I asked, once more, “When are we getting to ****.”
My guide, once more, ignored me, trudging on in front without answering. All was silence. Oh, I suppose there were tree noises and wild animal noises and all manner of noises that would have given my guide all manner of interesting information. Not me. When you are used to the clatter and bang of a city, sparrow farts don’t register.
I stopped.
“When.”
Pause.
“Are we.”
Pause.
“Getting there.”
I wasn’t being a difficult client. Okay, I wasn’t just being a difficult client. I was worried about my money and our food lasting.
A response! Eureka!
My guide stopped, turned, and said, “I. Don’t. Know.”
Wait, what?
I emitted puzzlement.
My guide signed and looked away. Down at the ground. Up at the trees. Back at me, briefly.
“Look, I have not idea where **** is.”
Shock. I think my jaw actually sagged.
It was my turn to look around. Was this some sort of weird ambush? Why drag me all the way out here when I could have been mugged in a convenient alley before we started.
“I needed to get over the mountain. You needed to get over the mountain and you were paying for the trip. No one even knows if **** even exists.”
” … but … how … ” My eloquence had gone begging.
“Can we walk and talk? I want to get off this ridge and find a good campsite before dark.”
I continued to stand. I felt as if we were having two conversations. One about logistics, the other about fundamental principles. “Why should I follow you?”
My guide looked at me as if I was the one being unreasonable, “Do you really want to stop here? Do you have any idea how to get back on your own?”
Good points, unfortunately.
“Okay I was loose with the truth …”
Understatement.
” … but I’ve delivered as a guide, haven’t I? You’re warm. You’re safe. You’re well fed. I gotten good bargains at the markets. I’ve found cheap places to sleep. We’ve made good time.”
Also good points. It was as if a robber was explaining how careful they had been in picking your pocket. I couldn’t formulate a response that fit either half of our conversation.
“First rule of the road, trust no one.”
“But I hired your through the guide group.”
“Yeah, well, I lied to them as well.”
“I’m going to call you weasel from now on.”
“I like weasels. They’re clever. They get what they want.”
“Have you no shame?”
“No. I can’t afford it.”
I considered my position. I was indeed warm, safe, and had spent less than budgeted so far. I looked around at the trees and stones, the definition of the middle of nowhere. I followed. What choice did I have?
~~~ curtain ~~~
Afterword
Modern world or generic medieval fantasy setting?
Correct answer should be either. I tried to leave it deliberately vague so that the story could go wherever it wanted. Period specifics could be added, for example, the authorizing group could be a professional association (modern) or a guild (fantasy).
As usual, no idea what happens next. At least it’s a brief bit of story. I am therefore declaring this to be ankle-biter vertical, an improvement over last week’s crossrail. [A Book]
Free Fiction 4U. The Year Without Sunshine. by Naomi Kritzer in Uncanny Magazine Issue Fifty-Five. Winner of the Nebula Award for Best Novelette in 2023.
Onwards!
Katherine
Virtual Brush Box 