The Gathering

They continued up the wiry trail, barefoot, kicking twigs and bugs and hemlock needles behind them all the way. Starlings and sparrows chirped and swooped by as they passed through the forest, curious at their presence but not enough to get too close. Rupert took most of the turnips in his sack, which he carried -- with much difficulty -- by looping one strap around his forehead, and the other over his good shoulder. With each plodding step, the turnips bounced threateningly, daring to spill over the top and roll back down the hill. The boy carried the rest in a basket on his back. He stepped lightly, nearly skipping, while flicking an exceptionally large turnip into the sky.

Two small frogs, rhythmically croaking, paused as Rupert and the boy went by. They glanced up at them then turned away, resuming their chorus. They are someone else’s problem, thought the frogs.

“Uncle,” said the boy, catching the turnip and tossing it back into the air. “If I were to sail across the water for a thousand days, would I reach the end of the world? Would I see demons there? And serpents?”

The boy darted out in front of his uncle, twirling another turnip with his fingers. The two walked further down the trail, which winded in between a field of tall Hickory trees that swayed gently in the wind and past some impossibly large, rectangular mounds that were covered in moss and saplings.

Each mound emitted a faint hum from somewhere deep inside, long forgotten over the seasons, over the years. The hum, low and slow, seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere. Hardly anyone noticed it. If they did, the hum sounded like a whisper, fleeting at best. The pitch of this hum differed slightly from mound to mound and sometimes changed seemingly unrelated to time, weather, or circumstance. Sometimes the mounds were silent for days, even weeks. Other times, the mounds seemed to almost vibrate, murmuring in a quiet chorus, causing the hairs to stand up from any passersby. They were on a schedule of their own, unknowable.

The largest mound, taller and wider than any structure in their village or the next, had four large Bristlecone Pines growing out from the top and sides. These trees were old back when Rupert himself was a boy. They had always been there. They had always been old. The Pines seemed to amplify the hum at times, the pitch changing as it wrapped around the swirling branches.

Regardless of the pitch, no sparrow nested in those trees or any of the saplings around the other mounds; no rabbit dug their warren beneath the tangle of roots; no vole denned in their soil. Cicadas, wasps, and butterflies flew over and around the mounds but never landed.

The boy always listened for the hums each time he walked by. He could hear them just fine. He knew the mounds were greeting him, asking him how they could help, what they should do next. He always nodded to them when he passed, acknowledging their presence and thanking them for keeping watch over him and his community. He was sure his uncle never once heard their sounds. He was pretty sure no one else in his village did, either. He liked having a secret all to himself.

The strap on Rupert’s forehead dripped a dirty sweat and his pace slowed as the trail grew thick with moss and prickly vines. His tunic tore earlier in the day from the same vines. His sandals, worn by too much use and not enough coin to replace them, were held together with bits of string usually used for tying the bales of straw he brought to market each month. While he would have preferred new sandals, he wore his frugality like a medal. His comfort wasn’t a priority, at least not for him. He didn’t mind his daughters laughing at his sandals; he often laughed with them as they rolled their eyes at his thriftiness. He knew any coin saved could be spent on more important things. Feed for the donkey. Maybe a new headdress for the wife.

Looking past the mounds, the boy marveled at how the sunlight cut through the forest, with whole sections of the trail alternating between darkness and light, then lightness and dark. There were few clouds in the sky but just enough to keep things interesting.

“Perhaps there would be a great waterfall at the end,” said the boy, “...and beyond that, a whole new world. Perhaps there would even be flying fish, and huge toads, and oliphants fierce and proud, calling out for me to ride atop their necks!” He had heard of these strange things from travelers, merchants, and older boys in the village. He didn’t think any of these things really existed, but certainly wanted them to – particularly the flying fish. He desperately wanted to fly, too, but didn’t see that happening anytime soon. He thought it was all very unfair, really.

Rupert grimaced as a small pebble, kicked up from the trail, wedged itself inside his left sandal and started rubbing against one of his toes. He felt it with each step, causing his gait to become uneven. At this rate, they might make it back to the village by nightfall. Maybe.

The boy grabbed another turnip by the leaves and flung it high into the air, watching it spin before catching it and tossing again. This time, he misjudged his throw and the turnip spun off his finger and plopped to the ground. Quick as a drop of rain, the boy retrieved it and bounced it off his forearm. “Or perhaps there isn’t even an end?” said the boy, staring ahead at the ever-steepening trail.

“Shut up nephew,” said Rupert, wearily, the hum from the mounds droning in his ears, “...and stop playing with those turnips.”

THE END

Bio: Paul Cesarini is a Professor & Dean at Loyola University New Orleans. He has been published in numerous venues over the years, most recently including 365 Tomorrows, Antipodean SF, the Creepy Podcast, and Sci-Fi Shorts. In his spare time, he serves as the editor / curator of Mobile Tech Weekly.

E-mail: Paul Cesarini

Website: Mobile Tech Weekly

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