The Crossroads

I set up camp yet again. Another night's outdoor lodging preceded by what seems countless others. An unfortunate rabbit, guilty of only standing still long enough for my sling to add him to my meager and dwindling supply of travel rations, helps fill my all too empty stomach. After cleaning up my one and only cooking pot, and taking care to bury the remains of my meal, I gaze into the low fire, the bright stars twinkling in concert above. My mind slips down the twisting trail of memories. My Lady and I had a small cottage near the city, one that we could well afford on my wage as a Tracker for the local Earl. Aye, Tracking criminals and rogue knights was dangerous work, but it paid well, and I had thought that I need not worry about my sweet woman as our home was situated well in view of our neighbors, where the two main trade roads met outside of town...
at the crossroads.

It was while on a sweep of the eastern borders that a vindictive burglar baron stole my heart. I had come home to an empty house after three weeks on the range. Any but a Tracker would have just assumed that she had left, as there was no ready sign of a struggle. My experienced eye took in the minute scrape on the tile floor where a small table had been upset then replaced, the almost unseen scrape of a man's boot heel near the front door, the faded hoof prints in the partially sheltered front yard. They had even replaced the small white pine box on the table, which had been tipped over. Ah yes, that small pine box. We had neared our fifth year as man and woman, and it is tradition to exchange gifts on that wondrous day. I had heard gossip while hanging about the Earls kitchen staff that my lady was working for a wood carver part of the day, to pay for my gift. She would not even think of asking me for coin to pay for a gift for me, bless her. When I opened the box that fateful night, I had found to my sodden delight that she had commissioned a tobacco pipe for me. She had known I liked a smoke at the end of the day, and could not abide me using my old corncob. The tight grains of the pipe swirled almost majestically about the bowl, a piece fit for handing down through the generations. I had just picked up my gift for her at the jewelers, the small silver smith right in town where Main Road met the East-West Road...
at the crossroads.

For months I had wandered the countryside aimlessly, finding no tracks of the robber baron I had angered. The length of time and a torrential rainstorm had erased any chance of tracking them down and reclaiming my lady. I then spent month tracking the oblivion found only in the bottom of several large mugs of the strongest drink. It was while on the start one of these binges that I got my lucky break, one of the robbers baron's known minions had entered the Inn. I stopped drinking immediately and waited my chance to, ask, the gentleman the details of that fateful night. In the dark of the Inn's rear yard I learned the truth, it didn't take long to tease the information from him. Was she being held for a ransom? Her family was somewhat well off. Had she been sold to the slavers to the south? I left him alive, of course, even a Tracker can be hung for murder, though he will not be walking properly, or holding a sword for the rest of his misbegotten life. Now I knew where my lady was! The next morning, with a lightened heart, a pack full of supplies, a sharp sword, and the intricate necklace in its mahogany box I started my journey and left my empty home...
at the crossroads.


The bright morning sun awakens me, as it had for countless days on this longest of journeys. I break camp, not even bothering to break my nights fast and start my aching legs moving. I make better time as my body warms to the day, too many nights spent sleeping on the ground leaves one stiff on the morrow. I should reach my lady today, if I can but keep a good pace, eating a small lunch on my feet as I walk. As I top the last knoll, the place where my lady has been comes into view. At last! My journey nears its end, and I can deliver my gift. I drop my pack and run the last bit of distance, across the well-kept lawn. Full tilt I leap to the small porch and yank open the door, all pretenses at civility forgotten. I slow as I near the place where my lady sleeps and very carefully lay my gift down on the stone vault, quietly closing the iron gate as I leave, wiping a tear, and let my lady sleep in her crypt in the cemetery...
at the crossroads.