Redemption of Eva

    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. 

    Seeker made up his mind—he’d follow the river.  But which way?  The overhead sun gave him no guidance.  Right seemed to wind back toward the way he’d come, so he went left.  But with the twists and turns, it was hard to tell.

   He had a dim memory of a river cutting the City of Destruction in two.  He’d cry every time he had to cross the bridge—the mud and the stench scared him.  That was long ago, a whole different life before Uncertain.  But the smell was the same.

    His boots sank into the damp earth where the water occasionally lapped the banks.  It muttered to him, telling him he was going the wrong way.  That he was a fool to set out on this journey.  Other times it just meandered in stubborn silence, its eddies swirling in mockery.

    The shadows lengthened, but still there was no way across.  In the distance stood an ancient tree, shimmering silver in the afternoon light.  He raised his eyebrows and picked up his pace, weariness forgotten.  

   A hush fell over the land as he approached it.  Its trunk was gnarled and broad, and the bark had a subtle glow, as if light lingered just beneath the surface.  Though it grew firmly on the river’s edge, its massive roots plunged deep into the water.  A mist clung to them, curling in a soft, shifting veil.

    From its mighty frame, great branches stretched to the sky, limbs reaching high, untouched by the passage of time.  Its leaves were tipped in silver, catching the light with a delicate radiance.  Among the branches, small, round fruit nestled in the shade, pale skins faintly lustrous.  

    The fruit seemed pleasant and good to eat, but Seeker hesitated, calling to mind a passage he’d scanned in The Forager’s Manual, Being a True Description of Plants Fit for Sustenance.   The peddler had let him hold it long enough to see the warning—Eating unknown berries can be fatal.  Another useful book once he had money—if he could find it again.

    His stomach growled.  He started to reach for the bread in his satchel but stopped.  No time.  The sun was already beginning to sink in the west, and still no way across this damn river.  He’d stick to his plan and eat when he reached the Slough, not before.    

    As he turned to leave something caught his eye.  A branch just within reach—perfect for a walking stick.  This was worth taking time for.  Not only would it quicken his pace, but it would also serve as a staff, just like Lord Peregrine’s.  No telling what creatures lurked in the dark if he ended up walking by moonlight, too.

    He snapped the branch off at its base and whittled the smaller twigs with his clasp knife.  He hefted it and tapped it twice on the ground.  The bark was rough in his palm, but it was solid and sturdy.    Thus equipped, and armed he continued on his way, steps lighter.

    Seeker-for-Truth closed his Book and laid it on his bed next to the satchel, his clasp-knife, a tin cup, a loaf of bread, and a small pouch of coins.  Seeker, as his friends called him—not that he had many of those—had saved up weeks to make the journey, often going without food to do so.

    This was all he owned in the world.  All he’d been able to scrape together since his parents had dumped him in this forsaken town.  This time he would make it, at least as far the Wicket Gate. 

    His ears burned at the memory of past failures to leave.  First time he had thrown up while passing through the bad part of town.  Hadn’t even gotten out of Uncertain.  Last time the lack of roads unnerved him.

     He picked his Book back up.  No, not in the satchel.  He tucked it into his jacket.  Christian may have had a burden, but at least he had a path. And Evangelist.  He had nobody, but he had a plan.  Lord Peregrine had led Lady Evadne by the stars—the Bear and the Hunter.  He wished he had enough money to buy that book.  One day he would, he promised himself.  The Book he had–the one nestled near his heart called his destination “the City in the North.”  Should be easy enough to orient himself by the sun.  And he knew the stars.  Day or night he had a guide. 

   He slung the satchel over his shoulder and set out.  There was nothing here to hold him.  No wife or children to cry after him.  No neighbors to chase him, trying to convince him to return.  The landlord has seemed grateful when he’d given him an extra month’s rent to find a new tenant and had wished him God-speed.  He could have bought the book he wanted with that money—but it was the right thing to do.

    The sun had barely appeared over the horizon.  If all went well, he’d reach the Slough of Despond by noon.  Once he found the steppingstones, he’d eat lunch and then cross—very carefully.  With any luck he would sleep at the Interpreter’s House tonight.

***

      The walk across the Valley of Destruction was more pleasant than he had expected.   Rolling fields spread out before him, grass and wildflowers swaying gently in the breeze, and small clusters of trees breaking the open land.  Birds sang, and clouds drifted serenely across the blue sky.  He raised his face to the warmth of the sun, now halfway up the sky.  The Slough should be just up ahead.  Just a little further.

    But the fields stretched on, and the sun kept climbing.  His heel rubbed inside his boot and began to burn.  The soles of his feet ached.  His legs grew heavy.  He briefly contemplated turning back—but he’d come so far already.  It was probably further back than forward.  Besides, he had no place to go back to.  Well, there was…  No, he thought, never back to his parents.   Better to drown in the Slough than that.

    He crested a small rise and saw it—a vast river snaking across the valley, blocking his way forward.  

He blinked and rubbed his chin.  This was not supposed to be here.   His Book never mentioned a river.  But then again, Christian had started from the City of Destruction.  And he wasn’t exactly sure where Uncertain was.  If he couldn’t afford a book, he certainly couldn’t afford a map.

    He scanned the length of the river and couldn’t find a place to cross.  No bridges.  No ferries.  It was too wide to swim, and even if he wanted to, he didn’t dare.  The swift current churned up yellowish mud and swirled in dizzying whirlpools, and it stank of rotting vegetation.  If he stepped foot in it, he was sure he’d never be found.  Not that anyone would come looking.

   There was only one way forward.  He started following the river.

    The Dreamer viewed the ceiling of his bedroom through the brackets of his fingers to assure himself of reality, and let the Dream take him.  He drank deeply from the River of Life and inhaled the fragrance of lilies.   The Interpreter was there.  A wild cherry tree.  His throat tightened at the memory of a dear lost friend.

    Memories surged as he walked together with the Interpreter.  He gagged at the stench of burning human flesh—Faithful condemned to die in the pyre in Vanity.  Adrenaline pumped as blood dripped in his eyes, the taste of iron in his mouth, standing back-to-back with Great-Heart, sword glistening in hand, corpses of goblins, satyrs, and dragons littering the ground around them.    

    The monstrous Apollyon stood arrogantly before the Dreamer.  Christian stood with him, smoke whirled around him, sparks flashed, and sulfur choked the air.  He blinked.  Lady Evadne charged the gates of Hell, clad in the full armor of the King, defying the Great Red Dragon himself, fighting for Lord Peregrine, Dread-Lord Beelzebub by her side.

    He wasn’t sure why he’d returned to the Dream Lands—he hadn’t set foot here since he was a child.  He had changed, and the Dream had too.   The Interpreter had more to show him.

   Howls of wolves surrounded them in the forest of Danger.  Something was wrong with Palace Beautiful, but he couldn’t tell what.  The oppressive feel of Deceit, and a command.  Never forget. 

    A Beautiful song filled the realm of the Interpreter.  But his once magnificent House lay in ruins.  He blinked.

    He stood in a town he’d never been, didn’t recognize.  Uncertain.  And saw a young man, Seeker-for-Truth.  He didn’t know how he knew the names—the Dream just worked that way.