the bread Companion offered and warmed himself beside the fire.

    “Is this yours?” Companion asked, handing him the staff.  “I found it in the mud next to you.”  He nodded toward the Slough.

    Seeker was still weak, but warmth and food had steadied him. So, they set out toward the Wicket Gate—staff in hand.

     A wide, well-trodden path stretched out before them, and Companion walked with steady purpose, sure of his direction. Seeker walked beside him, leaning on his staff for support.

    “The way is different than I expected… I imagined it to be… narrower.”
    Companion laughed.  “Judge a path by where it leads, not by how many people walk it.  But you’re right—this isn’t the Narrow Way.  This path leads to Pretense.”  He paused for effect, glanced at Seeker, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.  “Which is where we don’t want to go.   That’s why we aren’t walking that way.”  He pointed back the way they had come.   

    Companion continued, his voice calm and firm.  “I’ve pulled a few people out of the Slough, but not a single one this far off the path.”
    Seeker hesitated.  “I came from Uncertain.  It’s just easier to say the City of Destruction.  No one’s heard of Uncertain.”  Companion nodded.  He didn’t say a word—it was clear he hadn’t heard of it either.  “It’s not exactly a lie.  I do come from the City of Destruction, but…”  He swallowed hard.  “My parents brought me to Uncertain when I was young, and…”
    “Why the Wicket Gate?”
   “Well, there is no future in Uncertain.  And no one welcomed me back to the City of Destruction.  To be honest, I don’t even know the way. Besides…”

    He reached into his jacket and pulled out his Book and handed it to Companion.  “If I can just get to the Wicket Gate, I’ll be certain of the truth.”

    “What about your family?  Didn’t they give you any guidance?”
    “My father told me not to take the journey.”  He let out a bitter laugh.  “I told him that…”  He didn’t finish the sentence.  “Mother, well, she…”  He paused, then smiled.  “I have a little brother.  He’s too young, really.  We don’t get along well anyway.”

    Companion smiled warmly.  “Now I know how you ended up in Despond.  But all that is behind you now.”  

    Companion rolled up his bedroll and sifted the ashes of the campfire with his boot, ensuring no embers remained. He’d sent his men back to the cottage the afternoon before, but something inside—he couldn’t name it—had urged him to stay one more night.  He packed the last loaf of bread into his satchel, slung the waterbag over his shoulder, picked up his staff, and set out.

    He followed the edge of the Slough, surveying their progress.  It had been a good week, all things considered.  They’d dumped thousands of cart-loads of the King’s best instructions into the mire to mend it—yet it looked no different.

    A robin sang a sweet, melancholic tune. Companion whistled along. The faint scent of wildflowers lingered in the morning air, almost enough to cover the stench of the Slough.  Something caught his eye.

    A young man lay motionless, face-down in the mire at the edge of the Slough, his clothes caked with mud.  Companion rushed to his side, knelt, and gently turned him over, listening for breath.  He was still alive.

    Without hesitation, Companion stepped into the Slough.   The mud gurgled and shifted with a sluggish, sucking sound.  He lifted the young man from the mire, heedless of the mud soaking into his clothes, and carried him to the grass.

    He lifted the young man’s head and slid his bedroll beneath it, then took a cloth from his satchel, dampened it with a few drops from his waterbag, and gently wiped the Slough’s filth from his face.  His skin was pale and cold, chilled by the Slough’s mire.

    He’d just coaxed a small fire to life when he heard a ragged inhale behind him. The young man sat up, rubbing his arms. Companion passed him the waterbag. He took a sip, then huddled close to the fire.

    “Looks like you’ve seen better days…”

   “Seeker-for-Truth.  My friends just call me Seeker.”

   “I doubt this was what you were seeking,” His eyes twinkled as he gestured toward the Slough. “I’m Companion.”

    Seeker nodded.

    “How did you find yourself in this… situation?”

    “I was trying to get to the Wicket Gate.  I came from the City of Destruction.”

    “Strange way to get to the Wicket Gate.  Didn’t you see the bridge?”

    “Bridge?”  Seeker seemed confused.  “The sun was setting, and I’d been robbed… in Stupidity.”

    “That’s quite the detour.”  He laughed.

    A stubborn look crossed Seeker’s face. There was something he wasn’t saying—but Companion didn’t press the point.

    “Well, Seeker, you’re in luck. I’m passing by the Wicket Gate. You can even walk with me all the way to the Interpreter’s House, if you want.”  He reached into his satchel and handed Seeker the loaf of bread.  “Eat, my friend.  You have a long road ahead.”  He paused.  “But it’s nothing compared to the Slough. That, I promise.”

    Seeker quickened his steps as the fading sunlight cast long shadows.  Not far from Stupidity, he reached the source of the river: the Slough of Despond, where waters bled out from the mire, murky with what the bog could no longer hold.

    The Slough stretched before him, dark and treacherous.  Mist clung to the reeds, and blackened pools shifted silently.  The stench of decay, damp earth, and rotting vegetation pressed in, a hint of stagnant air catching in his throat.

    Today was not going according to plan.  He’d been robbed.  The sun was down, and his stomach growled—reminding him of the bread he’d left in the mud. The far side was lost in darkness. Unlike in his Book, there were no steppingstones.

    There was nowhere to rest—not even a tree in sight. The air carried a damp chill.  Laughter drifted from Stupidity, low and mean. It tangled with the sucking squelch of mud, the ripple of distant water, and the whisper of reeds in the wind.

    Just beyond where the Slough spilled into the river, scattered patches of solid ground broke the surface. Not enough to cross the Slough—but enough to reach the far bank.  He tapped the ground with his staff.

    He took one step. The ground was soft, but it held. He took another—his boot slipped, and he barely caught himself before his other foot plunged into the muck.  He tested the ground ahead, but his staff found no bottom.  The cold, sucking mire closed on his legs.  Damp crept through his clothes as he tried to turn, each step dragged heavy by the mire.  Mists thickened around him, obscuring the blackened pools.

    He stood very still.  Beneath him, the shifting mud gurgled softly.  Reeds rustled in unseen currents.  Mist wrapped around him, cold and clinging.  The stench of decay grew stronger as the mud stirred—stagnant water reeking of rot.  The air thickened in his mouth, musty and damp, almost choking.

    He was thankful he carried no burden, unlike Christian in his Book.  Still, he sank.  Standing still was no use. He listened—for laughter drifting from the village.  Not so mighty now.  Was that his imagination?  He turned, trying to face Stupidity, to retrace his steps.  But the sound echoed, impossible to place.

    He was waist-deep in mud, darkness pressing close. Fog shifted, faintly lit by unseen sources. Shadows moved within it. Distorted shapes rippled through the water. The mire fell silent, broken only by his labored breathing, the slosh of movement, an occasional ripple, and the dull squelch of sucking mud.

    “Help!” he cried.
    Help? the Slough echoed back, as if mocking.
    A bittern boomed somewhere deep in the mist, its call hollow and mournful, like a drum struck underwater.

    The more he struggled, the faster he sank—chest, shoulder, neck.

    His feet touched bottom. Then his staff followed. He relaxed for a second—then gagged on the thick stench of rot, the bitter tang of sweat and stagnant air, fog pressing against his lips like a foul vapor. Slime flooded his mouth before he could catch a breath. He threw his head back to cry out, but only a gurgling sound escaped.

    With no sun, moon, or stars to guide him, he fixed an invisible point in his mind and pushed toward it.  There was no choice.

    Hours passed.  Maybe days.  He imagined the sun rising and setting.  Again.  And again.  With the fog so thick, there was no way to know.  There was no end.

    The relentless cold of the mire seeped into his bones.  He couldn’t remember warmth.  Not even sunshine.  His legs were lead.  Muscles screamed.  Fatigue pressed down.  Even his eyes sagged with the weight of it.  Each step drained everything he had. 

    Step.  One more.  Just one more.  He inched toward that invisible point.

    If he stopped, he would die. He didn’t care. Couldn’t. Had to. He would just rest his eyes. Just for a second. Light washed over him. And then—everything faded.

    A warped and brittle wooden bridge spanned the muddy water just up ahead.  Behind it stood a village, its sagging buildings leaning at odd angles, the sinking sun casting long shadows over the uneven streets.  He knew where he was—the Town of Stupidity.

    No one actually chose to live in Stupidity, unlike Carnal Policy, where if you just work hard enough, you can have that dreamed-of estate.  You’re sent here for failing.  But not for just any failure—complete failure.  Like gambling away your life savings in Vain Delights or getting drunk and beating your family.  Some, though, are here through no fault of their own, like losing an arm or leg in an unlucky accident. 

    Even the name was stupid.  Town of Stupidity.  But nobody quite knew if calling a shabby village a town was an act of stupidity itself, or just for a good laugh.

    Staff in hand, Seeker stepped onto the bridge. It creaked, groaned, and gave under his feet—then cracked, forcing him back. He swore under his breath.

    The stench of stagnant water rose from ruts and puddles, mixing with the faint mustiness of decayed wood and the acrid smoke of poorly tended fires.  Water dripped from a leaky roof, slow and irregular.   Occasional muttering.  Distant chatter. 

    Best not go through that.  But the sun was setting in the west, and the cool evening was settling in.  He had no choice.

***

    He turned from the bridge and set out through town when three figures emerged from an alleyway, moving with slow, casual confidence.  Their presence unsettled him.  He tightened his grip on his staff.

    The tallest among them, a man with a broad frame and dull, heavy features, smirked.  “Where you off to in such a hurry, traveler?”

     He swallowed, keeping his voice steady.  “I’m just passing through.  I have no business here.”

    The second, thinner and wiry, tilted his head.  His eyes flicked to Seeker’s staff, and then to his coat.  “No business, eh?  That’s a shame.  We like visitors who bring business, don’t we, Blunt?”

    “That’s right, Slip.  We does.”

    The third, a hunched figure with shifting eyes muttered something under his breath, barely audible, as if speaking to himself.  The other two didn’t acknowledge it.

    Seeker shifted his stance, planting his staff firmly in the dirt.  “Let me pass.”

    Blunt let out a short, amused laugh, “Oh, did you hear that, Mutter?  He has a stick.”   Before Seeker could react, he lunged forward, striking the staff aside with one powerful swing of his arm.  The force of it wrenched Seeker’s grip, sending a jolt up his arms.  The staff hit the ground with a thud.

    “Not so mighty now, are you?” Slip chuckled, stepping forward.  His hand darted toward Seeker’s coat, rifling through its folds.  He twisted to resist, but Blunt shoved him hard, sending him stumbling back.

    Mutter reached into Seeker’s coat and pulled out the worn, leather-bound book.  He flipped through the pages with blank disinterest before holding it up to Slip.

    Slip raised an eyebrow.  “What’s this?  A book?”

    Blunt scoffed, unimpressed, “Words won’t feed you.”

    He lunged, but Slip shoved him back again.  Mutter, apparently having lost interest, let the book slip from his fingers, letting it fall carelessly onto the ground.

    Blunt held him fast. Seeker twisted, but the man’s fingers dug deep into his arms. Slip rifled through his satchel and pulled out a loaf of bread. He took a bite, then spat it out. “The book might’ve tasted better,” he said, dropping it and smashing it underfoot.

    Slip reached into the satchel and pulled out the pouch, weighing it in his hand. Coins clinked softly. He laughed, careless. “More like it.”

    His throat tightened.  He lunged for the pouch, but Slip shoved him back. He staggered forward—Blunt punched him in the mouth, and he hit the mud hard. Dust filled his mouth, bitter and dry, mixing with the stink of the unwashed thieves, sweat, and the moldy air of the town. “Why don’t you take my clothes too?” he shouted.

    Mutter’s lips moved, but what came out was a string of nonsense.  Blunt and Slip nodded—then burst out laughing, and turned and disappeared down the alley.   Their voices trailed off, swallowed by the rot of the town.

    He slammed his fist into the mud. It gave with a wet, sucking sound.  He’d worked so hard for that money, and it was gone.  He grabbed the muddy bread and dropped it again, stomach turning. A frog croaked from a nearby puddle.  Something passed through him—humiliation, maybe, but at least they’d seen him.

    He picked up the Book, wiping mud from the cover and smoothing pages splattered with dirt. It wasn’t ripped. Still readable. He breathed a quiet thank-you and tucked it into his coat, close to his heart.

    He grabbed his staff and set off again, following the river. The sun had set, but staying wasn’t an option. His eyes caught every flicker, every shifting shadow. He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding once the village was behind him.   

    The river curved into the twilight’s gloom, and he followed.