Lay of the Wanderer Part 5

I have walked so many paces since that day have seen so many sunrises, tasted of so many streams, said so many farewells, how am I to pick out the most notable days amongst them all, the path most significant? For if there is one thing I have truly discovered on my wanderings it is this: every step leads somewhere, every turning taken marks a break from that path not taken, every conversation along the way leads to another story, every scrap of truth discovered forms a new understanding, and that understanding leads us on to new paths, new encounters, new stories. Truly, though we mark the passing of time in eons, centuries, decades, years, months, weeks, days, hours minutes seconds… yet time, the very matter of whose understanding my life is dedicated, it is no more divided, no more differentiated than is water. Though we speak of oceans, rivers, tributaries , streams, springs, wells, buckets and glasses full of water, yet the rain that falls on the desert is mingles with the ocean, and the vapors of the Empyrean and the dregs of last night’s tea are all the same. Take this canteen, and poor it on the ground, and then find those drops again for me. Thus are the hours of our lives: though we number them, yet they are all, all part of the same stream, the same river, flowing into who knows what ocean?

There are few who have traveled further into the mysteries of the past, or who have looked deeper into the future than I and still I tell you this: I am but a cartographer; a map-maker who plots the course of the river. It is truly said: you cannot step into the same stream twice; the water has changed even as you step into it. But if you have walked the streambeds of time, as I have done, you will find this: as a man is wetted by entering the waters of the word, so he is changed by bathing in the streams of time. And what is more, the time changes around him, as surely it must, each ripple having his echo, each wavelet breaking on some distant shore of possibility, each cataract of time thundering into the chasms of reality, they bear his stamp, even as they make their mark upon him; each drip, drip, drip of time wearing away at his soul even as the drops of water will wear down the mountain…. over time.

No doubt I set off briskly that afternoon. After all, it was incumbent on me, a traveling Journeyman Acolyte, to be out of sight of the House of Acolytes by sundown. And of course when I say out of sight, I mean it must be impossible for me to see it or be seen from it at sunset. And given that it was situated in the middle of a vast plain, some several dozen versts across, with the nearest hills fifteen miles away, I had to step out lively. I suppose that was the deciding factor for me: I had to crest those hills before nightfall, so I headed for the nearest. In the end, I realized that where ever I had headed then I would have ended up here or some where near here. Or somewhere like here, or even (and this is very important) somewhere other than here, but here just the same. So I walked swiftly as I could, and I had strong young legs, and I covered the miles. I slept that night, as I did so often in the coming months.. or years, if you will.. beside the road. There was not what you would call traffic after all. Who would be going toward the Acolyte House of the Historium, for goodness sake?

I arrived at the first village worthy of the name at 5:15 am on October 13th 2089, Historical Time, and was amazed to find that I was welcomed with some enthusiasm. There was an issue under debate, it seemed, concerning the legality of a contract. The head man of the village, an interesting old gentleman, I must say, or so I thought at the time, was unable to adjudicate, as the essence (as they say) of the contract was time: a certain property was due to be returned to the control of one family to another, at a given date. Unfortunately (and now you will see the difficulty) the contract was over a hundred years old. No one in the village understood any of the dates recorded in the contract, because they were all written in the local time notation, and the people had since changed to Imperial temporal notations. (Or New Time Reckoning, as we know it.) In reality the problem was easy enough, but I was young, and I didn’t want to make any mistakes, of course, so I went through the whole process of cross-referencing and did all of the calculations three times just to make sure, and managed to get two meals out of it as well. (Maybe I wasn’t so naïve back then as I now think…) In any case it was a straight forward affair. I realize now I could have just given them some answer off the top of my head, and it wouldn’t have made any difference. But I told them with great accuracy that the contract had one year, five months, and thirteen days, three hours to run. The holder of the contract was somewhat disappointed, but I pointed out to him that it gave him adequate time to negotiate another contract and he quite cheered up at that.

However, that was the first task I had ever been asked to perform as an Historian, and you may be sure I felt as proud as any young peacock may. The Headman was very interested in my calculations and questioned me carefully. Of course, I was careful not to tell him anything that might have been of any use to him. It would hardly do if every village Headman in the Wilds knew what year it was.

Well stocked with provisions and with the blessings of the village Mothers in my ears (I had thrown in a few horoscopes for them, gratis) I set off, provided (or so I thought) with directions for the nearest town. Those countrymen seed to be as jealous of their geography as we Historians are of temporal directions. Fortunately, when the path petered out in a swamp, I knew enough to back track and find a hill, from which I could see the Headman’s youngest son heading hell-for-leather down what was most likely the road I wanted. I was a little piqued, I must confess, but the poor lad really didn’t deserve to spend twelve hours on a three hour ride, and then find me waiting for him on the outskirts of town. As he sat there on his thoroughly lathered horse, I slowly and deliberately drew a line across the road in the dirt.

“I will rest in this town for thirty six hours,” I told him. “This line will remain here for forty seven. Do not attempt to cross it. Tell your father this from me, Boy: never cross an Historian. It may be the last thing he ever does.”

All utter poppycock, of course, but it sounded imposing to my ears, and it did the trick. I traveled slowly after that, and was greeted with respect at each place I came to. There is nothing like having a little reputation proceed you.