Chast spent much of the morning and early afternoon hacking through underbrush with a blunt blade that had been among his bill of goods for many years and which no one had purchased because of its poor quality. To call it dull would have been kind. He hacked and swung the blade, his clothes long-since soaked through with sweat, the smell of brine thick in the air around him. When he had cleared a short path, he would return to the cart and gently lead Maisie and the cart forward, stopping to lean against it and take ragged, deep breaths. The loyal mule licked the salt from his arms as he struggled. Chast was not a stupid man; the decision he would be forced to make had been clear to him for some hours, but he had not yet found the courage to admit it to himself.

-Enjoying your living saltlick, girl? I can see you are, he said to the unanswering, but happy mule.

He was going to have to leave Maisie behind. One man could not turn a narrow, winding walking trail into a wagon road, not if he had a hundred years. It was an obvious folly, but one the sentimental Chast dueled with for a few hours. For many years now, Maisie had been his only constant companion during his time on the road. Sure, there were faces he knew well enough in his oft-visited towns. In Umlea and Rea’s Gap, as well as The Mark and Chancey, folks knew Chast the trader and looked on him favorably as an honest trader; a man who could be trusted. But there was no man in all of The Mainland or The Islands whom Chast could claim as a friend. That honor, if the thing could be so called, rested solely on the bristly haunches of his Maisie.

It was high summer in a fertile land and they weren’t so far from the outskirts of Umlea that the old trader was worried she would pass on from the world. It was simpler than that; he didn’t want to leave her behind. He was a veteran of journeys, had spent more of his life traveling than not, but old age had softened him and now departure on his own was harder than it ought to be. He unhitched Maisie from the wagon and she stayed near the wagon, snuffling around and munching on high grass Chast had recently cleared with the blunt machete. While she did so, he gathered all he could reasonably carry in a pack from the wagon, leaving the rest to the mercy of passersby. Only for a moment did he hesitate, realizing as he did that he was leaving his whole life behind for a boy he did not know, for the boy being pursued by Island Guards who would not think twice about snuffing out Chast’s life in pursuit of whatever their object was. The moment passed and he threw the haversack of goods over his shoulder. He was old, but he certainly was not past feeling, past knowing was the good and proper thing to do. The boy was going to need all the help he could get.

-Wander off to some nearby farmhouse if you can. They’ll see what a sweet girl you are at once, he said to Maisie, patting her head and rubbing behind her ears. I’ve got to be going.

He did not look back, but tucked the machete in his belt and put one foot in front of the other down the narrow path through the woods. Tears did not openly fall, but his eyes were dewy as he tried to imagine the path the boy must have taken. The boy had clearly been heading south, where the forests grew darker, wetter, and thicker than their northern cousins where the conifer giants stood tall and sentinel over hard, frosty ground. There were thousands upon thousands of leagues between Umlea and the far southern shore of The Mainland where the boy could be. Chast had thought the boy not entirely lacking in common sense, and likely to stick to the lesser-traveled ways.

Spitting willow bark over his shoulder in a glob of dark sputum, Chast turned his thoughts towards the wilds of the southern reaches. Creatures of story and myth lingering in the low, suffocating canopies, rumors of wizards and deformed monsters ready to take advantage of every long traveler. These were the stories that Chast and every northern child hears from the time he can walk. More traveled than most, the trader was not prone to believing in old wives’ tales, but he had looked into the eyes of a man in an Inn in Wimsbruck who swore to have traversed through the wilds to the shore to see the port where Guards came and went.

-There’s a reason, the man told him, that the Island Guards go all the way around and up the rocky coastline ‘til they reach Falkland. The Wilds are safe for no man who can’t call himself a conjurer.

-I had a mam who told me such tales, young fellow. I’ve heard all about the monsters lurking and the trees growing in circles, their roots deep and arched over pathways suitable only for wizards and demons. When business is slow I even take to telling some of them tales in towns I pass through.

-A fine evening to you, the man said, and threw back the remainder of his tankard.

Chast watched as the man left his stool and headed for the door. For what reason, he didn’t know, but he followed him out and shouted across the road.

-Wait!

The man stopped across the road with his hands at his side. It began to rain, mud running in rivulets through the dirt road while Chast’s boots made squelching noises in puddles that popped up as if from below the ground. The man stood next to his horse, bridle in hand as Chast hurried up to him, breathing hard, exhaling vapors in the cold downpour. He looked up into the man’s face, for he was tall when standing, and saw him for the first time. His face was scarred by pockmarks from a childhood illness, and his nose had been broken at least once. His eyes were set deep in his skull and looked out at the trader, icy and unflinching, a proud gaze of a man not to be ridiculed.

-I’m sorry, Chast began. I’m sorry that I didn’t believe you.

-Few do.

-Tell me what you saw. Tell me what you saw and I’ll be grateful for the time.

-Very well.

That is where Chast would go if he was running from Island Guards, deep into the southern wilds, into the seldom-traveled part of The Mainland. He had to imagine that was where he’d find the boy. For the moment, his feet trod upon the packed dirt of a deciduous forest easy enough to traverse. The broadleaf trees provided shade and nuts to be picked and stored in his pack. If he was lucky, he might come across a particularly stupid small mammal he could beat with the blunt blade at his waist. He walked quickly on his uneven legs, stumping as fast as his old body would allow. If only half of what he had been told of the southern reaches were true, he needed to find the boy first. It was not a place to conquer alone.