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There’s another world out there, past the horizon, far beyond what the eye can see. When you gaze down the river, toward the sea to which it lazily flows, you can feel it in your bones, the sensation of another land, other peoples. What does this new world look like? Do they have dense forests, with a never-ending span of trees? Are they a different shade of green compared to that which grows here? What about the flowers? How many new and vibrant colors do they bloom? Hopefully they have much richer plant life than what you have here.
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Are the mountains as tall and jagged, as steep as the ones in your land? Are their peaks perpetually coated in white, too? Do they have vast deserts that take up much of their lands, like here? Can they farm and grow their own food, without fearing the seasonal drought?
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What are the people like? Are they like yours? Are they friendly? You hope they’re friendly. What do their houses look like? What do they eat? What clothing do they wear? What are their beliefs? What are their customs, their traditions?
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The magpies and pochards flutter about the riverbank, away from where you’re tossing stones off the water’s surface. As your mind snaps back into focus, the birds take flight, gracefully gliding westward towards the endless expanse of the sea. You sigh, wishing you could join them in flight, and pick yourself up off the rocky shore, dusting off your pants as you stand.
Faint hollering barely reaches your ears, and you turn your attention toward the docks a ways away. The cool, gentle breeze that sweeps down from the rigid mountains in the backdrop brushes your cheeks, a relief in this midday sun, and caresses the red-and-blue flags, causing them to sway gracefully. Even from here, you can see the commotion, all the movement, from dockworkers and sailors. A hive of bustling workers and merchants in a flurry of activity, more so than typical this time of day.
There’s a scuffling of footsteps which grows more and more louder, crunching in the pebbles and dirt on the way over to you. The approaching young man has a round and expressive face, with prominent, soulful eyes exuding his youthful energy. He has a button nose and dark brown, tousled medium-length hair peaking beneath his tan wool cap as though what he’s about to say to you is too important to put himself together, his ill-fitting shirt flapping as he jogs. He’s out of breath, but manages to fight through the exhaustion with a bright, warm smile.
“Barges are… coming in!” he pants, hunched over with his hands on his thighs, barely covered by his dark brown, knee-length trousers, as he blurts the news. “Large gathering… Lots of soldiers and sailors… something huge is planned!”
“Why have all the men gathered?” you ask, confused. “There’s a lot of activity. What’s going on, Iker?”
“Atelmaro,” he says, now catching his breath. “He’s making a big announcement in the town square at sunset.”
“What’s the announcement?”
“Not sure,” he says. “But they’re gathering a lot of supplies at the dock’s storehouses. Must be preparing something big.”
“If the second-in-command to Vitor Criato is going to speak, it’s definitely something big,” you posit. “We should hear what he has to say.”
“I wonder if it’ll be another excursion to the south,” Iker says as you both begin your walk back to the village along the rocky shores, traversing the rugged terrain and occasionally hopping from one large stone to another. The tiny sand crabs scurry out of the way of our feet, taking shelter beneath the rocks, and minnows swim about the small tidal pools. “Maybe capturing more wild horses to work the plows.”
“They’ve already been on numerous such trips over the past few months,” you remind him. “There may not be any horses still remaining in the fields to be captured, with the rate they were collecting them.” Iker considers this, then hmphs in agreement with your assessment.
“I suppose we’ll find out in the town square!” he says exuberantly.
Your normally quiet town, Rexurdir, rests next to the Salia, the long river that connects the Lago do Amaia to the sea. The lake is nestled in a large, perennially snowcapped mountain range, the Cores Altas, with the Pico do Firmamento, its tallest peak, majestically towering over all the rest. The nearby mountains are your people’s only respite from the dry, extreme heat to the other side of the range; the vast, arid desert—The Great Fàsach, as it’s known by your people—is relentless with erratic and fierce storms, as is told by the few who have survived traveling and exploring the lands beyond the region. It is said that your people, the Legido, used to roam those lands, but with the severe change to the climate and conditions, they settled on the only area that remains habitable: a small piece of coastline on the western edge of this otherwise immense continent. Or, rather, that’s what is taught to you at school.
The streets of Rexurdir are lined with multistory homes made from timber and stone. Those who can afford it feature ornate plasterwork and stucco decorations, with intricate patterns and reliefs adorning the facades. The top floor hangs over much of the street with wooden balconies, some adorned with wrought iron railings and grilles for the windows. The steep, thatched roofs resemble the peaks of the mountains beyond, and some houses create distinctive patterns with their exposed wooden beams on the exterior walls. It’s a life of luxury far from your level of comprehension, being the son of farmers, but you appreciate the grandeur nonetheless, the motifs carved on the wooden doors and support beams displaying superior craftsmanship you could only dream of someday possessing.
Other than the dockworkers, with their practical clothing of striped blue and white cotton shirts and breeches—the occasional worker can be seen wearing faded pea coats, perhaps signaling their rank or importance—the people walking about the streets of the town dress in much finer attire. While the merchants wear velvet doublets and shirts with ruffled collars, the wealthier residents replace the breeches with trousers made of fine fabrics, the women in elegant dresses with voluminous skirts and elaborate bodices, garments woven with complex patterns or embroidery, and countless necklaces and bracelets of gold and silver. You become overwhelmingly self-aware of your appearance in comparison, but Iker snaps you out of your self-consciousness as he strides along, whistling a merry, indiscernible tune.
As you both pass by the docks, the workers heave large sacks and wooden crates onto numerous long barges tied to the cylindrical posts. Containers of food, water, alcohol, provisions and preserves are loaded on, as well as medical supplies, tools and equipment for a variety of jobs such as carpentry, blacksmithing, navigation, bedding, and more armaments and munitions than you’ve ever seen. In nearby pens, a large number of horses and livestock stand about restlessly, interspersing the commotion at the docks with their bleating and whinnying. The men in pea coats urge on the workers, and they move about expeditiously, never ceasing for a moment to pause for a break.
“Seems urgent,” you comment, a little concerned. “And significant.”
“Got to be for something huge,” Iker says, too excited for your liking.
“Are we evacuating?” The question seems silly after you ask it, especially when you consider the merchants and wealthy residents going about their business without a care in the world. Iker, humoring you, pretends to contemplate this, but almost instantly brushes away your worries with one wave of his hand.
“If the town was being evacuated, you think we’d be the last to be made aware anyway,” he says, a rather morbid—but probably accurate—observation and assumption.
People have already begun gathering in the square when you both arrive, encompassing the half dozen or so steep steps of the town hall. Their exterior walls are whitewashed like those of the homes and shops along the perimeter, but interspersed throughout are reddish-brown sun-dried bricks the size of a loaf of bread, blending in with the vibrant red-tiled roofs. Merchants decorate the outside of their stores with highly detailed mosaics, colorfully adorning the walls that shimmer in the bright sun. At the corners of the square are large stone monoliths, adorned with carvings and images at the base, the meaning of which are only speculated upon. Between the stone pillars are paths of rich, red terracotta tiles, connecting each monolith while the remainder of the courtyard is paved in cobblestone.
The crowd is buzzing, murmuring their postulations about why everyone has gathered. Closest to the entrance of the town hall are the extravagantly dressed merchants and nobility, while you and Iker stand on the opposite side of the town square, far, far away from the building, completely separated from the others. Iker has been smiling the entire walk here, giggling giddily as he continually tosses about guesses for the big announcement. By contrast, there is a large pit in your stomach, your guts twisting in knots, fearing what Atelmaro Ulloa has to say. With the amounts being stockpiled and loaded onto the barges, you worry it’ll have far reaching implications that may devastate the community. Times have become difficult for those who aren’t merchants or nobles, and perhaps even they are starting to struggle, despite carrying on as though they’re unaffected.
After a long stretch waiting under the setting sun, regularly wiping the sweat dripping from your brow, bells chimes from the side streets of the square. The crowd shifts, moving out of the way of the young, bell-wielding boys, wearing the deep blue and scarlet red of the Legido, as they proudly march toward the town hall. The people close by cover their ears as the resonating sounds ring out—they’re admittedly loud even as far back as you and Iker are—and the bellringers unite atop the long, flat space that extends in front of the building’s entrance, acting as a makeshift stage for the announcement.
The doors burst open, and three men emerge from the hall. The first is an older gentleman wearing a bright blue velvet jacket, and blue velvet trousers to match, with a red sash across his torso. His face sports a near-white mustache that runs down along his jawline, then up to his sideburns, and wears a tall, black bicorne hat rimmed in gold thread. The man on the opposite side of him is a dark-haired portly fellow, a bushy black beard draping over his red coat that nearly bursts at the buttons, and wears a plumed hat with a quail feather sprouting from the top, whom you recognize right away to be the mayor of Rexurdir, Martzel Olazábal. The man standing between them wears a felt hat with a tall, steeple-like crown and a flat brim that turns up at the sides, his outfit more of a military uniform than the other two, decorated in numerous colorful ribbons signifying something important, you’re sure.
Iker gasps at the emergence of the three men, practically squealing with delight. Whispering and muttering from the gathered townsfolk ripples through the air like a gentle breeze weaving through a forest.
“He’s here!” Iker squeaks, pointing to the elderly gentleman in the blue velvet outfit to the right. “That’s Vitor Criato!”
“He seems pretty serious,” you say, pointing out his scowl and upturned nose.
“Not as serious as Atelmaro Ulloa,” Iker retorts. He’s not incorrect: the man flanked by the mayor and Vitor Criato looks intense and severe. He’s also significantly younger than the other two gentlemen, yet perhaps just as distinguished as the revered Vitor Criato, storied to have explored the entire continent and worlds beyond your own, valiantly fighting off fierce creatures in foreign lands.
“Ladies and gentlemen of Rexurdir,” mayor Olazábal announces, his tone rich and sonorous, and he pauses for dramatic effect. The crowd quickly quiets, eagerly anticipating the upcoming speech. “We have been graced with the presence of two of the greatest explorers ever to exist in Legido, who have a special announcement for the glorious people of our land.”
He’s about to say something further, his chest puffing out as he prepares to bloviate, but he is immediately cast aside, gently pushed out of the way with a single hand from Atelmaro Ulloa as the man steps forward. Mayor Olazábal appears offended and astounded, at first, then, wanting to save face, straightens out his red coat and rests his hands at the lapel, clutching it tightly to aid him in restraining his desire to voice his displeasure.
“Today, we stand at the threshold of a grand adventure,” Atelmaro Ulloa says, a strong, commanding voice that you undoubtedly believe has given innumerable orders during his short time in this world, “a journey that will echo through the annals of history. We have received a sacred decree from on high, from exalted Xiatli himself, that preparations have begun for a great expedition to the unknown, a world existing beyond the comprehension of us mere mortals, a land of untold mysteries and uncharted territories.”
The crowd begins to stir, trying to wrap their minds around this news. Iker looks astonished, jaw hanging open as he stares wide-eyed toward the town hall. There are a few shouts, a few people yelling their questions about what this means, yet Ulloa ignores the stray statements, continuing to look annoyed.
“For too long,” now Criato chimes in with his weathered, scratchy voice, ”we have yearned for the rains to quench the thirst of our once-prosperous land. The drought has been harsh, and many of us have felt the heavy weight of hardships. But fear not! For with Xiatli's guidance, we have prospered before, and prosperity shall be ours once more!”
Sporadic cheers spring up throughout the crowd, along with the occasional fist punching the air. Most, however, simply nod along, having heard such promises before, but receiving nothing in return for their loyalty and faith. This proposal, however, is drastically different, you recall, than anything suggested before.
“Xiatli shall guide us through the darkest nights and inspire us to conquer any adversity that stands in our way,” Criato continues. “He has blessed us with knowledge and prosperity, and has seen fit to bestow upon us this grand opportunity. Xiatli's vision promises salvation and prosperity to those to devote their lives to his cause.”
“For every soul willing to seize their destiny,” Ulloa now says, “this new world beckons, offering riches beyond imagination. It is an opportunity to transcend the boundaries of our land and discover a greater purpose for our lives.”
“Know this,” says Criato, “Xiatli's will is unwavering, and his blessings upon us are boundless. Let his name echo through the ages, as we prove ourselves worthy of his trust. Together, we shall bring glory to Xiatli and to the Legido people!”
“Xiatli's wisdom has revealed these lands to us,” Ulloa says. “It is our duty to uncover the secrets they hold, to leave our mark on the annals of history. Together, we shall carve our legacy. In serving Xiatli's divine vision, we find meaning beyond measure. His path leads us to where we shall build a better world, a world worthy of our chosen people.”
“People of Rexurdir,” Criato says, “the expedition to the new world awaits! Who among you is willing to embrace this divine opportunity? Are you ready to seize your destiny, to chart a course beyond the unknown? Join us in this daring venture, and the rewards will be beyond your wildest dreams.”
As he concludes, the people applaud and cheer the rousing speeches, a wave of excitement sweeps through all those gathered. Voices rise in unison, many proclaiming their willingness and dedication to follow Ulloa and Criato to a world unknown. Some faces glow with hope, others bare expressions of determination, and a few even have tears of pride in their eyes.
Though they stood before a crowd, it was as if their words were spoken directly to you. Their message resonates within you, coursing through your veins and setting your heart aflutter. Could this be your chance to claim your own place in history? Is this the moment, running alongside these brave adventurers, to discover the greatness that awaits beyond the horizon? Is a better life for you and your family actually within reach?
You clutch Iker’s shoulders and look him in his eyes, a smile stretches wide across your face. He suddenly looks concerned, nervous and tense. For you, however, your imagination has taken flight. The spark of ambition within you has been ignited into a blazing flame, illuminating a path towards a destiny never before envisioned.
“Leaving Rexurdir,” he says, his voice faint and weak. “Leaving Legido. My family.”
“Think of the possibilities!” you remark. Now you’re the one who’s excited, hardly able to contain your enthusiasm. “Xiatli has even said there are riches in this new world! These festering farms could be left behind to start a new life, a prosperous life!”
“I’ve… got to speak to my family,” he says, worried and anxious, eyes cast downward.
You pat him on the shoulder and, after you both nod your goodbyes, you push through the crowd to race home, eager to share the good news. Your feet have wings as you practically soar through the streets. The prospect of a brighter future, of glory and adventure, fill you with a sense of profound purpose, as though, finally, there is clarity in your way ahead.
Your family’s farm sits not too far outside the outer limits of town, resting just beyond the city walls. There is a narrow irrigation channel that leads from the Salia through a couple other farms before finally reaching your family’s land, small trickles of water filling the reservoirs. For farmers like your and Iker’s family, it has been a difficult time. For many years, a drought has plagued your people’s countryside, crop yields hardly enough to feed your family, let alone an entire village. Many have had to turn to other trades to get by, resorting to odd jobs and favors, and selling most of their possessions to buy grain or vegetables from the larger farms run by wealthy families affiliated with Legido rulers. Even then, it’s become too expensive to afford enough to eat, and some have gone as far as consuming rats or other rodents. You try not to look down on them, understanding that everyone has to do what they can to survive.
The house stands alone in a field of golden brown. The stalks of corn have long withered on the farm, and your family barely grows enough grain to sell to those raising livestock. Since the water hardly reaches the farm anymore, you and your brother, Afonzo, travel back and forth from the river with large buckets to collect enough water for the fields. With the rain almost nonexistent, the water level of the river has shrunk, exposing the rocky shores that make it tricky to traverse.
You reach the wooden home, its walls patched with mud and trimmed low to help with ventilation during the recent encounter with extreme heat. Sitting outside is your mother, plucking the few streaks of gray out of her otherwise light brown hair with her knotted fingers. She fidgets like this when she’s nervous, and your enthusiasm is slightly diminished at the sight. The farm has brought her a lot of stress, aging her with large, dark bags beneath her eyes and prominent wrinkles on her forehead. She doesn’t notice you as you approach, worriedly looking at the ground.
“Ama,” you say, hoping to snap her out of her stupor, “there was a lot of activity at the docks today, and the great Vitor Criato made a speech at the town square!”
“Mmhmm,” she says, continuing to twist her hair between her fingers.
“He and Atelmaro Ulloa spoke of orders directed to them from Xiatli! It’s big news!”
“Mmhmm.”
You’re about to say something further, hoping to rouse her to excitement, when your aita steps through the doorway, venturing into the open air. The echoing thud of his well-worn leather boots on the wooden planks announces his arrival. His white shirt and light brown breeches are covered in soil and sweat from a hard day’s work in the fields. His thinning brown hair is disheveled, and there are numerous scrapes and scratches on his pointed nose and gaunt cheeks.
“Supper is ready,” he says meekly, squinting at you with his beady, brown eyes before returning inside our house. You go to help your ama up off the steps, extending a hand, but she continues to stare blankly at the open field.
The house is a single, expansive room with a large fireplace at its center, though long unused with the mild winters you’ve had for many years. There’s a long, wooden table with chairs off to the left, where your family prepares and eats your meals. Everyone’s straw bedding is tucked away along the right wall. Even when you’re all not working, most of the time is spent outdoors, where you can at least enjoy the occasional breeze.
Seated at the head of the table is aita, while your brother, Afonzo, sits opposite from the door, leaving you to sit with your back to the entryway. He knows you hate sitting in this seat, preventing you from seeing anyone who approaches the house. He does this purely out of spite, you know it. Proving you’re more mature than he’ll ever be, however, you graciously take the seat anyway, though disdainfully watching him the entire way to the chair.
At the center of the table is the Porrusalda, the vegetable soup you’ve been eating for nearly a week straight. The sweet smell of the stewed onions, carrots, and potatoes has become all too familiar in the house, although this batch is missing the leeks, most likely because your family can no longer afford them.
“Let us bow our heads,” aita says, extending his arms out and offering his open palms to you and Afonzo.
“What about ama?” Afonzo asks, watching her remain seated at the door.
“She will join us when she’s ready,” he says. “Please,” and aita bobs his hands and looks at you both pleadingly. You all hold each others’ hands as aita begins his prayer, the one always said before every meal:
Xiatli, we come before you in humble reverence.
Bless this meal before us,
Nourish our bodies and soothe our souls.
We give thanks for the gifts you’ve bestowed upon us.
May your wisdom guide our way.
Unable to contain yourself, you begin blurting out everything that happened in the afternoon as you’re served the soup, from the docks to the announcement at the town square, hardly stopping for a moment to catch your breath.
“It was amazing!” you say. “Iker said there’s going to be a big announcement in the town square, and–“
“You still befriend that oaf?” Afonzo interrupts. His dark brown hair is thick and full, unlike your aita, and it twists into waves that doesn’t look anything like you nor your parents’ hair. His strong jawline and prominent cheekbones are enviable, you will admit, though his attitude and demeanor never have been. Especially since he’s developed a muscular frame, being Afonzo’s younger sibling has meant years of torture and abuse, despite you both toiling over the same chores on the farm.
“Iker is a good friend,” you say defensively, aware that he’s your only friend, but a good friend nonetheless. “Anyway, before the interruption, the great Vitor Criato and Atelmaro Ulloa spoke to the townsfolk about Xiatli summoning adventurers for a new expedition to a far off land and they need people to man the ships and explore the unknown landscape and construct the homes and plow the fields, and it’s a whole, lush world over there! It sounds fantastic!”
Afonzo chuckles while slurping his Porrusalda, while your aita nods along to the recounting of the day. You feel the knots twisting in your stomach, eager to reveal your exceptional plan. Eventually, after numerous deep breaths, you muster up the courage to tell them how you want to be a part of this expedition.
This causes Afonzo to laugh harder for some reason, nearly spitting out his soup. You kick him under the table, which, of course, he kicks you back and, of course, it hurts really bad. For the first time, your aita looks at you, and if you didn’t know better, you’d say he would be seething. He squints at you, as he usually does, but his brow is furrowed, forming severe creases in his forehead.
“You think,” he says, his voice shaking in a controlled rage, “you should go on this expedition?” You nod slightly, nervous about what’s to come. Afonzo watches in bemusement, entertained by the spectacle. “You think you’re going to walk off this farm and venture to some strange land for what? Glory and fortune? Fame like that of Vitor Criato?”
“But, it was ordained by Xiatli himself,” you squeak out your reply, “Ulloa and Criato were announcing–“
“‘Xiatli himself,’” your aita says, his voice slightly louder, but ominous in its restrained anger. “I don’t care if Xiatli walks into our home and carries you off on his shoulders, you are not abandoning your family to galavant on a ship to some new world!”
“But, if–“
“You have the audacity to decide for yourself—at what? 14?—that you can join a crew and leave your ama and me to tackle the daily chores of this farm, alone?”
“Hey!” Afonzo objects. “I work on the farm, too!”
Aita smacks Afonzo, hard enough that he nearly causes Afonzo’s forehead to slam into the table. Your brother rubs the back of his head, and his protests have ceased immediately.
“What gives you the right?!” Screeching from behind you, your ama stands at the doorway, tears streaking down her cheeks. She hugs herself tightly, her face contorted in fury. “Do you know how many explorers survive these excursions? Hardly any! And that’s just exploring our own continent! You think traveling to another land will be safer? Do you know what horrors await in this new land?”
“But Xiatli’s vision is what–“
“You stupid, stupid child!” aita screams at you. You’ve never heard him speak like this, not even when you were a small child. His eyes are large and intense, nostrils flaring. “What do you know about Xiatli’s vision? Does his vision include abandoning your responsibilities to your family? Just so you can pretend you’re an explorer before getting mauled to death by some horrible creature or savage peoples?”
“It wouldn’t be abandoning the family if you all join the expedition,” you say, sniveling, you would admit. “It’s said there is a bountiful land on the–“
“Who said?” aita interjects. “People who need bodies to man a ship and feed Vitor Criato and Atelmaro Ulloa and put themselves in harm’s way so these dainty nobles with their uncalloused hands won’t be harmed by the dangers that will be encountered? Are you truly that moronic to not understand that they’re recruiting people just so they can be human shields to protect those ‘explorers’ from beasts that will eat you alive?”
There’s a lump forming in your throat, and you feel your lip quivering as your aita speaks. Ama has shriveled into a ball on one of the beds, sobbing profusely and clutching her head in her hands. Afonzo’s head is lowered as he eats his soup, not daring to make eye contact with anyone.
“Just consider,” you sniffle, “we could leave this land behind to find a better life, is all. The drought is ruining us, but what if we didn’t have to deal with it anymore?”
“‘Just consider’,” aita says with a sardonic laugh. “Well, you didn’t consider, did you? You never do!”
That is it, the moment that breaks you. You storm out of the house, running off down the road and back toward Rexurdir in the cool of the evening. You don’t know where you’re going—perhaps the docks?—but you need to be out of the house. Somewhere far, far away from the farm, past the barren fields, past the dried up reservoirs, past the dilapidated farmhouses.
How can they not see? How can they not yearn for what lies beyond these withered fields, this parched land? There are promises of luscious lands and untold riches, and yet your parents dismiss it all as the fanciful dreams of a naive child. But what of the reality? The drought, the famine, the daily struggle etched on their faces? You can't sit idle, trapped within these walls, watching your spirits wither and wane like the crops.
But how can you leave? How can you abandon your family to chase your own yearnings? You long to return not as a conqueror, but as a savior, to lift your family from this parched land and into a future you never dared dream. You want to be more than the sweat-stained brows and calloused hands of a farmer, bound to an unyielding earth. You yearn for uncharted horizons, the unknown that stretches beyond these confines. Yet, even as your heart races with the promise of adventure, it quivers with the weight of responsibility. Your convictions are like two horses pulling you in opposite directions, a battle of wants and shoulds, each shouting in your head.
Your feet carry you to the docks, placing you firmly in the center of the activity that still continues, even at this late hour. The sun has nearly set, just peeking over the horizon and casting a reddish-golden hue over the grasslands while painting the mountains in a vibrant magenta. The dockworkers continue loading up the barges, though they’ve all been nearly filled and don’t have much room left to spare. Nearby, the livestock and horses have left the pen, and men have begun corralling them near the outskirts of town.
There are a few familiar faces in the crowd that has gathered, some from your school. The expressions of the younger boys and girls are a mixture of nervousness and eagerness, as they gather near a group of older adults. Most possess a few personal belongings, bags and sacks of clothing and blankets, while some carry knives for multiple uses, but not much more than that.
A young boy and girl stride up to you, toned from working their farms. Their light brown hair is shaggy and unkempt, much like their garments, though that doesn’t stop them from being smug as they approach.
“Little Oilaskoa,” one says, his sneering voice laced with mockery. You immediately recognize the one calling you “chicken” as Benicto, one of the boys who regularly torments you after school. His tousled light brown hair seems like a wild crown of straw atop his head, with a square jaw and piercing eyes that gleam with a challenging glint. He’s clad in earth-toned leather attire, adorned with rough-hewn metal embellishments, and he carries an air of primal aggression, emphasized by his sturdy frame. “Are you here to join the other maidens in giving us a sendoff and wishing us well on our journey?”
“It’s adorable how desperate you are to try to fit in.” This one is Dorez, tall and wiry, her unruly curls frame her face, with lips twisted into a mischievous smirk as her sharp, blue eyes fixate on you with an air of disdain. She’s draped in a dark cloak adorned with intricate patterns, clearly something she must’ve stolen, since her family is far too poor to afford such a well-produced item. “
“Why don't you crawl back to where you belong?” says Benicto. “You'll never be one of us.”
“It’s unfathomable why they’d let you join this expedition,” you finally say, trying to fight your voice from nervously shaking. “You're as useful as a pebble, but even pebbles serve more purpose.”
“What did you just say?” Dorez asks rhetorically.
“Look at this runt trying to act tough!” Benicto chuckles. “I could squash you like a bug with one finger.”
The two square up to you, towering over your slight build with an intimidating glare. They get close—close enough that you can feel their rotten breath upon your face—but before they can physically accost you, a loud bell clangs. The bellringer, your savior, is nowhere to be seen, but everyone’s attention is drawn toward Atelmaro Ulloa, sitting upright atop a gray horse with black specks. As he speaks, you seize the opportunity to slip into the crowd and get lost among the numbers present.
“Xiatli has blessed our expedition with this fine group of able-bodied men and women,” Ulloa says. “You will be the brave caretakers of this great adventure and etch your name into the annals of history!”
Muted cheers sporadically arise from the crowd, many nervous and anxious about the challenges that lie ahead. It’s a large group—nearly half the town by your count, if not more. Times have grown difficult in Rexurdir, so you’re not surprised by the turnout.
“Ships await us in Auruma Xosta. We will travel there overnight, then load up the goods from the barges as they arrive, departing once we are completely stocked. Let’s move out!”
The crowd erupts with cheers—more enthusiastic this time—and they begin moving, traveling west. You’ve lost sight of Benicto and Dorez, but you’re too flustered to care. Is this it? Is this the last opportunity to join the expedition? If you stay, will there be another group of explorers and adventures for you to join? But your aita is right, in that you can’t abandon your family and allow them to struggle maintaining the farm without you. What if you scout ahead, travel to the new world and plant your flag in a rich, luscious plot of land for your family to cultivate? You could see about sending a letter home to update them on the new farm you’ll all have, where you will never have to worry about the drought ever again. Your family can be rich beyond their wildest dreams! That’s the goal, right? But will they forgive you if you leave them behind? Will they understand? Can you take that chance, of possibly being disowned by your own ama and aita?
There’s not a lot of time to think it over, the men and women have begun leaving, getting further and further from the docks. Already, their banter grows more and more faint, the clopping of horse hooves blending into the sound of the gently rolling tide of the Salia. If you don’t leave now, you may never leave Legido or even Rexurdir ever again.
With just the clothes on your back, you sprint over and catch the tail end of the traveling band of explorers.
Skip, skip, skipskipskip
There’s another world out there, past the horizon, far beyond what the eye can see. When you gaze down the river, toward the sea to which it lazily flows, you can feel it in your bones, the sensation of another land, other peoples. What does this new world look like? Do they have dense forests, with a never-ending span of trees? Are they a different shade of green compared to that which grows here? What about the flowers? How many new and vibrant colors do they bloom? Hopefully they have much richer plant life than what you have here.
Skip, skipskip
Are the mountains as tall and jagged, as steep as the ones in your land? Are their peaks perpetually coated in white, too? Do they have vast deserts that take up much of their lands, like here? Can they farm and grow their own food, without fearing the seasonal drought?
Skipskip, skip, skipskip
What are the people like? Are they like yours? Are they friendly? You hope they’re friendly. What do their houses look like? What do they eat? What clothing do they wear? What are their beliefs? What are their customs, their traditions?
Skip… Skipskip, skip
The magpies and pochards flutter about the riverbank, away from where you’re tossing stones off the water’s surface. As your mind snaps back into focus, the birds take flight, gracefully gliding westward towards the endless expanse of the sea. You sigh, wishing you could join them in flight, and pick yourself up off the rocky shore, dusting off your pants as you stand.
Faint hollering barely reaches your ears, and you turn your attention toward the docks a ways away. The cool, gentle breeze that sweeps down from the rigid mountains in the backdrop brushes your cheeks, a relief in this midday sun, and caresses the red-and-blue flags, causing them to sway gracefully. Even from here, you can see the commotion, all the movement, from dockworkers and sailors. A hive of bustling workers and merchants in a flurry of activity, more so than typical this time of day.
There’s a scuffling of footsteps which grows more and more louder, crunching in the pebbles and dirt on the way over to you. The approaching young man has a round and expressive face, with prominent, soulful eyes exuding his youthful energy. He has a button nose and dark brown, tousled medium-length hair peaking beneath his tan wool cap as though what he’s about to say to you is too important to put himself together, his ill-fitting shirt flapping as he jogs. He’s out of breath, but manages to fight through the exhaustion with a bright, warm smile.
“Barges are… coming in!” he pants, hunched over with his hands on his thighs, barely covered by his dark brown, knee-length trousers, as he blurts the news. “Large gathering… Lots of soldiers and sailors… something huge is planned!”
“Why have all the men gathered?” you ask, confused. “There’s a lot of activity. What’s going on, Iker?”
“Atelmaro,” he says, now catching his breath. “He’s making a big announcement in the town square at sunset.”
“What’s the announcement?”
“Not sure,” he says. “But they’re gathering a lot of supplies at the dock’s storehouses. Must be preparing something big.”
“If the second-in-command to Vitor Criato is going to speak, it’s definitely something big,” you posit. “We should hear what he has to say.”
“I wonder if it’ll be another excursion to the south,” Iker says as you both begin your walk back to the village along the rocky shores, traversing the rugged terrain and occasionally hopping from one large stone to another. The tiny sand crabs scurry out of the way of our feet, taking shelter beneath the rocks, and minnows swim about the small tidal pools. “Maybe capturing more wild horses to work the plows.”
“They’ve already been on numerous such trips over the past few months,” you remind him. “There may not be any horses still remaining in the fields to be captured, with the rate they were collecting them.” Iker considers this, then hmphs in agreement with your assessment.
“I suppose we’ll find out in the town square!” he says exuberantly.
Your normally quiet town, Rexurdir, rests next to the Salia, the long river that connects the Lago do Amaia to the sea. The lake is nestled in a large, perennially snowcapped mountain range, the Cores Altas, with the Pico do Firmamento, its tallest peak, majestically towering over all the rest. The nearby mountains are your people’s only respite from the dry, extreme heat to the other side of the range; the vast, arid desert—The Great Fàsach, as it’s known by your people—is relentless with erratic and fierce storms, as is told by the few who have survived traveling and exploring the lands beyond the region. It is said that your people, the Legido, used to roam those lands, but with the severe change to the climate and conditions, they settled on the only area that remains habitable: a small piece of coastline on the western edge of this otherwise immense continent. Or, rather, that’s what is taught to you at school.
The streets of Rexurdir are lined with multistory homes made from timber and stone. Those who can afford it feature ornate plasterwork and stucco decorations, with intricate patterns and reliefs adorning the facades. The top floor hangs over much of the street with wooden balconies, some adorned with wrought iron railings and grilles for the windows. The steep, thatched roofs resemble the peaks of the mountains beyond, and some houses create distinctive patterns with their exposed wooden beams on the exterior walls. It’s a life of luxury far from your level of comprehension, being the son of farmers, but you appreciate the grandeur nonetheless, the motifs carved on the wooden doors and support beams displaying superior craftsmanship you could only dream of someday possessing.
Other than the dockworkers, with their practical clothing of striped blue and white cotton shirts and breeches—the occasional worker can be seen wearing faded pea coats, perhaps signaling their rank or importance—the people walking about the streets of the town dress in much finer attire. While the merchants wear velvet doublets and shirts with ruffled collars, the wealthier residents replace the breeches with trousers made of fine fabrics, the women in elegant dresses with voluminous skirts and elaborate bodices, garments woven with complex patterns or embroidery, and countless necklaces and bracelets of gold and silver. You become overwhelmingly self-aware of your appearance in comparison, but Iker snaps you out of your self-consciousness as he strides along, whistling a merry, indiscernible tune.
As you both pass by the docks, the workers heave large sacks and wooden crates onto numerous long barges tied to the cylindrical posts. Containers of food, water, alcohol, provisions and preserves are loaded on, as well as medical supplies, tools and equipment for a variety of jobs such as carpentry, blacksmithing, navigation, bedding, and more armaments and munitions than you’ve ever seen. In nearby pens, a large number of horses and livestock stand about restlessly, interspersing the commotion at the docks with their bleating and whinnying. The men in pea coats urge on the workers, and they move about expeditiously, never ceasing for a moment to pause for a break.
“Seems urgent,” you comment, a little concerned. “And significant.”
“Got to be for something huge,” Iker says, too excited for your liking.
“Are we evacuating?” The question seems silly after you ask it, especially when you consider the merchants and wealthy residents going about their business without a care in the world. Iker, humoring you, pretends to contemplate this, but almost instantly brushes away your worries with one wave of his hand.
“If the town was being evacuated, you think we’d be the last to be made aware anyway,” he says, a rather morbid—but probably accurate—observation and assumption.
People have already begun gathering in the square when you both arrive, encompassing the half dozen or so steep steps of the town hall. Their exterior walls are whitewashed like those of the homes and shops along the perimeter, but interspersed throughout are reddish-brown sun-dried bricks the size of a loaf of bread, blending in with the vibrant red-tiled roofs. Merchants decorate the outside of their stores with highly detailed mosaics, colorfully adorning the walls that shimmer in the bright sun. At the corners of the square are large stone monoliths, adorned with carvings and images at the base, the meaning of which are only speculated upon. Between the stone pillars are paths of rich, red terracotta tiles, connecting each monolith while the remainder of the courtyard is paved in cobblestone.
The crowd is buzzing, murmuring their postulations about why everyone has gathered. Closest to the entrance of the town hall are the extravagantly dressed merchants and nobility, while you and Iker stand on the opposite side of the town square, far, far away from the building, completely separated from the others. Iker has been smiling the entire walk here, giggling giddily as he continually tosses about guesses for the big announcement. By contrast, there is a large pit in your stomach, your guts twisting in knots, fearing what Atelmaro Ulloa has to say. With the amounts being stockpiled and loaded onto the barges, you worry it’ll have far reaching implications that may devastate the community. Times have become difficult for those who aren’t merchants or nobles, and perhaps even they are starting to struggle, despite carrying on as though they’re unaffected.
After a long stretch waiting under the setting sun, regularly wiping the sweat dripping from your brow, bells chimes from the side streets of the square. The crowd shifts, moving out of the way of the young, bell-wielding boys, wearing the deep blue and scarlet red of the Legido, as they proudly march toward the town hall. The people close by cover their ears as the resonating sounds ring out—they’re admittedly loud even as far back as you and Iker are—and the bellringers unite atop the long, flat space that extends in front of the building’s entrance, acting as a makeshift stage for the announcement.
The doors burst open, and three men emerge from the hall. The first is an older gentleman wearing a bright blue velvet jacket, and blue velvet trousers to match, with a red sash across his torso. His face sports a near-white mustache that runs down along his jawline, then up to his sideburns, and wears a tall, black bicorne hat rimmed in gold thread. The man on the opposite side of him is a dark-haired portly fellow, a bushy black beard draping over his red coat that nearly bursts at the buttons, and wears a plumed hat with a quail feather sprouting from the top, whom you recognize right away to be the mayor of Rexurdir, Martzel Olazábal. The man standing between them wears a felt hat with a tall, steeple-like crown and a flat brim that turns up at the sides, his outfit more of a military uniform than the other two, decorated in numerous colorful ribbons signifying something important, you’re sure.
Iker gasps at the emergence of the three men, practically squealing with delight. Whispering and muttering from the gathered townsfolk ripples through the air like a gentle breeze weaving through a forest.
“He’s here!” Iker squeaks, pointing to the elderly gentleman in the blue velvet outfit to the right. “That’s Vitor Criato!”
“He seems pretty serious,” you say, pointing out his scowl and upturned nose.
“Not as serious as Atelmaro Ulloa,” Iker retorts. He’s not incorrect: the man flanked by the mayor and Vitor Criato looks intense and severe. He’s also significantly younger than the other two gentlemen, yet perhaps just as distinguished as the revered Vitor Criato, storied to have explored the entire continent and worlds beyond your own, valiantly fighting off fierce creatures in foreign lands.
“Ladies and gentlemen of Rexurdir,” mayor Olazábal announces, his tone rich and sonorous, and he pauses for dramatic effect. The crowd quickly quiets, eagerly anticipating the upcoming speech. “We have been graced with the presence of two of the greatest explorers ever to exist in Legido, who have a special announcement for the glorious people of our land.”
He’s about to say something further, his chest puffing out as he prepares to bloviate, but he is immediately cast aside, gently pushed out of the way with a single hand from Atelmaro Ulloa as the man steps forward. Mayor Olazábal appears offended and astounded, at first, then, wanting to save face, straightens out his red coat and rests his hands at the lapel, clutching it tightly to aid him in restraining his desire to voice his displeasure.
“Today, we stand at the threshold of a grand adventure,” Atelmaro Ulloa says, a strong, commanding voice that you undoubtedly believe has given innumerable orders during his short time in this world, “a journey that will echo through the annals of history. We have received a sacred decree from on high, from exalted Xiatli himself, that preparations have begun for a great expedition to the unknown, a world existing beyond the comprehension of us mere mortals, a land of untold mysteries and uncharted territories.”
The crowd begins to stir, trying to wrap their minds around this news. Iker looks astonished, jaw hanging open as he stares wide-eyed toward the town hall. There are a few shouts, a few people yelling their questions about what this means, yet Ulloa ignores the stray statements, continuing to look annoyed.
“For too long,” now Criato chimes in with his weathered, scratchy voice, ”we have yearned for the rains to quench the thirst of our once-prosperous land. The drought has been harsh, and many of us have felt the heavy weight of hardships. But fear not! For with Xiatli's guidance, we have prospered before, and prosperity shall be ours once more!”
Sporadic cheers spring up throughout the crowd, along with the occasional fist punching the air. Most, however, simply nod along, having heard such promises before, but receiving nothing in return for their loyalty and faith. This proposal, however, is drastically different, you recall, than anything suggested before.
“Xiatli shall guide us through the darkest nights and inspire us to conquer any adversity that stands in our way,” Criato continues. “He has blessed us with knowledge and prosperity, and has seen fit to bestow upon us this grand opportunity. Xiatli's vision promises salvation and prosperity to those to devote their lives to his cause.”
“For every soul willing to seize their destiny,” Ulloa now says, “this new world beckons, offering riches beyond imagination. It is an opportunity to transcend the boundaries of our land and discover a greater purpose for our lives.”
“Know this,” says Criato, “Xiatli's will is unwavering, and his blessings upon us are boundless. Let his name echo through the ages, as we prove ourselves worthy of his trust. Together, we shall bring glory to Xiatli and to the Legido people!”
“Xiatli's wisdom has revealed these lands to us,” Ulloa says. “It is our duty to uncover the secrets they hold, to leave our mark on the annals of history. Together, we shall carve our legacy. In serving Xiatli's divine vision, we find meaning beyond measure. His path leads us to where we shall build a better world, a world worthy of our chosen people.”
“People of Rexurdir,” Criato says, “the expedition to the new world awaits! Who among you is willing to embrace this divine opportunity? Are you ready to seize your destiny, to chart a course beyond the unknown? Join us in this daring venture, and the rewards will be beyond your wildest dreams.”
As he concludes, the people applaud and cheer the rousing speeches, a wave of excitement sweeps through all those gathered. Voices rise in unison, many proclaiming their willingness and dedication to follow Ulloa and Criato to a world unknown. Some faces glow with hope, others bare expressions of determination, and a few even have tears of pride in their eyes.
Though they stood before a crowd, it was as if their words were spoken directly to you. Their message resonates within you, coursing through your veins and setting your heart aflutter. Could this be your chance to claim your own place in history? Is this the moment, running alongside these brave adventurers, to discover the greatness that awaits beyond the horizon? Is a better life for you and your family actually within reach?
You clutch Iker’s shoulders and look him in his eyes, a smile stretches wide across your face. He suddenly looks concerned, nervous and tense. For you, however, your imagination has taken flight. The spark of ambition within you has been ignited into a blazing flame, illuminating a path towards a destiny never before envisioned.
“Leaving Rexurdir,” he says, his voice faint and weak. “Leaving Legido. My family.”
“Think of the possibilities!” you remark. Now you’re the one who’s excited, hardly able to contain your enthusiasm. “Xiatli has even said there are riches in this new world! These festering farms could be left behind to start a new life, a prosperous life!”
“I’ve… got to speak to my family,” he says, worried and anxious, eyes cast downward.
You pat him on the shoulder and, after you both nod your goodbyes, you push through the crowd to race home, eager to share the good news. Your feet have wings as you practically soar through the streets. The prospect of a brighter future, of glory and adventure, fill you with a sense of profound purpose, as though, finally, there is clarity in your way ahead.
Your family’s farm sits not too far outside the outer limits of town, resting just beyond the city walls. There is a narrow irrigation channel that leads from the Salia through a couple other farms before finally reaching your family’s land, small trickles of water filling the reservoirs. For farmers like your and Iker’s family, it has been a difficult time. For many years, a drought has plagued your people’s countryside, crop yields hardly enough to feed your family, let alone an entire village. Many have had to turn to other trades to get by, resorting to odd jobs and favors, and selling most of their possessions to buy grain or vegetables from the larger farms run by wealthy families affiliated with Legido rulers. Even then, it’s become too expensive to afford enough to eat, and some have gone as far as consuming rats or other rodents. You try not to look down on them, understanding that everyone has to do what they can to survive.
The house stands alone in a field of golden brown. The stalks of corn have long withered on the farm, and your family barely grows enough grain to sell to those raising livestock. Since the water hardly reaches the farm anymore, you and your brother, Afonzo, travel back and forth from the river with large buckets to collect enough water for the fields. With the rain almost nonexistent, the water level of the river has shrunk, exposing the rocky shores that make it tricky to traverse.
You reach the wooden home, its walls patched with mud and trimmed low to help with ventilation during the recent encounter with extreme heat. Sitting outside is your mother, plucking the few streaks of gray out of her otherwise light brown hair with her knotted fingers. She fidgets like this when she’s nervous, and your enthusiasm is slightly diminished at the sight. The farm has brought her a lot of stress, aging her with large, dark bags beneath her eyes and prominent wrinkles on her forehead. She doesn’t notice you as you approach, worriedly looking at the ground.
“Ama,” you say, hoping to snap her out of her stupor, “there was a lot of activity at the docks today, and the great Vitor Criato made a speech at the town square!”
“Mmhmm,” she says, continuing to twist her hair between her fingers.
“He and Atelmaro Ulloa spoke of orders directed to them from Xiatli! It’s big news!”
“Mmhmm.”
You’re about to say something further, hoping to rouse her to excitement, when your aita steps through the doorway, venturing into the open air. The echoing thud of his well-worn leather boots on the wooden planks announces his arrival. His white shirt and light brown breeches are covered in soil and sweat from a hard day’s work in the fields. His thinning brown hair is disheveled, and there are numerous scrapes and scratches on his pointed nose and gaunt cheeks.
“Supper is ready,” he says meekly, squinting at you with his beady, brown eyes before returning inside our house. You go to help your ama up off the steps, extending a hand, but she continues to stare blankly at the open field.
The house is a single, expansive room with a large fireplace at its center, though long unused with the mild winters you’ve had for many years. There’s a long, wooden table with chairs off to the left, where your family prepares and eats your meals. Everyone’s straw bedding is tucked away along the right wall. Even when you’re all not working, most of the time is spent outdoors, where you can at least enjoy the occasional breeze.
Seated at the head of the table is aita, while your brother, Afonzo, sits opposite from the door, leaving you to sit with your back to the entryway. He knows you hate sitting in this seat, preventing you from seeing anyone who approaches the house. He does this purely out of spite, you know it. Proving you’re more mature than he’ll ever be, however, you graciously take the seat anyway, though disdainfully watching him the entire way to the chair.
At the center of the table is the Porrusalda, the vegetable soup you’ve been eating for nearly a week straight. The sweet smell of the stewed onions, carrots, and potatoes has become all too familiar in the house, although this batch is missing the leeks, most likely because your family can no longer afford them.
“Let us bow our heads,” aita says, extending his arms out and offering his open palms to you and Afonzo.
“What about ama?” Afonzo asks, watching her remain seated at the door.
“She will join us when she’s ready,” he says. “Please,” and aita bobs his hands and looks at you both pleadingly. You all hold each others’ hands as aita begins his prayer, the one always said before every meal:
Xiatli, we come before you in humble reverence.
Bless this meal before us,
Nourish our bodies and soothe our souls.
We give thanks for the gifts you’ve bestowed upon us.
May your wisdom guide our way.
Unable to contain yourself, you begin blurting out everything that happened in the afternoon as you’re served the soup, from the docks to the announcement at the town square, hardly stopping for a moment to catch your breath.
“It was amazing!” you say. “Iker said there’s going to be a big announcement in the town square, and–“
“You still befriend that oaf?” Afonzo interrupts. His dark brown hair is thick and full, unlike your aita, and it twists into waves that doesn’t look anything like you nor your parents’ hair. His strong jawline and prominent cheekbones are enviable, you will admit, though his attitude and demeanor never have been. Especially since he’s developed a muscular frame, being Afonzo’s younger sibling has meant years of torture and abuse, despite you both toiling over the same chores on the farm.
“Iker is a good friend,” you say defensively, aware that he’s your only friend, but a good friend nonetheless. “Anyway, before the interruption, the great Vitor Criato and Atelmaro Ulloa spoke to the townsfolk about Xiatli summoning adventurers for a new expedition to a far off land and they need people to man the ships and explore the unknown landscape and construct the homes and plow the fields, and it’s a whole, lush world over there! It sounds fantastic!”
Afonzo chuckles while slurping his Porrusalda, while your aita nods along to the recounting of the day. You feel the knots twisting in your stomach, eager to reveal your exceptional plan. Eventually, after numerous deep breaths, you muster up the courage to tell them how you want to be a part of this expedition.
This causes Afonzo to laugh harder for some reason, nearly spitting out his soup. You kick him under the table, which, of course, he kicks you back and, of course, it hurts really bad. For the first time, your aita looks at you, and if you didn’t know better, you’d say he would be seething. He squints at you, as he usually does, but his brow is furrowed, forming severe creases in his forehead.
“You think,” he says, his voice shaking in a controlled rage, “you should go on this expedition?” You nod slightly, nervous about what’s to come. Afonzo watches in bemusement, entertained by the spectacle. “You think you’re going to walk off this farm and venture to some strange land for what? Glory and fortune? Fame like that of Vitor Criato?”
“But, it was ordained by Xiatli himself,” you squeak out your reply, “Ulloa and Criato were announcing–“
“‘Xiatli himself,’” your aita says, his voice slightly louder, but ominous in its restrained anger. “I don’t care if Xiatli walks into our home and carries you off on his shoulders, you are not abandoning your family to galavant on a ship to some new world!”
“But, if–“
“You have the audacity to decide for yourself—at what? 14?—that you can join a crew and leave your ama and me to tackle the daily chores of this farm, alone?”
“Hey!” Afonzo objects. “I work on the farm, too!”
Aita smacks Afonzo, hard enough that he nearly causes Afonzo’s forehead to slam into the table. Your brother rubs the back of his head, and his protests have ceased immediately.
“What gives you the right?!” Screeching from behind you, your ama stands at the doorway, tears streaking down her cheeks. She hugs herself tightly, her face contorted in fury. “Do you know how many explorers survive these excursions? Hardly any! And that’s just exploring our own continent! You think traveling to another land will be safer? Do you know what horrors await in this new land?”
“But Xiatli’s vision is what–“
“You stupid, stupid child!” aita screams at you. You’ve never heard him speak like this, not even when you were a small child. His eyes are large and intense, nostrils flaring. “What do you know about Xiatli’s vision? Does his vision include abandoning your responsibilities to your family? Just so you can pretend you’re an explorer before getting mauled to death by some horrible creature or savage peoples?”
“It wouldn’t be abandoning the family if you all join the expedition,” you say, sniveling, you would admit. “It’s said there is a bountiful land on the–“
“Who said?” aita interjects. “People who need bodies to man a ship and feed Vitor Criato and Atelmaro Ulloa and put themselves in harm’s way so these dainty nobles with their uncalloused hands won’t be harmed by the dangers that will be encountered? Are you truly that moronic to not understand that they’re recruiting people just so they can be human shields to protect those ‘explorers’ from beasts that will eat you alive?”
There’s a lump forming in your throat, and you feel your lip quivering as your aita speaks. Ama has shriveled into a ball on one of the beds, sobbing profusely and clutching her head in her hands. Afonzo’s head is lowered as he eats his soup, not daring to make eye contact with anyone.
“Just consider,” you sniffle, “we could leave this land behind to find a better life, is all. The drought is ruining us, but what if we didn’t have to deal with it anymore?”
“‘Just consider’,” aita says with a sardonic laugh. “Well, you didn’t consider, did you? You never do!”
That is it, the moment that breaks you. You storm out of the house, running off down the road and back toward Rexurdir in the cool of the evening. You don’t know where you’re going—perhaps the docks?—but you need to be out of the house. Somewhere far, far away from the farm, past the barren fields, past the dried up reservoirs, past the dilapidated farmhouses.
How can they not see? How can they not yearn for what lies beyond these withered fields, this parched land? There are promises of luscious lands and untold riches, and yet your parents dismiss it all as the fanciful dreams of a naive child. But what of the reality? The drought, the famine, the daily struggle etched on their faces? You can't sit idle, trapped within these walls, watching your spirits wither and wane like the crops.
But how can you leave? How can you abandon your family to chase your own yearnings? You long to return not as a conqueror, but as a savior, to lift your family from this parched land and into a future you never dared dream. You want to be more than the sweat-stained brows and calloused hands of a farmer, bound to an unyielding earth. You yearn for uncharted horizons, the unknown that stretches beyond these confines. Yet, even as your heart races with the promise of adventure, it quivers with the weight of responsibility. Your convictions are like two horses pulling you in opposite directions, a battle of wants and shoulds, each shouting in your head.
Your feet carry you to the docks, placing you firmly in the center of the activity that still continues, even at this late hour. The sun has nearly set, just peeking over the horizon and casting a reddish-golden hue over the grasslands while painting the mountains in a vibrant magenta. The dockworkers continue loading up the barges, though they’ve all been nearly filled and don’t have much room left to spare. Nearby, the livestock and horses have left the pen, and men have begun corralling them near the outskirts of town.
There are a few familiar faces in the crowd that has gathered, some from your school. The expressions of the younger boys and girls are a mixture of nervousness and eagerness, as they gather near a group of older adults. Most possess a few personal belongings, bags and sacks of clothing and blankets, while some carry knives for multiple uses, but not much more than that.
A young boy and girl stride up to you, toned from working their farms. Their light brown hair is shaggy and unkempt, much like their garments, though that doesn’t stop them from being smug as they approach.
“Little Oilaskoa,” one says, his sneering voice laced with mockery. You immediately recognize the one calling you “chicken” as Benicto, one of the boys who regularly torments you after school. His tousled light brown hair seems like a wild crown of straw atop his head, with a square jaw and piercing eyes that gleam with a challenging glint. He’s clad in earth-toned leather attire, adorned with rough-hewn metal embellishments, and he carries an air of primal aggression, emphasized by his sturdy frame. “Are you here to join the other maidens in giving us a sendoff and wishing us well on our journey?”
“It’s adorable how desperate you are to try to fit in.” This one is Dorez, tall and wiry, her unruly curls frame her face, with lips twisted into a mischievous smirk as her sharp, blue eyes fixate on you with an air of disdain. She’s draped in a dark cloak adorned with intricate patterns, clearly something she must’ve stolen, since her family is far too poor to afford such a well-produced item. “
“Why don't you crawl back to where you belong?” says Benicto. “You'll never be one of us.”
“It’s unfathomable why they’d let you join this expedition,” you finally say, trying to fight your voice from nervously shaking. “You're as useful as a pebble, but even pebbles serve more purpose.”
“What did you just say?” Dorez asks rhetorically.
“Look at this runt trying to act tough!” Benicto chuckles. “I could squash you like a bug with one finger.”
The two square up to you, towering over your slight build with an intimidating glare. They get close—close enough that you can feel their rotten breath upon your face—but before they can physically accost you, a loud bell clangs. The bellringer, your savior, is nowhere to be seen, but everyone’s attention is drawn toward Atelmaro Ulloa, sitting upright atop a gray horse with black specks. As he speaks, you seize the opportunity to slip into the crowd and get lost among the numbers present.
“Xiatli has blessed our expedition with this fine group of able-bodied men and women,” Ulloa says. “You will be the brave caretakers of this great adventure and etch your name into the annals of history!”
Muted cheers sporadically arise from the crowd, many nervous and anxious about the challenges that lie ahead. It’s a large group—nearly half the town by your count, if not more. Times have grown difficult in Rexurdir, so you’re not surprised by the turnout.
“Ships await us in Auruma Xosta. We will travel there overnight, then load up the goods from the barges as they arrive, departing once we are completely stocked. Let’s move out!”
The crowd erupts with cheers—more enthusiastic this time—and they begin moving, traveling west. You’ve lost sight of Benicto and Dorez, but you’re too flustered to care. Is this it? Is this the last opportunity to join the expedition? If you stay, will there be another group of explorers and adventures for you to join? But your aita is right, in that you can’t abandon your family and allow them to struggle maintaining the farm without you. What if you scout ahead, travel to the new world and plant your flag in a rich, luscious plot of land for your family to cultivate? You could see about sending a letter home to update them on the new farm you’ll all have, where you will never have to worry about the drought ever again. Your family can be rich beyond their wildest dreams! That’s the goal, right? But will they forgive you if you leave them behind? Will they understand? Can you take that chance, of possibly being disowned by your own ama and aita?
There’s not a lot of time to think it over, the men and women have begun leaving, getting further and further from the docks. Already, their banter grows more and more faint, the clopping of horse hooves blending into the sound of the gently rolling tide of the Salia. If you don’t leave now, you may never leave Legido or even Rexurdir ever again.
With just the clothes on your back, you sprint over and catch the tail end of the traveling band of explorers.
