Chapter 2: The Path of the World

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After my lesson with the goblin hood, we follow the earth path down, as it turns back and forth, never too steep. The land opens up, now gently sloping toward the peasant lands. The weather had been kind, with the skerry passing though just some few clouds.

And no sprites so far.

The ground had flattened as we walked by peasants toiling in the terraces. They take no notice of us, but that’s not right. They see us and turn slightly away, faces down to the ground on their tasks.

The fields are green, so they must be tending to their work just so.

The way around the skerry is usually to the left, from Bocut to Beshof or Lake Town, to Fearsmere, to First Town, to Talcutt, to Eldmere, to Rocut, back to Bocut.The peddler tells me we’re to go right.

“Is this the Path of the World, sir?” I ask the peddler as we approach it. The path is white, almost to shine. I dare not bend over to look close, but I can see enough that it is made of crushed shells.

“If you walk on it unshod, it’ll cut you,” the peddler says. “Come along,” he says, stepping on the path, going toward our right.

Walking in front of the peddler, I see the people of the square from a distance. They never come up the cuts into the towns, although they do leave the path, as I discover later in my journey. There are four of them, neither walking abreast or two by two, but straggling along, one catching up to another, the other falling behind.

I don’t ask the peddler about them. Now that I am in his charge, I find him a harsh man, better not spoken to.

“Stand off the path and let them pass, boy,” the peddler says.

“Can we rest, sir?” I ask. My legs tire and my feet hurt.

The peddler grunts and starts to take his pack off. “Mind my wares,” he says. I take care in removing my basket and putting it to the ground. “I said, be careful,” he scolds me.

“Yes, sir,” I say.

With the pack on the ground, I sit in the grass and watch the people of the square approach.

“Sir,” I say, panting and feeling cramps in my legs. “You had me memorize the names of the eight towns around the skerry,” I say.

“That’s right,” he says. “But we aren’t going in the order you learned them, not at first. I’ve trade with the overseer of Rocut.”

“We’re going to Rocut?” I ask.

The people of the square are closer now, and I see the cords holding them up. The cords on their hands and feet are the easiest to see, as they pull the arms and legs up and let them down, walking the people along. As they get closer, I see the cord that goes down, under their shirts and the two on their heads - one on top, one on the jaw.

“Not to the town,” the peddler says. “The overseers live down here, among the peasants, part of the time, at least. You have to drive the peasants, or they won’t work at all.”

Several of the people of the square look at us - and I fancy, mostly at me - as they pass. I can see the mark on their foreheads, the black square.

“Hello,” I say, as they pass.

They nod to me, as they pass. They don’t speak to me.

As they walk along, I realize that they are unshod - barefoot, really. Their feet are not cut, as mine would be, from walking on the Path of the World. Instead, they barely touch the path and their feet look soft, like a baby or a rich person.

“You’re a stupid boy, pesca.” The peddler stands up. “Your legs are going to hurt the more for a rest when we could have just pushed through. Get your pack on and get moving. If I have to come back, I’ll cuff you, smack you right in the face.”

I content myself to listen to the scrunching sounds of our feet as we walk. We practiced wearing the hood before we left town and putting on the pack and the names of the towns. The towns were alway said in that order.

The path shines in front of us. Three men or four boys might walk abreast on it. It had been curving to the left for the last few minutes, since we joined it.

“Walk on the right side,” he says as he falls in behind me. “If you step off the path on the left, I will slap you silly.”

I feel my arms pull in, in front of me, my body remembering the yelling and the peddler standing over me, flicking my forehead, from a little while before.

The land on the left side of us slopes off out of sight, but as we approach, I see stones piled up in a crude wall. I see nothing on the other side that needs a wall.

I stumble, now and again, as we go on, approaching nearer the wall, until the path comes right next to it. Wispy clouds roll across the plain, across our path. It’s not the rush of wind I’m used to from living in the cut.

“I said, stay to the right,” the peddler repeats.

I had wandered toward the middle of the path after a stumble, so I correct myself, and walk to the right again. I look over the wall. The path runs right next to it, here.

I see nothing but sky.

“That’s the edge,” I say, stopping and pointing across the path, over the wall. “That’s the edge of the skerry,” I say.

“Keep walking, keep to the right, don’t look over there,” the peddler says.

I start to obey him, but then I see a school of trout rush up from over the edge and fly into the sky over us. I’d never been so close to them - always looking down at them from the heights.

“Pesca,” the peddler says, just tiredness and little malice in the insult. “Walk.”

I hunch over and take one step, then another, mashing my feet into the crunchy surface of the path.

The clouds thickened up around us. I felt for my hood, in case I might need it. It hung from my belt, just as it had before.

“No goblins yet,” the peddler tells me. “Way too light, still. We’ll be stopped before that happens.

I look up again, as another school of trout float over and then dart away. They are ugly things, gray and silver with funny faces, but they shiver through the air, having a bit of grace.

Later, another school swims by, and when I look down from them, I see peasants in the field.

Submitted: March 11, 2023

Fantasy sprite goblins bones