Missed Day 5?
Todayâs prompt: âA traveler passes through the village and leaves behind a journal. What do you do?â
Todayâs music: The Fragility of Life, by Almost There. đ§ Listen on SoundCloud.
The Travelerâs Journal
I didnât end up meeting Hollisâs passenger⌠or, maybe I did.
It felt like Iâd been in Hearthlight for about a week, and over breakfast I realised I hadnât 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, theyâd be able to find me. And if they couldnât⌠well, maybe I was fine with that.
Iâd spent the morning in the open-air dining courtyard of the pub, drinking coffee and reading a book. There wasnât any music or mechanical noise; there was a bellbird telling me how good the day was from a branch above me, and I couldnât fault the argument. Sunny without being hot, airy without being too bright. My book was an old Alistair MacLean novel Iâd âborrowedâ from Hollis. MacLeanâs 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 didnât know exactly how it started or what it was called, but I felt like Iâd 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 wouldnât 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 fountainâs angel cried tears, the water flowing and eroding her face so I couldnât tell what sheâd been sad about. The water fell into a wide ring of a pool; the rim wasnât very high, so the sheep could drink the water.
Or, angelâs 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 anotherâs 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 couldnât 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 â dated, near as I could tell, yesterday. Perhaps this was Hollisâs passenger? There was a six-sentence close on the last page:
Hello, friend. Iâve 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 whoâd watched her man go off to war. The tale of a child whoâd lost a parent. There was the teacher who couldnât find a student, and the student who couldnât find a teacher. The preacher whoâd lost his faith, and the lawyer whoâd found it. A doctor who cured the sick, and another who couldnât cure himself. So many lives. So many truths whispered to paper, waiting for someone like me to listen.
And, at the end, the traveller whoâd left me this journal. A seeker of life, Iâd 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 wasnât it.
They sounded like theyâd 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 Iâd be lucky enough to see it again. This is what I wrote:
Hello, friend. Iâve only just started my journey, and Iâm not sure if I can make it to the end. Iâve seen so much, but have more I need to learn. I leave this book on lifeâs river for a future me to find. I hope Iâm worthy of it then.
Roll result? A shared journal, a strangerâs wisdom, and five sentences for someone yet to be.
XP gained: 1 ripple in lifeâs river, 1 connection across time.
Ready for Day 7?
â Enjoying Hearthlight? If the journalâs warmed your heart or made your day a little brighter, you can support the journey (and the narratorâs caffeine habit) over on Ko-fi:
No pressure. Hollisâs catâs already judging you either way.
