*Note: This is an obviously unfinished work; more of an idea. I might continue it.

A  journey–whether to somewhere, from somewhere, or between two fixed points­­—makes a person. Each such trip transforms the undertaker in so many ways that the person who arrives at the end of a journey is often an entirely different person than the one who departed so long ago, unsure of what the future held. The best journeys, undoubtedly, are those that are unplanned, and perhaps, without a purpose. Thus, sometimes all it takes to find oneself is to become hopelessly lost. It’s simply a matter of packing up, setting out, and not looking back; putting one foot in front of the other and doing so unceasingly until meaning and matter begins to creep back into life.

Such journeys are often necessary and even demanded. To discover new frontiers, explorers had to cast off their lines, pull in their sails, and hope to come across land before their rations ran out. To build a railroad across the country, men had to leave their homes and families and trek across the harsh backbone of America to scout out the best routes.

In these acts is a measure of trust; trust that one will find himself back home at some point. Whether or not that home is the one he just left is negotiable, for home is more a matter of comfort and companionship that a concrete structure.

Regardless of where, why, or how such a journey begins, it always stems from a bit of restless longing for something more.

* * *

A starkly red sun crept over the brow of the rolling foothills, its dull light pervading the thickly humid air of the morning. Stalks of wheat and weeds waved stiffly in an unsettling breeze, like dull tan arms reaching up to the lightening sky. Near a trickling stream, a large-leafed oak sat patiently, its gnarled branches reaching out across the land.

It had stood here for decades, watching as the land gradually grew and changed. It had seen the destruction of storms, the blessing of new life, the tragedy of death, and the circuitous rhythm of life. Things happened, and each action had a consequence, which would, in turn, spark new action. And so the circle rolled on, across life spans, transcending the limits of human life and reaching on across the broad void of time.

The tree was wise, all-knowing. It had not been planted deliberately; rather, it just came into being by luck. Perhaps its seed was dropped by chance along this streambed, and the proximity to water allowed it to thrive in this environment that was all too often a wasteland. Against the odds, it had survived and grown, and now its broad, deeply-hued leaves waved strongly in the early breeze, as if beckoning other forms of life to come and rest in its generous shade.

Against the tinted light of the sun, a form appeared, working steadily down the rocky sides of the foothills, shuffling almost. Gradually, it grew closer to the oak and its welcoming spot by the stream, and by the time the sun had fully revealed itself and hung dully above the hills, it could be determined that the form was indeed two beings, although in their present state they appeared as one.

A lean bay horse, his face painted with a striking blaze, worked his way through a tangle of choking weeds and scrub and paused beneath the shade of the oak, his sides already lathered in the early morning heat. Aboard the bay was an equally lean boy, his legs wrapped tightly around the horse’s barrel, his eyes nervously scanning the horizon. He clutched the reins with the natural hands of a horseman, and his seat was light and supple. He sat the horse as if the animal was a mere extension of himself, as if he had sprouted an extra set of legs and a long, wavy tail.

The two moved as one, and only when the boy dismounted did the horse operate on a different wavelength, dropping his head to graze on the scrubby grass and not noticing the boy’s actions.

With quick, secretive movements, the boy pulled a scarred leather journal from his rucksack and ripped a tattered page from its depths. He hesitated for a moment before folding the page into a compact triangle and thrusting it deep into the recesses of the tree via a small opening near the roots. Satisfied that the page was well hidden, he took a quick drink from the sluggish stream and sprung back up onto the horse.

Together, they moved off into the new day, trusting their secret to the solitary oak.

* * *

“Didn’t I ask you to go to the store three hours ago?”

A weathered man stood in the shadow of the doorway, only his broad belly sticking out onto the covered porch. He shaded his eyes with his hand as he stared at the boy, who gazed steadily at the ground, his face growing red.

“Yessir.”

“Well what are you still doing here? Did you forget what to get?”

“No, sir.”

“Then I suggest you mount up and get going. Be back before dark, or you’ll have quite a workload tomorrow.”

The boy turned and shuffled away, his steps falling heavily on the dry ground of the yard. His vivid green eyes burned with anger, anger he both could not suppress and could not act on. At times, he felt as if his insides would implode. He hated the man, and he hated his existence. There was nothing worth doing here, yet he couldn’t leave.

With sharp, angry movements, he slapped the rub rag across his horse, startling the animal and causing it to snort and stomp with fear. The boy slammed the saddle on the horse’s back and cinched it up in one quick pull, causing the horse to kick out and pin its ears.

It wasn’t that the boy was inherently mean-spirited or hard-headed; rather, he was worn thin, dangerously thin. He was close to his breaking point, and the man’s harsh words and criticism only grated harder on the thin rope that held the boy to sanity. He was quickly nearing the point at which he would not be able to handle the man’s constant nagging and beating. He hadn’t asked for this job, and up to this point he had done everything without a word of complaint.

It seemed that everything he did was not good enough. He hadn’t groomed the man’s horse properly; he hadn’t stacked the wood neatly; he hadn’t swept the barn aisle correctly. The boy leapt on the horse and galloped him wild-eyed out of the yard, secretly disappointed that the old man had been inside and thus not seen this careless behavior.

The staccato sound of the horse’s hooves slapping across the hard ground lulled the boy’s angry thoughts, and he soon slowed the horse and allowed it to trot along the lonely road into town and catch its breath. Within the hour, the boy had reached the general store, and as he tied his horse outside, he caught sight of the lumbering figure of Moses, an old indigenous man who had sat outside the town church for as long as the boy could remember. He was like a legend or sorts, and although it was a well-known fact that Moses was a raging alcoholic, he was still the one man always sought out when advice was needed.

The boy paused, staring at Moses, then the general store, and then the sun, which was sinking slowly towards the horizon. The horse stomped, causing the boy to jump; he kicked a rock near his feet and watched it bounce away before turning and entering the store.

“What’ll it be today?” The storekeeper said dully, his eyes the only indication that he really meant the question.

The boy dug in his pockets for the list, and suddenly realized he had left it back in the barn. He was temporarily seized with fear, and began racking his brain to remember all its contents.

He rattled off what he could recall to the storekeeper, who gathered it all up and neatly wrote down the total in the credit book. The boy clutched the bag of goods tightly, desperately hoping that he had everything and would not have to endure the wrath of the old man.

“Have a nice day,” the storekeeper drawled.

* * *

The steady beat of the horse’s hooves created a sort of rhythm as the pair drifted on. One, two, three, four. And on and on into the center of the day, with the sun climbing higher until it reached the apex of the great globe of the sky and began sinking back down again.

All that the pair left behind was a solitary trail of hoofprints and a temporal cloud of dust that followed them, like a vaporization of the life that had occupied the same space just seconds before.

* * *

After stuffing everything in his saddlebags, the boy mounted up and rode down the center of the street, being careful not to catch Moses’ eye. He always enjoyed talking to the man, but now was not the time. The light of day was gradually seeping away, and he knew what would happen if he made it home after dark.

“Daniel.”

The boy sucked in a deep breath, and turned his head to Moses, nodding.

“Come talk for a bit.”

“I really can’t,” the boy said, although he reined in his horse and gazed at Moses longingly.

“Is there anything more important than talk? We all have places to go and duties to fulfill, but some things are destined to happen. What if your destiny is to talk right now? You wouldn’t want to throw that away.”

The boy stared at Moses, his eyes boring into the man’s. Moses was full of wisdom and rubbish, and many thought he was completely crazy. There was no doubt that he was a bit off, but the things he said always seemed to make sense, and the boy loved talking to him.

“You’ll get home in time. The sun moves slowly.”

The boy nodded and dismounted, groundtying his horse and sitting next to Moses in the shade of the church. He could gallop home; the horse was quick and strong.

“Something’s bothering you. Is Old Tom getting on your case again?”

The boy nodded, his eyes falling to the ground and studying the outline of a footprint in the soft dust.

“You’re not happy, are you?”

“No.”

“Then do something about it.”

“I can’t. I don’t have anywhere else to go.”

“That’s a silly thing to say,” Moses paused for a second before continuing, “You have the whole world at your feet, and you think that it ends at the edge of Old Tom’s yard, when really, that’s where it begins.”

“But—“

“Take off your blinders, Daniel.”

The boy was quiet for a moment, thinking.

“I can’t just leave. I’m supposed to live with Tom for at least two more years. I have nowhere to go—no family.”

“But that’s where you’re wrong. Your family is everywhere; you just have to find them.”

The boy traced the footprint with his finger, allowing it to slowly follow the curves of the boot’s toe, then the angular mark of the heel.

“He’d be angry.”

“Of course he would. He’s a narrow-minded old man who doesn’t understand the ways of the world. That’s no place for you.”

The boy nodded, and Moses continued, “You have to act. Don’t think about it; just do what you know you should.”

“What’s that?”

“How would I know? Only you know the contents of your heart, and only you can understand them. I can’t read them; that’s your task.”

“OK,” the boy said. “I should go,” he added, now thoroughly unsettled. The sun was half-hidden behind the mountains, and the dark was seeping across the land.

“Go. Do what you must. But don’t hang around where you’re not needed. The world needs you; go find out what it wants.”