main | table of contents Salamander Hill Copyright © 2004, S. Y. Affolee 15 Musings from Altner The canyon was eerily quiet during the morning. Like the previous nights, last night had been uneventful. Had they finally shaken the Others from their path? Had They lost interest or did They think that they weren’t coming back? Altner got on his own horse, his mouth twisted behind his beard in thought. Of course the Others would not have forgotten. Most likely, They were waiting on the other side, waiting for them to come back out. Most people didn’t wander off into the wilderness of the Dustlands to forever get lost. And especially not in groups. Dash and Prudence were already mounted, ready to go. The three of them were only waiting on Ficket to finish washing up in the stream before they were to head out. The wilderness guide absently studied the opposite wall of the canyon. He had woken up to the sounds of Dash puttering around with the morning rations while Prudence finished washing. The male trouver had seemed a little closed mouthed and irritable, his face a curious shade of pink. When Prudence arrived back at camp, she had been whistling and bade Altner a good morning—a curiously cheerful attitude for someone who had taken the last watch. What had gone on between the two of them, the wilderness guide wondered in a sort of objective fascination that he usually reserved for tricky enigmas. This trek to the edge of the world for treasure, he admitted, was an absolutely crazy thing to do. The canyon itself was already much further than he had traveled as a wilderness guide. Who knew what sort of strange, dangerous things lurked beyond the opposite wall? Most of his adult life had been spent on the edges of the Dustlands scratching a living by prospecting for sun sands, a glittering silvery-gold dust found in odd places, especially where normal sand and rock met. It was a hard, difficult life that he had been forced into, partly out of necessity and desperation. But after the first panic, it had settled in like a bad habit. He thought back to that strange abandoned town in the middle of the Dustlands and felt sadness. He didn’t want to kill the sheriff, but the man had been possessed. And he would have been possessed until he died—the Authority was ruthless that way. It was for the best that he ended the man’s twisted existence in the most quickest and painless way that was possible, even if it had been a tad messy. The trouvers were excellent sharp shooters, but his sword had one thing their guns didn’t—enchantment. Ficket emerged from the bushes and began to put the last of his things in his horse’s saddle bags. He should talk to the trouvers about that some time, he mused, preferably when the round man was out of hearing distance. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Ficket, he just didn’t want to stress the man any more than he was. City boys rarely saw so much harshness and violence. During his stint as solitary wilderness guide, Altner had seen a lot worse than the wolf walker or the possessed sheriff. Sure, there were the natural dangers of the Dustlands, but they were natural. Nothing compared to the unnatural horrors unleashed by a wrathful Authority. He had been lucky to get out of those scrapes with his life. No, he didn’t want to continue the rest of his life running around tempting fate. He was getting old and really, who could fault him for wanting a stable and boring life? At least then he wouldn’t have to worry about getting killed all the time. If the treasure that Ficket talked about was real, then he would have enough to retire on. Perhaps he would get a farm or a ranch. Nice stable work. Maybe he’d send out for a mail order bride—he wasn’t too particular about what she looked like—and finally have a home with kids and maybe a dog or two. He wasn’t too keen on the ordinary kind of courtship, too time consuming and too stressful. There was already a lot of stress in the life he had led up until now. The wilderness guide glanced at the two trouvers who were busy arguing about their next course of action. Since there wasn’t another ledge going up on the opposite wall, should they go north from here or should they cross the river first? He hid a smile. He had heard the rumors about both of them—it was sort of hard to keep such things completely bottled up with their sort of talent. Dash, he had heard, was a sauve womanizer with the devil-may-care attitude and ruggedly attractive looks that drew women to him like moths to a flame. He could have wooed Prudence with a traditional charm. But of course, that would not have worked even if he had tried it. From her reputation and personality, Altner guessed that the female trouver was a lot like the rare female wilderness guides he had met during his career—thin-tempered, lots of gumption, and with extremely high standards. “I think crossing the river at this point is a good idea,” Altner finally said aloud. Dash flashed Prudence a triumphant grin. She only rolled her eyes. “It might get deeper and faster further north since the river is flowing from the north and not the other way around.” Ficket bobbed his head. “The day isn’t getting any longer.” The travelers urged their horses forward and managed to cross the stream with a minimal amount of fuss. The river was gentle and shallow. At the center, the river came just past the horses’ knees and the water flowed so slowly that that there was hardly any splashing. After they clambered onto the opposite bank, they then headed in the northern direction. “You don’t suppose that the edge of the world is just that,” Prudence mused out loud. “That’s it’s a literal edge?” Dash shrugged. “I never really thought about it too much. I guess my idea is that the land just eventually fades into mist and after that is just a void. I don’t think there is anything there—not even the hell that the Others like to spout about.” “My cousin’s map doesn’t go out so far,” said Ficket, “But I think that there’s another land beyond, a magical one with different creatures and monsters that kill any travelers who dare make it up to that point. Or any travelers who aren’t prepared at any rate.” “So what do you think, Altner?” Prudence turned to the wilderness guide who seemed to have retreated temporarily into his own thoughts. Altner’s eyes suddenly sharpened. “About the end of the world? I don’t know. I never thought that I would ever travel there, to be honest. My job was with the edge of the Dustlands. I have heard that some people say that the world is round.” “Round?” “A sphere,” he said, cupping his hands in demonstration. “A very large one. Because we’re attached to the surface, we only see what’s around us. But if you’re on some flat land that stretches out very far like out on an ocean—or perhaps you’ve noticed it when we were up above on the plains of the Dustlands—the horizon isn’t exactly a straight line. It curves.” “Huh. Well, I’ll be,” muttered Dash. Ficket snorted. “Okay, so the world is a giant sphere. Then why hasn’t anyone gone around the world?” “Perhaps people are afraid of journeying into the unknown,” the wilderness guide replied.