For the Journey -- a slight story

The Traveled Road

I am known by many names, but ‘Stir’ will serve. In these quiet days of new grass, I travel only from night-fire to glad-fire – seeking a shared meal and stories of wonder, such being the special gift of travelers. This day’s trek will be short, methinks – for aching joints tell of conniving rain and sudden swelling streams. Such a joy to walk in the songs of rain.

There are many branches in the trail ahead, but I will choose the ‘more traveled’ one, for that is where the work is! My scars and mirth tell of the many ‘less traveled’ sojourns of my past, but now I have fain confidence to walk in the ruts of throng and see what was missed or discarded or ignored by most. Besides, there will be need of my sturdy arm and healing pouch in the flooded defiles ahead that will test the foolish. Ah, the enchanting smell of yearning loam welcoming the first pounding drops -- drumbeat thunder and castanet applause from branch and leaf and stone. Breathe! There is a cleft ‘neath an overhang of rock ahead. The branches gathered under my cloak will need protection more than I. I may not build a fire, but can leave the fuel for one who will come later. Why do many seek food only when they are hungry, and sticks after it begins to rain? Simple mysteries. A stranger approaches!

There was a time in my youth where I might have appraised the man, giving full measure to beliefs and trained fears. After all, his dress speaks of an unfamiliar land; his stance suggests a bladed under his coat; his countenance of missed meals. His practiced eye notes my staff and preparation – also aware there is no other shelter near by. Aye, by belief alone I would be wary. Internally I smile – appraising what I know to be true. Here walks a fellow messenger of Light, close holding a spark perhaps more profound than mine. There stands one with experience beyond mine, who possibly has answers to questions I have never asked. He comes from where I must now go.

Upon a small rock I place a crust of bread, unwrap a chunk of cheese and set out a smallish bag of salt. A cup is already musically gathering drops from a fir-branch fountain. No words are needed, but by gesture I learn that he has nothing to share – not necessary for me, but obviously important to him. I nod, then point to the flute hanging from his belt.

My footsteps are a little lighter now, easily dodging the pools and slippery stones. Behind me strides a man who will someday help another – of this I surly know. Ahead of me lies a land where music lays close to the soul – where sorrow and joy are blended in song. He has a full belly, and I a replenished heart. This is the faire trade of strangers – travelers on the common road – the one most traveled by.