To The Far Shore What keeps you going

The day broke, bright and soft. The air was humid from the river, but still just a hair cool. It was lovely. Mazelton felt tired. His ribs ached, his feet ached, he, generally, ached. But it was undeniably a lovely morning. He sat down with a thump, waiting for breakfast to be ready. He was tired. Not just physically, but emotionally. He had held it together better than most, but… this was it. The exhaustion point.

Mazelton looked blankly into the ashes of last night’s fire. So people spend their entire lives, studying, ditating, living an intentional life, to reach the profound apathy which he had now achieved, Mazelton thought. They just needed to walk for four months. Big ti saver. Ok, he rode in the wagon for a lot of that ti. Most of it. Eh. Still tired.

Breakfast was ordinary. He barely brought his attention around when Polyclitus started banging the drum for everyone’s attention.

“Alright, It’s the good news I know so of you have been waiting for. At exactly lunchti, we reach Sicamous Canton. So pack up folks! So of you are four hours from ho.” This raised a muted cheer, and a startled look from Mazelton.

Sicamous Canton? So close to Matte’s Landing Canton? But then, that was the point, wasn’t it. Stick little cantons, fortified and self sustaining, all over the new territory. Lock down trade routes, lock down farm land, basically lean into the whole possession being nine tenths of the law thing. And since nobody involved really gave a damn about “the law” in the face of actual benefits, make it clear that it would be much cheaper and better to work with them than to try and force them out.

Mazelton thought about the Nacon dry minds, their tribal proxies… and then there was the Collective. And the Sea Folk were acting up too. Such fun. He frowned slightly. He didn’t know that much about the Sea Folk. Nobody did, they were rabid isolationists. Mmm. Tricky. Lettie and Polyclitus were about the only people he could think of asking for more information. Maybe soone at Sicamous Canton would know more.

The morning rolled on, sprightly little pine trees lining the river as it rolled down into a sizable lake. Great vacation spot, Mazelton thought for the upmteenth ti. The river was pretty sizable at this point, twisting and turning like a python across the newly green countryside. He could understand why people thought dragons lived in rivers.

Sicamous Canton was another little garden growing fiercely at the intersection of the river and the lake. The lake was broad, not enormous but quite excellent for fishing. The river was vigorous, and with careful planning, irrigated the most incredible water gardens. The locals had converted marshy edges of the lake into productive land, planting willows to hold the earth in place, then shrubs that liked wet roots, then vegetables and salads. They had fish swimming between the little island gardens, with woven wooden screens to trap them in.

Mazelton was impressed. He was no stranger to aquaculture, of course. A kelp farr on the Blackwater Sea asured their land by the cubic hectare. This was the first ti he had seen soone go both down and up on an aquaculture site. The little islands were so productive, they looked like they had run wild. It was only when they passed close by one that he realized that the “ss” was all food crops. It was gorgeous.

The canton was pretty similar to Matte’s Landing, though it wasn’t quite so defensible. The Dusties were pretty clearly relying on the lake to secure their north and north west border, then built a series of dense bunkers along the edge of the Canton. Still covered in plants, naturally, but bunkers nonetheless.

Stolen story; please report.

The Canton had long since seen them coming, and turned out to greet the caravan. Those who were staying peeled out of line, thinning their numbers once again. There were songs of joy, of welcoming, of grief for all those who didn’t make it. Mazelton saw Polyclitus’ eyes go tight, listening to the songs of mourning. He didn’t join in, but Mazelton could see they touched him.

Mazelton didn’t spend much ti in town. They had nothing he wanted or needed. Except gossip. A large scented candle made of beeswax and so local blossom was duly traded for a light core, and a bit of a chat. It was mostly a whole lot of nothing, but-

“Yeah, I heard about them Sea Folks moving up the rivers aways. Well, not them, as it were.”

“Right, right.”

“Don’t rightly know what to call them. at drones? Puppets?”

“Creepy, I call 'em.” Mazelton nodded along.

“Creepy is about the nicest thing you can call them! But they usually are on the sa old drag. Want fruits and wood, mostly. So vegetables. Grapes, apples, all very popular.”

“Doesn't seem like sothing worth killing over.”

“Mostly they don’t. I an, who’s going to argue with them? But sothing’s got them riled up. Every now and then they start asking really odd questions. Do we hear strange singing and see visions? Have we found artifacts that we don’t know what they are? Do we unaccountably taste fudge?”

“The hell’s fudge?”

“Search , but when so wise ass down by Clica’s Wharf said “Oh yeah, lots of fudge. Can’t hardly taste nothin’ else,” they snatched him right up and hauled him away. No explanation, and nobody ever saw him again. If you ask them about it they do that blank look thing then move on like you never spoke.”

This was t with silence.

“I an, I don’t taste fudge, do you?”

“Not that I know of. No weird tastes generally, must say. Pretty boring diet, this far north.”

“Gardens are coming in a treat.”

“The only saving grace. Plant your gardens well, young man. Tid diversity is the key. Plant your gardens well.”

They rolled on after lunch and made good ti down the well worn trail. Could you call it a small road? Maybe. Mazelton had never been too clear on the differences there. His rule of thumb was that if it wasn’t paved sohow, it wasn’t really a road. He knew that he was alone in this opinion, but he was a city boy at heart.

The wagons rumbled on south and west, passing by the long lake. Mazelton was a little irritated that the young pines were screening his view, as he imagined it would be a charming picture to draw. Well, no matter. There were always ducks to carve.

Polyclitus unintentionally did Mazelton a solid that night. The campsite was at the foot of a lone mountain, shorter than the giants they had passed earlier but still tall enough to make you tilt your head waaay back to see the top of it. Mostly covered in Larch, Mazelton was pleased to see. He sohow felt that it had one-upped the endless pine. The mountain was on their left, to the south. North was a short bluff looking over the lake. Just push on through so scrub pine and there it was, deep blue flashing with the late sumr sunset.

He could see fish swimming in vast shoals. There were so many, they left serpentine ripples ten feet long in the water. All manner of birds swirled over them, catching the slow or the unlucky. Ducks, yes, even ducks, had their little piece of the lake, cruising near the shore line and ducking their head for tasty tidbits. It looked idyllic. Mazelton drew happily. Without noticing, after a day’s travel, he felt a little less tired.