On the Road
Sean T. M. Stiennon
Jiri
sat beneath a spreading cherry tree, watching the fiery sun slowly dip below
the mountains. The land was
covered in pale red–forests, wide grassy plains, and the small villages
of farmers that he could see in the valley stretched out below him. Lights were coming on in the shadowed
houses, cheerful yellow lights to drive away the coming darkness. A gentle wind blew over the plain, and
the air was warm. The tree above
him was in full bloom, covered with pink blossoms that were falling one by one
to the ground. Beside him was his
journey pack and in front of him was the road, a straight causeway paved with
regular blocks of square stone.
The
road was still new–the Emperor had built it only a few years ago, to
connect the trading city of Herito with the gold mines in the western
mountains. The gold mines had
proven unprofitable and the road was now little traveled, used only by the
local woodcutters and a few nameless vagabonds. It stretched to the eastern horizon and vanished from sight
to the west when it met the mountains and began to climb upwards.
The
valley sunset was every bit as lovely as any Jiri had encountered in his
travels. The sight of the red-gold
beams filtering through the cherry blossoms, lighting each one on fire, warmed
his heart more than anything he had seen in a long time. The trees were always beautiful in the
spring, and he had barely noticed it until then. The odors that filled his nostrils, the wind upon his face,
and the soft grass beneath him were relaxing.
He
glanced up, hearing the sound of footsteps on the road. There was a man approaching from the
west, framed against the purple mountains and the sun hanging above them. As he moved closer, Jiri made out
definite features. He was a tall
man, with dark blond hair and a short beard of a lighter color. His eyes were deep brown, his face
rough and sharply defined. He was
dressed in the finest clothes a farmer could expect to own: blue wool pants, a
soft shirt with the traditional sleeve and collar designs, and a rigid white
vest.
Jiri
stood, brushing away a single blossom that had landed on his shoulder. The man came up to him and said, "I
had heard you were in the region before I received your message. I've been expecting you Jiri. But how did you know where to find me?"
Jiri
let a smile cross his dark features.
"You always talked about wanting a simple, peaceful life, and this
place certainly seems to provide that."
"Certainly. But that alone can't have pointed you here?"
"No. I asked after you in Herito, and found
a man who had done business with you.
You cut wood?"
"That's
right. I don't mind telling you
this, Jiri, but this valley is the best place on the earth for a man to
be. You've been out here for some
time–you enjoyed the sunset?"
"Yes,
and I know of little like it."
"It's
like that every evening–not the same, but something just as good. You should see the stars that shine in
the winter, and the sunlight sparkling off of the snow. This cherry tree is lovely, and we have
a hundred like it in our village.
In the fall, there are colors here that I could gaze at all day without
tiring, and in the summer it's nearly always sunny, and every setting looks
like this."
"You
haven't lost your poetic touch, Yano.
How long have you lived here?"
"Five
years. But that's been enough time
to find the sweetest woman in the world for a wife and have my first son. He'll be a big man when he's grown, big
enough to cut twice the wood I can in a day. And we plan to have more."
"If
you live long enough."
"Of
course. And how have things gone
for you, Jiri, since we parted?"
"I
have wandered. I've been to the
northern wastes and back, I've been to the court of the Emperor and seen the
Midsummer Festival in the streets of Shohama, I've even been across the sea."
"Is
it a good life? Wanderers
sometimes come to our village, and I have often wondered if they roam because
that is what they love, or if they have no choice."
"I
would not dare to speak for any other man, Yano, but I would not have lived
otherwise. I have seen many
things–beautiful, glorious things.
This sunset, for one."
"And
yet you still sought me out."
"I
did. I have been seeking you for
years now."
"And
your purpose is known to me, Jiri?"
"It
is."
"Then
I see no reason why we should delay any longer."
His
face hard, Yano stepped back a few paces.
Then he shrugged off his bag, removed two heavy sticks from it, and
threw the sack aside. A sickle
blade was concealed in each one.
He unfolded them and latched them in position with a flick on his thumb.
Jiri
took his sword off the front of his pack, threw off the sheath, and held the
naked, red steel out before him.
It was scarred from the many battles he had fought in his travels, but
its edge was undulled.
"For
what you did to my sister, Yano, you will pay with blood."
"You
haven't forgiven me?"
"No."
"Even
though you killed my horse in retaliation, and burnt my house to ashes?"
"I
need blood. My sister died after
you left–she had no reason to live after your crime. I wandered forlorn, always looking for
you."
"Then
let us finish matters between us."
They
stepped onto the road, standing ten paces apart. Both their faces were calm–resigned to their fate,
whatever it might be. Jiri held his
sword up by his ear, point stabbing up at the blazing heavens, and Yano spread
his sickles wide like the claws of a praying mantis about to strike.
Minutes
passed, and neither of them moved.
Jiri
took a step forward, swinging his sword back to an attack position.
Yano
moved his sickles into a defensive cross.
They
faced each other.
A
long, rattling sigh hissed between Jiri's teeth. He turned aside, picked up his scabbard, and drove his sword
back into it with a click. "Return
to your village and your wife, Yano," he said, putting the sword back into
its place on his pack.
Yano
folded his sickles again and put them back into the bag, saying, "You don't
want blood?"
Jiri
sighed again. "What is the
use? We have each found our lives,
and slaying you will not heal my sister or exhume her grave. Go back. Forget about me."
Jiri
turned his back to his one-time friend and began to walk away down the road,
silent.
"I
never forgave myself either," said Yano, softly.
"Just
as I never forgot how much you loved your horse. Your wife knows?"
"She
does, and loves me despite it."
"Then
I am content. Farewell."
"Wind
at your back."
They
parted then. As the sun vanished
below the mountains, and the first stars twinkled into existence in the violet
sky, Jiri went down the road to the east, and Yano went to the west, towards
his village.
Sean T. M. Stiennon is a student in Madison,
Wisconsin. Previously, his writing
has been published in Deep Magic, Deeper Magic: The Second Collection, Amazing Journeys
Magazine, and Humor Fiction Online.
He is currently a staff book reviewer at Deep Magic, where he also helps
read submissions, and his short story collection Six with Flinteye is forthcoming from
Silver Lake Publishing. For more
information, visit his author page at www.sfreader.com/authors/seanstiennon .