Missed Day 5?
Today’s prompt: “A traveler passes through the village and leaves behind a journal. What do you do?”
Today’s music: The Fragility of Life, by Almost There. 🎧 Listen on SoundCloud.
The Traveler’s Journal
I didn’t end up meeting Hollis’s passenger… or, maybe I did.
It felt like I’d been in Hearthlight for about a week, and over breakfast I realised I hadn’t charged my phone since I got here. The realisation came with a flood of Oh my God, have I missed an important call-slash-email, followed by the falling wave of I-do-not-give-a-shit. My housekeeper knew where I was. If it was really important, they’d be able to find me. And if they couldn’t… well, maybe I was fine with that.
I’d spent the morning in the open-air dining courtyard of the pub, drinking coffee and reading a book. There wasn’t any music or mechanical noise; there was a bellbird telling me how good the day was from a branch above me, and I couldn’t fault the argument. Sunny without being hot, airy without being too bright. My book was an old Alistair MacLean novel I’d ‘borrowed’ from Hollis. MacLean’s name was still visible on the spine, but the rest of the spine, the cover, and the first few pages were missing, which meant I didn’t know exactly how it started or what it was called, but I felt like I’d seen a movie of it at some point.
In some ways, not knowing how it started felt like my introduction to Hearthlight. And like my stay here, I wouldn’t know how the book ended until I got there.
I started my mid-morning stroll, leaving the pub and doing a circuit of the town. Today I stretched myself by heading out into the countryside a little. There was a fence with a stile, a sign beside it reading, TAKE THE PATH LESS TRAVELLED, so I hopped over and walked down a grassy lane and emerged into a meadow. There was a fountain in the middle of the field, a big old stone affair of a weeping angel. It was for sure a weird thing to have in the middle of a field, but there were sheep around it who seemed unconcerned about me being there. The fountain’s angel cried tears, the water flowing and eroding her face so I couldn’t tell what she’d been sad about. The water fell into a wide ring of a pool; the rim wasn’t very high, so the sheep could drink the water.
Or, angel’s tears, I guess?
I went to say hello to the sheep. One came to see if I had something more interesting to eat than clover, but it left disappointed. As I got close, I could see a small object on the ledge of the fountain. It was a leather-bound journal, weathered by time and too many hands to count. It was closed by a small ribbon, which looked new enough to have been a recent addition. Should I open it?
What had the sign said? TAKE THE PATH LESS TRAVELLED.
Okay. I opened it. It was a handwritten journal, or perhaps, many journals in one. Every few pages the writing style would change to another’s hand, sometimes block caps, sometimes full cursive, but most often somewhere in between. I sat on the edge of the fountain, flipping through the entries. Each passage was dated, the earliest from… That couldn’t be right. A hundred years ago?
I closed the journal and felt the leather cover under my palms. I opened it again and flipped through to the last few pages. The paper was heavy, cream-coloured, and could have been made in an older time when quality was more important than quantity. I found the last entry — dated, near as I could tell, yesterday. Perhaps this was Hollis’s passenger? There was a six-sentence close on the last page:
Hello, friend. I’ve finished the journey I began. I leave this journal to you in the hope you can, too. Read its stories. Learn from them. Then leave one of your own.
I took the journal with me and returned to the pub. I began to read from the first page. There were stories so rich in life and meaning. The tale of a woman who’d watched her man go off to war. The tale of a child who’d lost a parent. There was the teacher who couldn’t find a student, and the student who couldn’t find a teacher. The preacher who’d lost his faith, and the lawyer who’d found it. A doctor who cured the sick, and another who couldn’t cure himself. So many lives. So many truths whispered to paper, waiting for someone like me to listen.
And, at the end, the traveller who’d left me this journal. A seeker of life, I’d call them, a person bound to roam and find out what was over the next hill. They sounded like a far more interesting person than me.
No, that wasn’t it.
They sounded like they’d learned what they needed to from Hearthlight, and left this book as a reminder. That life was for living, and purpose could be found if you had the courage to look.
I begged a pen from the desk and wrote five sentences of my own. Then I closed it and left it on my table. Perhaps I’d be lucky enough to see it again. This is what I wrote:
Hello, friend. I’ve only just started my journey, and I’m not sure if I can make it to the end. I’ve seen so much, but have more I need to learn. I leave this book on life’s river for a future me to find. I hope I’m worthy of it then.
Roll result? A shared journal, a stranger’s wisdom, and five sentences for someone yet to be.
XP gained: 1 ripple in life’s river, 1 connection across time.
Ready for Day 7?
☕ Enjoying Hearthlight? If the journal’s warmed your heart or made your day a little brighter, you can support the journey (and the narrator’s caffeine habit) over on Ko-fi:
No pressure. Hollis’s cat’s already judging you either way.
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