The First Footsteps
The first thing Iren did was to step into a puddle.
It was shallow thing, a depression between two patches of grass that barely wider than his boot. The water reflected a little of the sky and the trembling outline of a nearby tree.
Iren looked down and he lifted his foot. A small thread of mud followed the sole before breaking with a sound that was considerably less dignified than either of us.
For a moment he simply stared, then he laughed.
I had heard Iren laugh many times. Usually a restrained sound, a brief acknowledgment of something amusing from which his attention would quickly drift. This was something different, he laughed openly. His shoulders shaking as though the earth has just told him an excellent joke.
"It's mud," I said
"I know."
"You seem pleased."
"I am."
He crouched and pressed two fingers into the soil, examining what clung to them. I watched his expression settle into concentration. His rubbed the earth between his fingers, feeling its texture, then held it out towards me.
"Try it."
"I'm had mud before."
"So had I."
"And yet here we are."
"indeed," I agreed
There was something about his delight that made refusal an unnecessarily difficult matter. I knelt beside him and touched the earth.
Cold. Soft, unpleasantly sticky.
"Well?" He asked
"It's still mud."
Again he laughed and I joined him.
We spend the beginning of that extraordinary day on our knees, beside a puddle like two children who had never being allowed out doors.
I do not regret it.
The landscape opened to long, gentle hills.
The grass bent under a breeze that I could almost place. Farther away stood the trees, a scattered bunch of them. Some tall and narrow, others spreading their branches in a close to the ground fashion. Their shadows lay across the slopes in dark green patches.
Somewhere beyond them, I could hear water running of stone.
I took out my notebook.
"Already?" Iren asked
"Of course"
"We've barely arrived."
"Then I have very little catching up to it."
He leaned over my shoulder as I opened on the first clean page.
I had kept notebooks for as long as I could remember. Some containing notes of places whose names had been long forgotten, others filled with observations on unfamiliar creatures, peculiar customs, conversations and things I had once thought too unimportant to entrust only to my memories.
People often assumed that everything I recorded must serve a purpose.
They were wrong.
I had never needed a reason besides wanting to remember, simply a habit.
A bird landed on a branch above us. a small one, with a pale breast and a tuft of feather that stood almost indignantly above its eyes. It hopped twice along the bark, stopping to examine something beneath one wing, shaking itself.
I watched until it flew away, then I drew it.
The results were unfortunate.
Iren studied the page.
"That bird has four legs."
"It doesn't."
He pointed with one finger.
"One. Two. Three. Four."
"The last two are feathers."
"They appear to be excellent legs."
I examined the drawing.
He was right.
"Perhaps it's a different species."
"One you haven't observed?"
"Not yet."
He considered this for a moment.
"Then you'd better give it a name."
I closed the notebook before he could offer me one.
We followed the sound of the river.
The ground became softer as we descended, the smell of damp earth giving way to something sweeter. Small flowers grew in between the roots of the trees, their yellow heads turning to the open sky.
It was while stopping to examine one them that I noticed the rooftops.
At first I mistook their pale surfaces for of exposed stone among the trees. Then a narrow trail of smoke rose into the air.
I looked again and it was houses.
A little settlement stood beside the river, perhaps a dozen buildings gathered around a weaving road. Some built of timber, others of pale stone. A few of them seemed to be constructed from whatever materials happen, to be found nearby.
One roof leaned noticeably to the left.
An unfinished fence surrounded a small vegetable garden.
A person carrying a basket crossed the road, nearly colliding with another who was balancing a length of wood over one shoulder.
Neither of them seemed particularly surprised,
Beside me Iren had stopped walking.
I glanced at him.
His eyes moved from one building to the other while he lingered the smoke, the movement of people and the paths between the houses. He had stopped to examine the whole settlement at once.
The fine cracks along his cheek caught the sunlight when he turned his head.
He smiled.
Not the faint, private smile he sometimes wore while thinking. This one reached up to his eyes.
"Well," I said.
He didn't answer.
"Shall we?"
"Yes"
He started downhill before I had the chance to say anything further.
I followed, smiling to myself.
The first resident we passed, was painting a sign.
She sat on an overturned crate at the side of the road holding a wooden board against her knees. A pot of yellow paint rested beside her boot.
Across the top half of the board, in large, and rather uneven letters, she had written,
WELCOME TO
below that nothing.
Iren stopped.
"Good morning."
The woman looked up. She had paint on one cheek and the expression of someone who had spent a considerable amount of time arguing with an uncooperative object.
"Morning."
Iren studied the sign.
"Welcome to where?"
"If I knew that, I'd be finished."
He glanced towards the houses.
"Doesn't this place have a name?"
"Not one everyone likes,"
I asked what had been suggested.
"The river," she said, counting on her paint-stained fingers. "The hills. Something about the trees. That fellow over there wants to name the whole place after himself."
She pointed towards a man carrying stones.
"He says he was the first to build a house."
"Was he?" I asked
"Ask him. He'll tell you he was."
"And what would you call it?"
The woman gave the unfinished board some consideration.
"I haven't decided yet."
Iren crouched beside her.
"You could leave the space blank until everyone agrees."
"That's what I'm doing."
"Then why begin the sign it all?"
She looked at him as though the answer ought to be obvious.
"Because I wanted to paint something."
Iren opened his mouth.
Then he closed it.
"Fair enough," he said
She appeared satisfied and returned to her work.
We continued towards the houses. When I looked back she had begun painting a flower beneath the unfinished words.
Seven yellow petals.
I noted that down.
I didn't think to ask her name.
Later I would wish I had.
The settlement was busy in a way which defied sensible description.
Nobody seemed idle, but very few people seemed to know exactly what they were doing.
A man stacked stones beside the road, repeatedly stepping backward to examine the height of his wall. Two people argued about the position of a fence, each pointing at a different patch of ground. Someone had set out a table of apples beneath a tree calling out to passersby in a voice that suggested making a speech of considerable importance.
Iren took a stop at nearly every building.
At one house examined the arrangement of the wooden supports beneath the roof. At another helped a woman carry water to a garden. Near the river he spent several minutes considering a small water wheel, whose paddles struck the current at an awkward angle.
I watched the people.
The stone worker dried his palms against his trousers after placing every third stone and the gardener, with her fingers brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear whenever speaking, stopped speaking. One of the people arguing over the fence tapped a foot impatiently while the other stood absolutely still.
None of these things were particularly remarkable on their own, but in combination made the entire place feel inhabited.
Near the center of the settlement I found a bakery.
Well, more like a building that smelled strongly of bread.
It's door stood open as warm air drifted into the street carrying the scent of flour and something faintly burned.
Inside, a woman looked out from behind a wooden counter at a loaf of bread, regarding it with considerable suspicion.
"Good morning," I said.
She looked up from the counter.
"Would you like some bread?"
"Very much."
She hesitated before picking it up.
"I should warn you, this is my first."
"Your first loaf?"
She nodded, then frowned.
"At least, I think so."
I waited.
"It's strange," she continued turning the loaf in her hands. "I knew what to do. I knew how the dough ought to feel, how long to leave it, how hot the oven should be."
"That sounds promising."
"But now I can't remember ever making it before."
She looked at her hands. There was flour beneath her nails and a little red mark near her thumbs.
"Well," she said finally, "I suppose everyone has to start somewhere."
She broke off a piece and offered it to me.
I took a bite.
The crust was hard.
The middle unpleasantly damp.
I chewed carefully.
"It's excellent," I said.
Her face brightened.
Then she took a piece for herself.
She chewed in silence for several seconds.
"Oh that's terrible."
I swallowed with some effort.
"A little more time in the oven maybe?"
"A little?" She laughed. "I think it needed another lifetime."
She set the loaf down and begun examining the rest of the dough.
I watched her hands. Though she was uncertain they moved with confidence, pressing and folding as though she had a thorough understanding of something her memory could not explain.
I considered asking another question.
instead I asked her name.
"Maela."
"Argan."
Well, Argan, if you return this evening, I might have something worth eating."
"I'll make a point of it."
She smiled and returned to the dough.
Outside I opened my notebook.
I wrote down her name, the condition of the bread and what she had said about her memory.
I also recorded the fact that I had told her the bread was excellent, though said nothing about why.
I found Iren near the river.
He had become involved in some sort of argument concerning a non-existent bridge.
A man named Teren stood with several long planks of wood, explaining to Iren why they weren't a sufficient. Iren had drawn a series of lines in the damp ground with a stick.
"The supports are too far apart."
"That's where the banks are."
"Then the crossing would have to moved upstream."
Teren folded his arms.
"That's not where people cross."
"It would be easier to build there."
"Perhaps. but everyone comes down this road.'
"Roads can be changes.
Teren took in the sight of the narrow path winding between the houses,
"This one, already is."
I stopped a couple of pace away.
Iren's tone was patient, but he had begun tapping the end of the stick against the ground. He did that when a problem seemed simple to him but inexplicably difficult to everyone else.
Teren, mean while had rooted himself in to the ground and made no intentions for moving.
I suspect they could sit in those position until winter.
"Have you considered asking the river to move?" I said.
Both men looked at me.
"It would save you a great deal of trouble"
Teren scratched his chin.
"Suppose we could ask nicely."
"Exactly. It might appreciate the courtesy.
Iren closed his eyes for a moment.
When he opened them he looked over at Teren instead of his lines in the dirt.
"Why here?" He asked.
Teren pointed across the stream.
"Maela's bakery is that way. The gardens are there. Everyone hauling timber down from the trees comes through this road. When the water rises, they have to walk halfway around the bank."
Iren followed the direction of his hand.
"And you want it where it'll be useful."
"That's usually the thought."
For a moment I thought Iren might return to his drawing.
Instead, he rubbed out one of the lines with his boot
"Then we'll need another support."
Teren came closer.
"Can that be done?"
"I believe so."
"Without moving the crossing?"
"Without moving the crossing."
Teren's expression changed.
"Well, Show me."
They bent over the drawing together.
I watched them for a little before the mistake of asking whether I could help.
Within minutes I was carrying timber.
I've never been able understand why people insist that physical labor builds character.
If that were true, I should have become considerably better person by the time we finished the bridge.
The planks were heavy. The ground was uneven. The ropes determined to become tangled at every opportunity.
Iren spent considerable the afternoon working beside Teren, explaining the how the beams would distribute the weight between the supports.
The explanation held my interest for approximately half a minute before concentrating on not dropping anything.
Two residents showed up with more rope. Another a collection of tools, several of them appear to have for no particular reason.
Despite this, the work progressed.
At one point, a central beam slipped while we were lowering in place.
I caught the nearest end.
Teren grabbed the other.
The sudden weight almost pulled me into the stream.
"Hold it!" Iren shouted.
"I was considering letting go."
"No. you don't."
"You make a compelling argument."
He secured the rope while Teren and I struggled to keep the timber from sliding.
For several seconds, nobody spoke.
Then the beam settled into place.
Iren stepped back.
Teren wiped his forehead with his sleeve.
I examined my hands. They were starting to acquire blisters.
"Well," I said, "I think we're all agreed that this has been an excellent use of the afternoon."
Teren laughed.
Iren sat on the bank without notice.
For a moment, I thought something had happened to him.
Then he leaning his head back and looked towards the sky.
"Remind me," he said, "whose idea it was to build a bridge?"
"Teren's."
"I see."
Teren looked between us.
"You're not going to complain now, are you?"
"No" Iren replied.
"But I would appreciate if the next bridge was considerably smaller."
It was the first time that afternoon I had heard Teren laugh without sounding the least bit tired.
By evening the bridge was finished.
It wasn't beautiful.
The railing on one side stood a little higher then the other and several planks had been cut to different length. The central support was more substantial then the rest, giving the structure an slightly lopsided look.
But it crossed the stream.
Teren stepped onto it carefully.
The wood creaked under his boots.
He stopped.
Iren watched without speaking.
Teren took another step.
Then another.
When he reached the opposite bank, he turned and looked at us the for a moment.
Then grinned.
"It works!"
The others cheered.
Iren let out a long sigh and placed his hands on his knees.
Teren crossed back this time with no hesitation and seize Iren's hand.
"Couldn't have done it without you."
"I think you could have," Iren replied.
"Would've taken twice as long."
"Perhaps."
"And I might've put it in the wrong place."
Iren glance at the bridge.
"No, I don't think you would have.'
Teren looked surprised.
Then he smiled again.
It was the kind of smile I wanted to remember. Not because in itself, but the way it changed his face. All the tension around his eyes had disappear. His should have loosen, he looked from the bridge to the road beyond it as though seeing both for the first time.
I reached for my notebook.
But before I could write anything down, Teren called to me.
"Argan! Come and try it."
I looked at the bridge.
Then at the notebook.
"Must I?"
"You helped build it."
"A fact, which has resulted in considerable suffering."
"Then you should see if it holds."
He was right, unfortunately.
I closed the notebook and crossed the bridge.
The planks shift a little under my feet.
The river moved below, slipping between the stones as it had all afternoon.
On the other side, Teren gave me a clap on the shoulder.
I smiled.
It was a small thing, crossing a narrow stream over a crooked bridge. Yet I remember it more clearly then many extraordinary sights.
Perhaps, for once, I too had been too absorbed in what I was doing to observe it properly.
Maela kept her promise.
When we returned to the bakery, the smell of burnt dough had changed in to something far more encouraging.
A fresh loaf rested on the counter. Its crust was golden, though one side had lifted more than the other.
Iren took a slice examining it briefly before tasting it.
Maela stood with her hands clasped together, watching his face.
"Well?"
He took another bite.
"This is very good."
She looked relieved.
Then he added, "much better than the first."
I turned to him.
Maela stared.
"You tried the first one?"
"No," Iren said. "But Argan described it."
She looked at me.
I looked at the ceiling.
There was a moment of silence.
Then Maela began to laugh.
I had expected her to be offended.
Instead, she pushed the loaf towards me.
"Have another piece. You clearly suffered a great deal earlier."
I accepted.
This time telling her that it was excellent.
And this, time it was true.
We were invited to stay for supper.
The invitation appeared to come from several people at once. Nobody agreed who was hosting us, so everyone brought something to a long table outside the bakery.
Teren arrived with his sleeves still rolled above his elbows.
The woman painting the welcome sign brought a pot of yellow paint and care placed it beneath her chair.
A traveler came with vegetables from the gardens. Another with a jug of water. A musician appeared with a fiddle and began playing a tune he somehow always forgot halfway.
Nobody seemed to mind.
Iren sat beside me, listening to a spirited argument over the best way to cook potatoes.
Maela claimed they should be roasted.
Teren preferred them boiled.
A gardener declared both inferior to cooking them in a pan with onions.
It dragged on until the potatoes turned cold.
They eventually ate them anyway.
I watched Iren as he ate.
He talked to Teren about the bridge, asked Maela if she meant to bake again tomorrow, and listened with a genuine interest to the gardener describing the flowers she hoped to grow.
There was no impatience in his expression. None of the restless focus I knew well.
At one point, the fiddler somehow managed to finish his tune.
Someone cheered.
He bowed enthusiastically enough to nearly fall off his chair.
Iren laughed.
I found myself laughing too.
For a few moments, forgotten was my notebook.
The observations I had planned to make, the questions I meant to ask.
There was food, music filling the air, and strangers who somehow felt like they belonged in this gathering for no reason at all.
It was a pleasant evening.
Sometimes, that seems to be enough.
We left when the first stars appeared.
The settlement had fallen quieter, still faint music floating from the bakery.
I wanted to see the houses from the hillside for a second time and Iren agreed, and so we followed the narrow path back towards the trees.
The light had failed enough that I did not notice a low branch until it was too late.
One of my antlers caught against it.
My head jerked back.
My foot landed on a root.
And I fell.
Not gracefully.
Not with any dignity at all.
I landed on my backside in a patch of grass, staring up at the darkening sky while the branch hung innocently above me.
For some seconds, I heard nothing.
Then Iren began to laugh.
I sat up.
"Don't."
He covered his mouth.
That made it worse.
"Not one word."
"I haven't said anything."
His shoulders shook.
I stood, brushing the grass from my coat, and started walking again.
He hurried after me.
"Argan."
"No."
"Are you hurt?"
"Only in ways you cannot repair."
He tried to stop laughing again.
I gave him a look.
To his credit, he stopped.
For nearly five seconds.
From the hillside, the settlement looked smaller than it had during the day.
Its crooked roofs smoothed by the darkness, warm lights shining through the windows, the smoke curling into the cool evening air.
The bridge stood across the stream.
A lantern moved along the road, then crossed the stream. Its reflection broken up in the water, then collected again when the carrier arrived on the other bank.
Iren sat on a flat rock beside the path.
I lowered myself onto the grass.
We sat in silence.
Below us, someone opened a door. A woman with a basket stepped out, calling something to others in another house, and disappeared around a corner.
I wondered what the people of the settlement would do tomorrow.
Maela would probably bake another loaf.
Teren would inspect the bridge.
The woman with the unfinished sign might finally pick a name. Or maybe paint another flower instead.
I hoped it would be the latter.
Beside me, Iren leaned forward, resting on his knees.
"The bridge could be better," he said.
I smiled.
"It survived its first crossing."
"That isn't quite the standard I'd prefer."
"You helped build it."
"Which is why I know what could be improved."
I considered reminding him that Teren had been perfectly happy with the work, but I looked down at the stream instead.
The lantern had vanished, but the bridge remained, a pale line over the dark water.
"We can return tomorrow," I said.
"To the bridge?"
"To see whether it still stands."
Iren looked at me.
"And if it doesn't?"
"Then I imagine Teren will have some very strong opinions about our workmanship."
He laughed softly.
For a while, we listened to the river.
Then he spoke again.
"I'd like to stay a little longer."
I turned to look at him.
His gaze remained on the distant lights.
"There's so much we haven't seen."
I followed his eyes to the settlement.
He was right.
We had only walked a few of its roads, spoken to a handful of its people, and spent most of the afternoon building a bridge that might or might not survive its first night.
It was hardly enough to understand the place.
"Tomorrow, then," I said.
He nodded.
"Tomorrow."
I took out my notebook.
The first page had a poor drawing of a bird on it.
Below it were descriptions of the trees, the river, and the yellow flowers that grew beside the path.
On the next page I had written the name of a woman who made terrible bread, then learned to make better bread.
Another page held a rough sketch of a bridge, along with several notes Iren had insisted on about the supports.
There was also the unfinished welcome sign.
I had drawn the seven-petaled flower that grew below it.
I considered all the other things I ought to write.
The sound of Maela's laughter when she realized I had lied about her first loaf.
Teren's expression when he crossed the bridge.
The way the fiddler had bowed after finally completing his song.
The light spilling from the bakery's windows.
Iren beside me, laughing at something as simple as wet earth.
He glanced at the notebook.
"Are you going to write about today?"I've already begun."Everything?"
"Not everything."
He looked surprised.
"That's unlike you."
I watched the settlement for a moment.
Then I closed the book.
"Some things," I said, "I'd rather remember without having to read them."
Iren was quiet.
When I turned, he was looking at me with an expression I could not readily place.
It went past before I could decide what it meant.
"Then I hope today was one of them," he said.
I smiled.
"It was."
We sat on the hillside until the last light faded from the windows below.
And when I opened my notebook again, I wrote a poem.
Not because I thought the day had been important.
Not because I expected anyone else to read it.
I wrote because I had enjoyed it.
And because my friend had been there.
Before the Roads Had Names
Before the roads were named, before the town Had stories that its people called their own, We watched the river carry daylight down And listened to it run across the stone.
Beside the stream, a bridge took shape from wood; A baker laughed to see her ruined bread. We held the beams as steady as we could, And laughed at all the foolish things we'd said.
At dusk the windows gathered threads of gold, And shadows reached across the open ground. I wrote the things no monument would hold: A voice, a joke, an ordinary sound.
We could not know what lay beyond our view. I only knew the road began with you.