Redemption of Eva

   The Dreamer was puzzled.  The tower stood just as he’d seen it from the waterfalls with the Interpreter—but His House was in ruins.  This was where he’d heard the Beautiful song.  He was sure of it.  Things had changed since he’d been here as a child—a lot.  Beelzebub’s Castle, abandoned.  The Interpreter’s House, broken.  And where was Good-Will?  Something felt vaguely familiar.  He watched intently as Seeker-for-Truth disappeared into the cottage.

***

    A fire roared in the fireplace of the common room as Seeker entered the cottage, its light flickering across plaster walls and wooden beams.  A pot of stew hung over the flames, the scent rich and comforting.  Bowls and wooden spoons were laid out on a long table with benches, and baskets of fresh-baked bread were set nearby.

    A young woman not much older than Seeker met him, her hair wild—curls sticking out in every direction. “Companion! You rescued another one.”  She rushed toward Seeker with arms outstretched, to welcome him, then stopped short, wrinkling her nose.  “You smell disgusting!”

    Companion chuckled.  “Seeker, this is Miss Cheerful.”

    “Seeker?  You look hungry.  Let’s get some food in you.”  She stopped and wrinkled her nose again.  “Not smelling like that you don’t.  Follow me, Seeker-of-Baths.”  She threw her head back and laughed boisterously, the sound echoing through the room.   

    She started toward a doorway on the far side of the room but stopped, crossed to the fireplace, and used her apron to lift a large kettle.  Then she turned to Companion.  “You have a spare set of clothes while I wash those?”  She pointed to Seeker’s muddy outfit, wrinkling her nose again.  “They should fit for now—though they might be a bit loose across the chest.”  She giggled. 

   Companion laughed.  “I guess the stream’s going to have to wait.”

***

    Miss Cheerful led Seeker to a small room with a stone floor, a drain trough, and a wooden tub bound in iron hoops.  On a wooden bench sat a neatly folded towel, a worn linen cloth, and a small crock of rosemary-scented soap.  She handed him a bucket and pointed to the door.

    “There’s a barrel of fresh water outside,” she said.

    She emptied the kettle into the tub.  When he returned with the bucket full, she refilled it.  “Another!”

    Companion entered with a bundle of clothes.  She snatched them from his hands, set them on the bench, and handed him the kettle.  “On the hearth.  Shoo!”

    After a flurry of bustle and shouted orders, Seeker found himself standing before the steaming tub.

    “Be quick, supper’s waiting.  Leave your clothes on the floor.  Don’t even think about putting them on the bench.”  She shut the door behind her, then called through it.  “Take your time!  Make sure you get nice and clean!”

    The warm water soothed the aches of the road as he scrubbed every bit of the Slough mire from his skin.  He left his clothes on the floor, just as Miss Cheerful had told him.

***

   When he returned to the common room, they were all waiting.  Companion introduced him to Faint-Resolve, a tall slender man with gray streaks in his mustache and a perpetual cross expression.  And to Miss Fair-Glance—pretty in a plain sort of way, with long, straight black hair.  Miss Cheerful sat next to her, beaming at him.

    Companion bowed his head and gave thanks to the King for the food.

    “And thank you for sending us Seeker,” Miss Cheerful added.  A mischievous grin crossed her face.  “And that he smells like rosemary now!”

    The stew was plain but hearty, warming him deep into his bones.  He bit into the bread—simple but satisfying, soft inside and crisp at the edges.  Filling his tin cup from the pitcher, he drank deeply.  There is nothing like cool water to the thirsty.

   They spoke of Seeker’s journey.  Of Companion and Faint-Resolve’s work at the Slough under the orders of the King, how they missed their wives, and when their service would end so they could return to them.

   Several times Faint-Resolve looked at Miss Fair-Glance out of the corner of his eyes.  No, it was probably his imagination.  Companion didn’t seem to notice—but she did.  Each time, she looked away and blushed faintly.  He pushed the thought aside.  It had to be his imagination.

    “Well, I’m off to bed now,” Companion said with a yawn.  “It’s a long walk back to the Slough.”

    Faint-Resolve stood and followed, and soon after, Miss Fair-Glance took her leave as well.  With everyone gone, Miss Cheerful rose and led him to his room.

    “Sleep well, Seeker,” she said and left him alone.

    The room was small but welcoming.  Wooden walls, darkened with age, held the lingering warmth of the cottage.  A single window let in the cool night air.  Its half-closed shutters creaked softly, stirred by the breeze.  

  The bed, a simple wooden frame, held a straw-filled mattress and a thick wool blanket.  On a small table, a single candle flickered.  He placed his book there gently and set down his satchel.

   He blew out the candle, and within moments of lying down, he was fast asleep.   

    Seeker woke, fully rested.  The warmth of morning sunlight filtered through the diamond-paned window, casting streaks of gold across the room.

    His clothes, clean and folded, waited on a chair just outside the door—still faintly warm from the hearth.  He changed out of Companion’s clothes, slung his satchel over his shoulder, and descended the stairs to the common room.  On the table sat a basket of bread, a crock of fresh butter, and knives for cutting and spreading. 

    The morning was still, with only faint sounds drifting in from outside.  There was no one in the common room, not even Miss Cheerful, so he sat down at the table alone.  

    He cut off a thick slice of bread and spread it with golden butter.  The crust was crisp and the butter melting as he bit in.  He sighed in satisfaction.  Then he poured water from the pitcher into his tin cup, the sound gently breaking the silence.

    Companion and Faint-Resolve must have returned to their work mending the Slough, which left him alone to explore the realm.  He’d go to the stream.  No, first the Cross.  But before either, he would uncover the mystery of the Interpreter’s ruined house.  During last night’s conversation, he’d learned that the Interpreter’s presence was only temporary.  Or so everyone believed.

    By the time he finished his breakfast, his mind was made up—he would find out what was inside the tower.  A floorboard creaked as he crossed to the door.  A gentle breeze greeted him as he stepped outside, fresh and earthy, carrying the melody of a songbird.

    The ruins looked just as they had the night before—crumbling walls, scattered stones, and the lone tower still standing, drawing his gaze, almost calling to him.  He took a slow breath, then stepped forward.

***

   Seeker ascended the worn steps leading to the Interpreter’s House, where a floor of broad flagstones, cracked and weathered by sun and rain, rested atop the rough-cut stones of the foundation.  The entryway had no door.  The roofs were gone.  And the ashlar walls, once proud and smooth, had crumbled, leaving behind piles of moss-covered rubble.

    His steps left footprints in the thick dust coating the floor.  Dusty Parlor, indeed, he thought wryly.  Stairways climbed to open air.  On the far side of the room, a doorway was completely blocked by fallen stones.  A wall had crumbled to half its height.  If he stood on his toes, he could just make out the other side.

   It was a long room, most likely a dining area, though no tables or chairs remained.  At the back, a remnant of the second floor still stood—wide oak planks supported by large timber joists—and just beyond it rose the tower.  He reached up, grasped the rough stones, and hoisted himself to the other side.  

   He crossed the room, loose stones crunching under his feet, and entered a long hallway.  At the far end he saw the blocked entrance near where he’d climbed the wall.  The hallway led deeper into the house, ending in a small room with a stairwell of wooden steps.

    As he climbed, a stair creaked under his weight.  He stopped and stood very still.  Wind moved through the ruins, creating faint echoes.  But the wood did not break or crack.  He continued until he reached the second floor and stepped out cautiously.  The floor held firm.

   In front of him rose the lone tower, with a door set in the side.  His palms were sweating.  Dropping all caution, he strode across the wooden floor until he reached it.  His eyes widened.  The granite was untouched by age, and the door stood solid, with only a hint of tarnish on the iron banding and the handle.

    He pulled on the handle, then pushed.  The door didn’t give.  He stood looking at it for a long moment.  He knew what to do—but should he?  He examined the knob, then the jamb, and hesitated.  Then he reached into his satchel, pulled out his clasp-knife, and opened it with a satisfying click.  Carefully, he slid it between the door and jamb, avoiding any damage to the wood or the iron.  A soft pop, and the door swung open.  He smiled in silent satisfaction.

***

    A narrow stairwell of marble stairs led upwards for four floors, if his count was correct, with shafts of sunlight pouring through small windows, lighting the way.

    When he reached the top, he gasped in delight.  This was beyond his wildest dreams—he stood in a study.  An ornate rug spread over the wood floor.  On one side stood a couch, on the other a desk and a sturdy chair.  Bookshelves leaned, heavy with time.  Yet not a speck of dust touched the room.

    On the desk were a quill, ink, and a stack of paper.  But what truly caught his attention were the books.  There were ancient tomes in unfamiliar languages, dictionaries, and references.  Three titles stood out from the rest:  The Hidden Well, The Measure of a Man, and The Yoke and the Plow.   Truly, this was a treasure he could never have imagined.

    Windows were set in each of the four walls.  He crossed and peered through the warped glass of the one facing north.  The entire valley spread out before him—cascades and waterfalls tumbling from the mountains into the ravine.  In the pastures below, sheep grazed, and shepherds moved in the distance.  He stood quietly, imagining their voices and the soft bleating of the flock.  Beyond them were orchards—perhaps apple trees—and a thin stream that traced through the rolling hills.  He searched for the Hill of Deliverance, strained his eyes for the Cross.  But it was too far.  He would walk there.

    As he turned to take another look at the books before leaving, he noticed something he hadn’t seen in his earlier enthusiasm.  A small, purple, velvet case, sat on the desk.  He picked it up, and beneath it lay a note written in elegant penmanship:

Seek and you will find.

-I

    Inside was a gold band set with seven brilliant diamonds, catching the light and shimmering with an intensity unlike anything he had ever seen.  It was small—too small to fit any of his fingers except his pinky, and even there it only reached the knuckle.

    The note was for him—he could feel it deep inside.  And the ring, even if it didn’t fit, had been waiting for him.  Seek and you will find.  And the books were for him, too.  He picked up the black leather volume with seven raised bands on the spine, with unfamiliar letters.  He would return, learn to read it, and uncover its secrets.  He slid the book back into place and tucked the velvet case into his satchel.

    Then he turned and left.

    When Seeker left the Interpreter’s Study, he secured the door behind him with practiced ease—holding the latch up with his clasp-knife, pulling the door shut, and slipping the knife free from between the door and the jamb.  The latch clicked into place.  He walked away, steady in the knowledge that his treasures lay safe within.

    He left the ruins behind, passed through the wheat fields, and returned to the Narrow Way.  Beyond the Interpreter’s House, lush pastures spread wide, their grass swaying gently in the breeze.  Sheep grazed in the open, lifting their heads now and then to offer soft bleats.  The morning sun warmed his back as a breeze tugged at his tunic, carrying the earthy scent of pasture—tinged with wool and the faint sweetness of distant wildflowers.

    Dark canvas tents, weathered by sun and wind, lay scattered across the fields—the homes, he supposed, of shepherds tending their flocks.  A voice rose across the open land, deep and unwavering.  A strong man stood tall against the vast sky, his crook planted firmly in the earth.  Around him, travelers and pilgrims had gathered, some standing, others seated on grass and smooth stones, all listening intently to his words.

    “…in conclusion, my friends, always remember ‘beware of wolves in sheep’s clothing.’”  A soft chorus of assent rose from the crowd as he finished speaking.

    As he drew closer, Seeker spotted Companion among the crowd.  Companion turned at once, his face lighting up.  “Seeker!”  He gave him a quick once-over, grinning.  “You look rested—and much cleaner.  Come on, I’ll introduce you to Stern.”

    A man with chestnut hair, a prominent nose, and piercing eyes stood speaking with Stern.  He was short, though it was easy to miss—he carried himself with such presence, such effortless command.  At his side stood a lovely, slender woman, with long black hair flowing down to her waist, her hand resting on his arm.  She was half a head shorter, gazing up at him with eyes full of quiet admiration.

   Companion slowed his step and lowered his voice.  “That’s Steadfast and Gracious.  Don’t be put off by them.  He can be… well, a bit abrupt sometimes.  He chuckled searching for the right words, “They are kind of… old fashioned.”  The way he said it hinted toward weird.  “But when it comes to love, you won’t find a better example.”

    “Stern, this is my friend Seeker.  He comes from Uncertain.”

    Stern extended his hand.  It was calloused from hard work, his grip firm without being harsh.  His eyes were gentle, his smile warm—a striking contrast to the broad shoulders and powerful arms that framed him.

    “Seeker, great to meet you.”  Steadfast spoke before Stern could get a word in, then rolled right back into the conversation, now looping Seeker in.   “Definitely wolves in sheep’s clothing.  You have to pay attention, Seeker.  Times have changed.  This realm used to be a haven for pilgrims.  But now?  The cottage lets anyone in.  Wolves walk freely.  They may look fair on the outside—but you can tell.  By the little things they say.  By glances.”

    Seeker nodded as Steadfast spoke on.  But his thoughts drifted to Faint-Resolve’s secretive glances at Miss Fair-Glance.  Was that who Steadfast meant?  Unease stirred within him.  The words felt edged, a little too quick to judge.  Stern’s face gave nothing away.  He simply nodded again.

    Companion stepped in.  “Well, I’ve got to head back to the Slough.  You’re in good hands with Stern—and all of the shepherds, really.  I’ll see you when my shift’s over.”

   Gracious gave Seeker a warm smile, then turned to Steadfast. “Honey, let’s have him over for dinner.”

    Steadfast agreed with a hearty nod.  “Throw another bean or two in the pot!” 

    Warmth spread through him.  First Companion.  Then Miss Cheerful, Faint-Resolve, and Miss Fair-Glance.  A new life, with new friends.  But first things first.  The Cross still waited.  He thanked them with a smile and promised dinner next time, cheerfully.

    Seeker continued his trek northward, crossing a bridge over a small stream until he reached a place where the mountains narrowed, and the way was fenced in.  Wall of Salvation.   But it was crumbling, broken in places.  The path climbed gently up a hill, with an opening off to the side.  Hill of Deliverance.  But no Cross. 

    This unsettled him.  Surely this was the place.  He scanned the hilltop.  A sweet fragrance drifted in the air.  The summit lay empty, marked only by lilies swaying in the wind.  Birds sang, light and lilting yet strangely solemn, in harmony with the rustling petals.  As if remembering.

    He descended into the Tomb.  The stone was cool to the touch, smooth and lifeless beneath his fingers.  His footsteps echoed under him.  Empty.  But of course, it’s empty.  It’s supposed to be empty.

   He stepped out.  The mountains cast long shadows across the path.  The clean mountain air held both a sense of peace and a strange, aching absence.  He scanned the horizon.  No sign of the Cross.  This must be the place.  And it was gone.  He didn’t know how to carry that knowledge. 

    He scanned the horizon again, searching.  Still no sign of the Cross.  In the distance, across the ravine, a quaint village lay nestled in the mountains.  A side path led to it, crossing the ravine by an arched stone bridge, proud and enduring.  On this side rose a majestic grain silo and beside it a massive treadwheel, its gleaming form turning in steady, ceaseless motion.

    He knelt and gently brushed a lily’s white petal.  So fragile, so soft.  Nothing like the rugged cross he had expected.  Unease filled his heart.  He turned and left quietly, deep in thought.

***

    Bewilderment swept through the Dreamer as he watched Seeker-for-Truth.  There might be reasons—Good-Will’s disappearance, Beelzebub’s Castle abandoned, even the Interpreter’s House in ruins.  Hadn’t the Interpreter brought him here to show him all that?  But this?  This was beyond reason.  The Cross was the center of his Dream Lands—perhaps even the axis the world turned upon.  And it was gone.  In the hundreds of times he had visited, it had always been there.  Always.

    And the treadwheel?  The grain silo?  A distant hum rose from the machine—steady, almost mechanical in its precision.  He had never seen this before.  Not the grain silo.  Not the treadwheel.  He blinked—suddenly he was standing beside it.  And what he saw disturbed him.  The device was not fitted for horses, but for men.

    This was no tool of labor.  It was an instrument of cruelty.

     When Seeker arrived back at the cottage, Miss Cheerful greeted him with a wave.  “Just in time for dinner, Seeker.  Grab a bowl and some stew!”

   At the table, Faint-Resolve sat stiffly, scowling, his shoulders tight with unease.  Across from him was a man Seeker hadn’t seen before—handsome, well-dressed, with immaculate blonde hair, a well-trimmed mustache, and piercing blue eyes.

   “…you should have seen how she wiggled and giggled.”  The man leaned back, relaxed, eyes flickering with amusement.  “Her face might be kissed by the sun,” he added in a lower voice, “but her breasts—soft, and pale as cream.”   

   “Shame!” Faint-Resolve snapped, his voice cutting through the room like a blade.  “You call yourself a Pilgrim?”  

   “What?” A hurt look crossed the man’s face.  “I serve this King just like you.  I can’t help if I’m weak for shepherd girls.”

    Seeker’s bowl clattered as he set it down on the table and took a seat beside Faint-Resolve.  He shifted uncomfortably, and toyed with his stew, stirring without appetite, eyes fixed on his bowl.

    “I know you,” Faint-Resolve said, his voice steady but tight.  “Aren’t you the son of Lechery, called Lechery yourself?”

    “I didn’t take her honor.”  Lechery protested, but he didn’t deny the name.  “And I promised her. If anything were to happen to my wife, I would marry her.”

   “Shame.”  Faint-Resolve said again, softer this time.  “There’s no place in the cottage for the likes of you.”

    Seeker’s face began to burn as Stern’s warning echoed in his mind—then Steadfast’s words followed.  He’d assumed Steadfast had meant Faint-Resolve.  And he’d condemned Steadfast for being judgmental… when it was he who had judged unfairly.  All along, Steadfast had been speaking of Lechery.

   “My friend,” Lechery said, having regained his composure.  “It’s you who don’t understand the King’s grace.”  He smirked.  “Besides, if she let you, you’d be no different than me.”  No names spoken, but he lingered on the word she, as if Faint-Resolve knew exactly whom he meant.  “But she only likes the attention.”

     Faint-Resolve’s face flushed red.  He opened his mouth to speak but only sputtered.  No words came.   

    Lechery picked up his bowl and stood. “He who is without sin, let him cast the first stone.”  He gave a slight nod.  “Good day.”

    Neither spoke.  They just finished their stew in silence, the weight of the moment hanging heavy in the air.

    Days passed into weeks, and weeks into months.  Seeker spent his days in the Interpreter’s Study.  Reading, learning the languages of antiquity, and poring over the ancient tomes to uncover their secrets.

     He was always by Companion’s side.  They became close friends, sharing meals and long conversations.

    Evenings were spent in fellowship—with Miss Cheerful, Faint-Resolve, Miss Fair-Glance, Steadfast and Gracious, and many other Pilgrims who came through the cottage.

   He debated Lechery and other travelers in error.

   Often, they gathered in the pastures around Stern, listening to his quiet wisdom beneath the open sky.

    The day came when the King summoned Companion. His assignment in the Slough was finished, and he was returning to his family.  They stood outside the cottage, Companion’s pack slung over his shoulder.

    “I’m going to miss you, Seeker.”  Then he grinned.  “But my wife misses me more, you know.”

    Seeker nodded.  He swallowed the lump rising in his throat.  His eyes stung.  He thought back to the Slough of Despond and remembered his despair.  And wondered if he would ever find another friend like Companion.  He was happy for him.  These days had been hard for Companion, and he knew it.

    Companion placed a hand on Seeker’s shoulder.  “Guard your heart, Seeker.”  His voice grew quiet, his expression solemn.  “There are places much worse than the Slough to fall into.  Much worse.”  He paused as if weighing whether to say more.  “I, of all people, know that best.”

    The silence stretched—just long enough for the warning to settle deep.  

    “I will, Companion.  I will.”

    Suddenly, the clouds rolled back, and a ray of sunlight lit Companion’s face.  He brightened and said something lighthearted.  Seeker laughed.

    Then Companion turned and walked alone toward the Narrow Way.

    Seeker woke up early the next morning and waited for the sun to rise.  He climbed the tower, as he always did, but he couldn’t focus.  Restless, he wandered out to the pastures.  And there, the loneliness found him.

    A lone sheep stood apart, bleating into the morning stillness.  From a distance, the flock answered her call.  She turned and ran toward the sound.

    He followed her.  When he reached the flock, he found Stern seated on a rock.  Beside him sat another shepherd—his hair and beard gray, but his posture youthful and his eyes shining with quiet life.

    “Seeker,” Stern said, looking up with a smile.  “I’m glad you’re here.  This is Kind.  He’ll be tending the flock while I’m away.”

    Seeker’s heart sank.  Stern was leaving?

    “My family and I are heading to the Delectable Mountains for a short time,” Stern said gently.  “But we’ll be back.”

   “Stern was telling me about Companion,” Kind said, his voice warm. “I’m sure you miss him already.”

    Seeker nodded.

    “Liora’s cooking breakfast,” Kind said, “Come on.  She’s waiting to meet you.”

    Seeker looked to Stern.  Stern nodded.  “Go on.  We’re not leaving for several days.  I’ll see you tomorrow?”

    Kind spoke enthusiastically as they walked—he had plans for Seeker—the Harvest festival, Prince Emmanuel’s Birthday, breakfasts, suppers.

    The fragrance of cooking grain and wild herbs drifted to Seeker as they approached the humble canvas tent.  A young girl spotted them, then ducked inside.  “Mom!” she called, tugging Liora out by the hand.

    Liora stood there, poised and elegant, yet entirely approachable, with eyes that matched her husband’s in kindness.

     “Heya, Seeker.”  The girl looked up at him with piercing gray eyes.  “Oh, don’t look so surprised.  Everyone knows you.  You just need to get your nose out of your books.  Or listen.”  She laughed.  “I’m Tirzah, by the way.”  And just like that, she was gone.

       The three of them ate breakfast together and talked.  Well, Seeker talked.  Kind and Liora had no end of questions for him.  And somewhere along the way, Seeker forgot he was lonely.

    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.          

   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.

    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

   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 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.

    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 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 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.

    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.

  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.

   As they left the Wicket Gate behind, a wall rose alongside the Narrow Way, fencing it in.  From the other side, branches heavy with fruit reached over the top, growing from fruit trees in a garden just beyond the wall.

    Seeker paused beside the wall to study the small, round fruit, their pale skins slightly lustrous.  His finger hovered just short of touching one.  “I recognize these.”

    “I wouldn’t eat those,” Companion said.  “Not unless you’re looking for a bad stomachache.”  He pointed toward the looming ruins of Beelzebub’s Castle, dark and imposing beyond the wall. “It’s his garden.  Or at least it was.”

    “In the Valley of Destruction, there’s a tree beside a river.”  He held up his staff.  “I cut this from its branches.  The fruit is the same.  But the tree is larger and older.  Much older.  Ancient.”

    Companion looked at the trees as if seeing them for the first time. “Lignum Scientiae,” he said.  Then he grinned.  “That’s a fancy word for ‘Tree of Knowledge.’  I’ve never seen it myself. Mine comes from the Lignum Vitae.” He held out his staff.

    “Tree of Knowledge?” Seeker ran his fingers along the rough, gnarled wood of the staff in his hands.  “But why would Beelzebub…”

    Companion shrugged. “It’s not evil, you know.  Just… dangerous. Eat a bite and you’ll be fine.  Eat a few and you won’t feel so good. More than that, well… the effects can be pretty bad.”  (like Brazil nuts, lol)

    “Well, let’s not find out. I’d hate for you to have to carry me the rest of the way.” He laughed, turned, and continued down the Narrow Way.

    The path opened into a hidden valley, nestled among the mountains. The air felt clearer here, the light softer.  The wind whispered in reverence, carrying the sweet, fresh scent of fruit blossoms.  A cool breeze swept through the valley like a gentle welcome.

    Wheat fields shimmered in the light, neatly enclosed by strong fences.  In stark contrast, on the other side of the path, the fields lay abandoned.  Golden stalks rustled softly, brushing against each other as they swayed.

    In the distance, a solitary tower caught his eye.  It rose above the treetops, standing clear against the sky.  He turned to Companion and pointed.

    “Yes, that is where we’re going,” Companion said.

     Seeker’s tension eased, and a sudden lightness filled his chest. Something about this place felt familiar—like he had finally arrived somewhere he belonged.

    A wooded ravine cut through the valley, and a stream peeked through the trees, winding southward through the shadows.  From the distant mountains, cascades poured down in ribbons of white, waterfalls crashing into pools below with a low, steady roar.  Mist rose where the water met rock, softening the air.

   The gurgle of the stream mingled with the distant thunder of the falls.  A cool breeze rose from the ravine, stirring the wheat fields and carrying the scent of water—fresh, clean, crisp.  Beneath it lingered a trace of damp earth and moss, the breath of the valley itself.

    As if he could read Seeker’s thoughts, Companion said, “I agree, you definitely could use a wash.”

    The sun was warm, and the stale smell of his sweat mixed with the lingering decay of the Slough, still clinging to his skin and clothes.  The water below looked cool, inviting.

    But the way down into the ravine was steep and perilous.  More than that, it was off the path.  

   “But… are we…?”  He hesitated, then shook his head.  “No, I won’t leave the Way.”

    Companion laughed.  “No, not that way.  There are steps down near the Interpreter’s House.  It’s steep, but it’s worth the climb.”  He gestured toward the ravine.  “There’s a palace built by the Interpreter long ago.  The water is good to drink, and there are pools for swimming.”

    He paused and added with a quiet smile, “This whole realm is filled with things to see.  And it’s one of the few places on the Narrow Way where exploration isn’t just allowed but encouraged.”

    The tower seemed much closer now.  Seeker picked up his pace.

    The tower inched closer as Seeker and Companion walked, until at last it felt near enough to touch.  A side path appeared between the wheat fields, fences lining either side.  The sun was sinking behind the mountains, casting golden beams over the shimmering wheat.

    Seeker’s heart pounded as Companion turned down the path toward the ravine—and the tower.  This was the moment he’d been waiting for.  Just a little further, beyond the clump of trees, and he’d finally be at the Interpreter’s House.  He wanted to run.  But he stayed beside Companion.

    When the Interpreter’s House came into view, he froze.  What was this?  The roofs were gone, the walls crumbling, stones scattered.  Only a single tower still stood, stark against the sky—a remnant of what once was.

    The wind moved through the ruins, stirring up the dry scent of old, broken stone and dust, filling his mouth with bitterness, while the lingering freshness from the stream mocked him.  Somewhere in the distance, a bird cawed.

    The weight of his journey dragged him down.  He was exhausted.  Nothing made sense—the abandoned castle, the empty gate, and the ruined house.  He dropped to his knees.  He wanted to cry, but no tears came.  What did this all mean? 

    Seeker knelt in front of the ruins for a long time, head in hands, mind reeling.  When he finally looked up, Companion stood there, patient, waiting, casual in his stance, unshaken by the ruins.

   “Come on, Seeker.” His smile was easy.  “You can explore later.  Supper’s waiting.”

    Then he saw it.  Beyond the ruins stood a cottage, candlelight warm and inviting in the windows.  Slowly, he rose to his feet, the tension draining from his shoulders.  It wasn’t the stately palace he’d imagined from his Book, but it looked wonderful.

    The door creaked softly as Companion opened it.  The faint scent of stew and warm bread drifted over the smell of dust and old stones.  He looked back once, briefly, drawn by the mystery of the ruins—broken and empty, the wind whispering as if it carried secrets from the past.  Disappointment faded, replaced by curiosity.  Companion stood in the door frame, beckoning.

    Then he knew.  

    He was home.