Hold fast to the legends of old; take courage for the future.
Mirroring their journey on the other side of Malaban, Gen and Jovin stuck close to the ridge and followed it south.
As the name of the village suggests, West Brook was on the west side of the brook that flowed from the mountain range. This meant that our questers, heading down from Baumanneur, would have to cross the stream to get to the village.
Just a few miles away from Baumanneur and the terrain began to change quite drastically. The lush fields and tall, wild grass of the settlement vanished suddenly. In its place was a sun-charred, short crop of yellowed turf. Greens melting away like snow in summer. The journey into the gaunt landscape went on for a few days.
Springwater coming down from Malaban, expectedly the freshest and purest, flowed through these lands. Yet the place looked to be more barren than when groundwater was the only source for the farmers and shepherds up north.
Still, the faraway babbling of the brook was distinct as it streamed down from the heights of the mighty mountain range and the boys soon came upon the village’s namesake.
Dark brown earth covered thinly by the same yellowed grass stretched into the uneven hills in the distance. The area was more steeply sloped than Baumanneur. A few houses with scorched roofs dotted the fringes of the village. It looked dreadfully dreary, almost a wasteland of sorts.
Before they hopped across the smooth, protruding rocks of the brook to the other side, Gen grabbed his leather flask and scooped up some of the running water, expecting a fresh, cool drink to quench his thirst.
But the water that hit his throat was distasteful, bringing little satisfaction. When he frowned, Jovin stepped forward and dipped his hand into the water.
“Tepid,” he said, and retracted his hand. The sensation of the water evaporating from his skin afforded much more refreshment than the water itself did.
The boys then crossed the brook and reached some of the first houses. The small cluster was an outpost of sorts, to greet travellers passing through. But the houses - ramshackled - were empty, and the area looked completely deserted.
“There’s no one here,” Jovin said, “Could the Galvigon have gotten to them too?”
“I don’t think so. The Galvigon haven’t been active for the past 16 years...And news would have travelled to the surrounding lands - Baumanneur especially, if something did happen,” Gen replied.
Then from the distance came a sudden clamour, and chatter. A roar of applause and hollering, whistling. A mighty strange cacophony.
“C’mon. Atlel said we could get some help crossing the Lake,” Gen said, leading the way forward past the crumbling structures creaking eerily with each gust of mountain wind.
When they got to the commotion, they were surprised to see a boisterous crowd gathered in front of a square of taverns. Raised above their heads were mugs of ale, froth spilling all over their shoulders and those around them as they swayed unsteadily on their feet. Fists pumped and chanting, without a care for personal space or decency. A few were slumped over the steps of the taverns, passed out with their fingers still closed around the handles of their empty mugs.
It was some kind of drinking game. And among the throngs of men were women as well - young and old alike. It seemed that everyone was gathered here - the epicentre of life in West Brook.
“Excuse me-” Gen attempted to get the attention of the people on the outside of the crowd by going up to them. But the crowd was rowdy and uncaring and almost pushed him to the ground.
Jovin pulled him aside, “There’s no use trying to get through to them. They’re drunk.”
“We could try and see if there’s anyone over those hills, in the fields,” Gen suggested, but he didn’t sound too optimistic.
They walked on, and as they looked back at the taverns and observed the signboards and paraphernalia, they realised those buildings were once cooking and handicraft facilities. Barrels of ale had subsequently displaced the workstations. The breweries seemed to be the few trades still in business.
Further into the hilled country were slopes levelled for the purpose of cultivation. But the arid climate seemed to be working against human efforts. Dry, withered grass covered every inch of the land and the tilled soil remained pretty much barren.
There was no one in the area as far as the eye could see but the boys walked on and on till they found one man working the land. He appeared foolish, his actions questionable, for all his countrymen were at the taverns. That too, he was wrestling unfruitful conditions. Nothing about this lone ranger made any sense, as it appears. But he seemed to be the only one who could offer them any help at all.
“Hello there!” Gen called out from afar, waving his hand.
The man stopped where he was, looking around confusedly for the source of the voice. The large wooden rake he was pulling on his back came to a halt.
At last he looked behind him and spotted Gen and Jovin. The boys drew closer to him as he removed the straps from around his shoulders and wiped the sweat from his brow with his sleeve. Then he bent down for a rest, placing his hands on his knees.
“Hi, I’m Gen and this is Jovin. We’re travellers from the West Lands. We were up at Baumanneur previously and were told we could find some help crossing the Lake here,” Gen explained.
“You want to get across Tempest? I don’t think that’s a good idea. She’s awfully turbulent and could act up anytime. What’s more, the Galvigon are on the other side, why would you want to go there?”
The boys (mainly Gen) explained the urgency of their quest.
“I can get you a boat, but I cannot promise you’ll get across safely.”
“That’s more than enough, thank you.”
After chatting for a bit and finding out the man’s name was Oreill, the three men walked over to the edge of the field and sat down on a cluster of tree stumps under the clean light of the noonday sun. Gen then asked Oreill the one question at the top of their minds.
“You’re the only one working the fields. Everyone else is at the taverns,” he began, stating the obvious as if Oreill didn’t already know, “And this dry weather...does anything grow?”
“I sow the seeds now so when the rain comes they will be ready to bloom. You don’t want to be sowing only after the rain comes,” Oreill replied, taking a sip out of his bottle.
“It is true that it hasn't rained for months, and we don’t know if it ever will again. But to give up after not seeing seeds sprouting within days? We can do better.
If one only cared about present enjoyment, we won’t have a future. It’s easy to live that life, to fall into the arms of that sweet siren song. It’s difficult to work hard for what is to come, what is yet unseen,” he said, staring out into the desolate fields.
“But it is worth it,” Jovin said.
“You understand,” Oreill smiled, glad to have found solidarity after years of being solitary. It was in Oreill’s worldview that faith, patience, and discipline came together in good sense - a well-knit fabric of understanding of what mattered in life and the way of taking hold.
“Do you have family?”
“You would have passed my brother on the way here. He’s either calling the shots, quite literally, or unconscious next to some barrel,” Oreill sighed bitterly, waving a hand in the direction of the village square.
As he stood back up to return to work, Gen and Jovin decided to go alongside him. If there’s one thing they’ve learnt from their journey and friends so far, it’s that a little help goes a long way.
From both pockets, Oreill handed them seeds, which they were to scatter into the tilled earth as they walked the length of the field.
“Have you tried water from the brook?” Gen asked as they trod over dry soil.
“The rocky ground makes it impossible to carve out irrigation channels. That aside, it’s the water that’s the problem. It’s no use.”
“Because it’s lukewarm,” Jovin guessed. Oreill looked over for a moment before hanging his head in silence.
“I don’t know what happened. Long ago, life flourished from the brook’s refreshing waters, that’s how our community came to be...but that history is buried so deep in the past it seems like a mere fairytale now. The brook’s like dead water, nothing grows from it anymore.”
Still they scattered the seeds, and covered them with a thin layer of soil to prevent the birds from carrying them away before their time.
“Oreill! Your brother…,” came a villager’s cry from the edge of the field. His cheeks were flushed and he staggered as he walked but he was surprisingly sober.
Oreill’s expression hardened, “I’m sorry, friends,” he said and set off grimly in that direction. Gen and Jovin followed. They were, afterall, strangers in a foreign land who were better off staying close to the only person they’d been acquainted with.
The crowd of intoxicated people parted like the sea split in two as Oreill arrived. His brother was known for notorious behaviour - starting fights and spouting nonsense. But this time, the tension in the air sounded a warning like never before. The fearful looks and confounding sobriety of the villagers were another telltale sign.
There at the foot of the tavern sat a man, semi-conscious, with a crazed look in his eyes.
Oreill crouched down before his brother, and tapped him on the cheek to get his attention. When his eyes fell on the stalk curled up in his brother’s palm - his crooked fingers wrapped around it like a lifeline, rage swelled within him and he grabbed the man by the lapels.
“Odeon, what is this? What have you done?” he shouted, gnashing his teeth, “Ma told us to stay away from this! Do you want to end up like Pa?”
Odeon grinned, baring his malt-stained teeth, his pupils dilated and the white of his eyes bloodshot as he stared wildly yet vacantly at his younger brother.
Oreill raised his fist in anger and Gen was afraid he would actually hit Odeon in a fit of rage. But he held back in the nick of time, his knuckles just inches from his brother’s face.
“I’m not like you,” he said under his breath, “Ma would be so disappointed if she were here to see this.”
With that he let go of Odeon’s shirt, stood up, and walked away.
“Do not touch that,” he warned the villagers he passed in a stern voice, emphasising each syllable. The boys hurried behind him.
When they were back in the fields, away from the tenseness of the situation, Oreill plopped down on the ground, defeated, missing the tree stump completely. Or maybe he meant to do that...Shoulders slumped from their afore rigid and dignified posture as he scrubbed his hand through his golden hair in frustration and despair.
“He was the one who found Pa dead by the brook, head in the water, body limp on the grass...he knows just how much harm that weed can do! He knows! Why didn’t he resist? Why did he give in? Why couldn’t he stay away?” he cried, voice breaking, and punched the ground beside him.
There were always so many ‘whys’ awaiting answers. Why didn’t the people of Derri believe? Why were the people of Kelv shackled to sorrow? Why were the people of Loggerstone hard and unfeeling? Why did the Gunthians choose decades of war over peace? Why were the meadow folk limited in their giving? Why were the shepherds of Baumanneur scathing in their ways? Why were the people of the brook unrestrained in their impulses? Maybe it’s not that they didn’t know the answer. They did. Fallenness. What they were looking for was a solution. And so far, they’d found none that could make them right again.
“Sometimes I feel like I’m the only one holding everything together…”
That was a familiar feeling for Gen and Jovin, and easily for all the friends they’d met so far. There was something about the preservation of one or a few in the dry places.
Gen sat down next to Oreill. A sigh escaped from his lips as he took in the surrounding sun-washed land. The sun - one and the same no matter where in the MidLands it was beheld, in a realm of its own far above the madding crowd. If only they could embrace more than its filtering rays.
“My friend Ket…,” Gen began, telling Oreill about each of their friends; how they stood united in hope though alone where they were. There were moments of discouragement to say the least, but still they held onto something larger, something yet unseen.
“I believe Tirips is the answer,” he concluded, “and if you believe, don’t lose hope.”
“Tirips. I’ve heard rumours that whoever drinks from its waters gains immortality. But what good is immortality if we continue living a life of destruction? Wouldn’t that be worse? Destroying ourselves and suffering the consequences yet unable to die…,” Oreill mused, genuinely puzzled. Gen remained silent, pondering too.
“Maybe it’s not an extension of our current life. But new life,” Jovin said, offering a different perspective.
Right then, a large flock of birds suddenly emerged from the mountain range. Like a dark cloud, they moved hastily and cast an ominous shadow upon the land. The force of their wings drew a violent breeze, their screeching ear-piercing, as they passed overhead and eastward.
The boys covered their ears and looked worriedly in the direction of the range. The birds were portents of forthcoming disaster - the darkness was near. The West Lands from which they’d fled must have been taken, all or close to all of it.
“Birds don’t usually migrate across the range. Especially not during winter,” Oreill gasped, “We have to get to the lake.”
“What about your brother?” Gen asked.
“His only hope is in the success of your quest. I’d take my chances.”
Without any time to lose, they started off almost immediately and followed the brook, meandering downstream into the East. The journey, as they learnt from Oreill, would span a day and a half, across more hilly, arid land.
They made their camp in the evening and sat around a crackling fire at night. Warm tea, the dried flowers courtesy of Fredin, calmed their tense nerves in this frightful time. The sky split open that night. Twinkling lights emerged, unobscured by any fog or cloud, studding the pitch blackness. The orient moon glowed brilliantly, emanating an ethereal light which cast the land into a dreamscape.
“Not to sound pessimistic, but this may be the last time we see the lights. Yet I’ve never seen it like this before. What a sight to behold,” Oreill said, leaning back on his palms.
“It’s times like this where we count every moment and every day. And be grateful for every sunrise and sunset we have the privilege of witnessing. I wonder if we’d appreciate the gifts of the land and sky if this didn’t happen,” Gen thought aloud. He looked over at Jovin, who seemed completely absorbed in the stellar show. Hugging his knees to his chest and smiling brightly as his eyes reflected the bejewelled cosmos - that was the same little boy who grew up under the nurturing of the heavens. Gen knew without a doubt that his friend was an appreciator.
“If we could see the beauty of what’s already ours to behold, then maybe we wouldn’t be looking everywhere else…” Oreill sighed. Then the night grew on them and they fell asleep, only to awake in the early hours when the moon was still stamped like a washed-out seal in the sky to continue Eastward.
They moved without so much as stopping for a rest until they could see the lake in plain sight.
At the mouth of the brook where it emptied into the lake was a massive shipwreck. Its impressive presence was undeniable even from a distance; it must have been able to carry close to a hundred people. It was old, very old, and yet there was something august about it. As they got closer, the textures and tones of the structure became clear - the wood was sun-bleached in some parts, while other parts were darkened by the lapping waters of the lake. And as they walked around it and caught the sunlight glistening at all the right angles, they glimpsed a spectacular rainbow embedded in its rays.
“Legend has it that there was a great big flood generations ago that wiped out everyone except our ancestors that had built this boat,” Oreill explained, hand hovering reverently over the warped, aged wood of the hull, “When the water subsided, they saw a rainbow, much like this. They believed it was a sign of divine mercy and a promise of a brighter, new beginning. Since then, when the sun shines just right around the waters’ edge, a rainbow would appear, dancing over the fallen wood like a reminder of our glorious redemption...It wasn’t heaven that failed us, we were the ones who failed to cherish that second chance and instead allowed ourselves to fester in such depravity...
The flood was also said to have left behind this lake, as a reminder of divine wrath.”
“But this lake is beautiful, it looks so…”
“Placid? No, don’t be fooled by what appears on the surface. Our people named her Tempest because she’s known for the fiercest storms. If there was another way across, I would not hesitate to recommend that, but as it is, this is the only way.”
Oreill then walked over to where a (much) smaller boat was tied to a wooden post in the shallows of the lake. He inspected the creaking structure for any cracks and holes and briefly tested its functionality by hoisting the sail.
“This hasn’t been used for a long time, but it’ll have to do,” he said, then helped them load up and taught them how to adjust the sail.
“I’m no boatman, but from what I’ve learnt from the tales of my ancestors, when the wind and waves get too violent, throw down the anchor. It doesn’t guarantee a smooth ride, but it’d at least keep you from being tossed about by the waves. You’ve got to wait out the storms, there’s nothing else you can do when you’re in the middle of it.”
After Gen and Jovin climbed in, Oreill began to untie the rope from the post.
“Thank you for getting us here. And for the boat. And for the advice,” Gen said, and it was heartfelt, “Hope your brother is okay.”
“I’ll do what I can to keep him out of more trouble,” Oreill replied with a smile, wrapping the rope around the small wooden beam at the back of the boat and tying a knot. Then a gentle push was all the boat needed to leave the shallows and ride out on the current.
“I sincerely hope you’ll reach Mount Hallow safely, friends. Thank you for going where no man is willing to go. And thank you for showing me that there are others like me who hope for a better world,” Oreill called out as he watched the boat drift further away from the shore.
Gen and Jovin waved back at him, then turned to face the direction of their destination. The lake was vast and they couldn’t quite see the opposite shore yet. But in the far distance was a lone mountain, its peak reaching into the clouds. Mount Hallow. The River Tirips.
All was calm, the waters tranquil. This only made Oreill’s warning grim - a violent storm could spring upon them when they were least expecting. And so they struggled against the lull of the current and sought to stay alert as the western shore disappeared behind them.
Face claim for Oreill: Dean O'Gorman
Author's note: I've discovered so many cool free videos on Canva that really encapsulate the vibes of the places in the Mid Lands🤩 I might add them to future chapters and update previous ones 👀