Mazelton had fucked up. No two ways about it- he had. Can’t measure the distances on Polyclitus’ map when you don’t have the map, and can’t go back for it either. Mazelton sprawled bonelessly on his cot, looking up at the mountains. Mountain, singular, at the moment, slowly blending into the deepening night. The trail had snaked away from the vast ravine they had been crawling along, wiggling between two biggish mountains. They were proper “big” mountains too, with their gray granite peaks rising grumpily from the piney treeline.

Sixty four miles sounded right, but there were so many little twists and turns when the map got small. So it might be longer, and he just measured over a lot of bends in the road. But then again, was the difference of three miles really a big deal at this point? No, no it was not. But he wanted the precision- to know exactly how far from home he was. Mazelton grumpily tied his tent flaps closed and went to bed.

Morning came, and it was another voice rousing the caravan to action. A familiar voice. He had gone on endless rounds of the camp with them, offering polishing services. And their name was… going to come to him any minute now… Screw it. Someone would say it, and then he would go “OH RIGHT!” and reassure himself that he knew it all along. Mazelton dressed and packed with rote efficiency. It helped that he was a fairly tidy person to start with, so there was little chaos to unravel. Just the usual taking down and packing away in the certain knowledge that in a few hours, he would be putting it back up again.

His eye snagged on a line of stitching on the roof of the tent. He had sewn the tough cotton closed once more, then glued a waxed cotton patch over it. It was still water tight, blessings upon it. He could see the spear tearing the roof open. Clan Ninivut. He beat the spearman to death with his camp stool. The tent wasn’t just a sanctuary. It was a battleground. It was a storybook written on a sepulcher. Mazelton grinned at the thought. No good Ma ever rose from the dead. It was against the rules. Perhaps it was a chapel instead, having observed most of his religious practice for the last few months.

He was never getting rid of this tent, Mazelton decided. It was too important. Too many memories. Plus it was a damn good tent. Cookie rang the triangle, calling Nimu to breakfast. The breakfasts weren’t great, but they sure beat starvation. Mazelton looked down at his lean body. Still skinny. But not as skinny, surely? His ribs seemed much less pronounced, almost invisible if his arms were down. Little definition in the abdominals, that was good. Meant that he was much less emaciated. Not quite where he hoped. He wanted that little paunch of the not too successful, but a bit successful. He would take it. Besides, he still had a few more days to pack on a killo or two.

He strode out into the early autumn sunlight, determined to greet the day with a positive attitude. Mazelton took one look at the world around him, turned on his heel and went straight back into his tent. He calmly belted on a machete, picked up his heat weapon, and made his way back out again.

The campsite had been invaded by birds. Big, ugly, brow-gray things. Which he wouldn’t usually care about, but they were almost the size of his torso with their wings closed, and there were dozens of them. Mostly they were just sitting around, but every now and then one would snap its head around and inflate a sack in their throat. This turned their normally slender neck into a shockingly pink balloon, which they waggled in a very insulting way.

Nobody looked too upset about all this, so presumably it wasn’t a major problem. Still, huge birds out of nowhere. And they were starting to get noisy.

“Cookie, what's with the birds?”

“No idea. But they seem pretty harmless, so. You know. Just one of those things?”

The caravan rolled away from the unexpected birds. This was not without a cost, as when they did start to roll, the birds flew off, dumping their excess weight as they went. It literally rained poo from the sky. Mazelton had never been so grateful for the little awning over the box of the wagon. Duane looked pretty happy too, watching those not so blessed curse and try to duck out of the way.

All the little improvements to the wagon. All the little facets to the deceptively simple and plain man called Duane. There were stories written there too, carved by the miles and hours they passed together. It was a little melancholy to think that way, but a bit warming too. No matter what, he had met some good people on the road. And Duane was the best of them.

He privately resolved to buy a little Aeflaed insurance for the big man. Figure out a good sacrifice and see if he couldn’t bargain for six months protection or something. All his enemies died of “regrettable accidents,” the usual sort of thing. It wouldn’t feel right just to leave him with some handy cores.

The “Bird Situation” had only temporarily resolved. They were back at lunch. If they were after the food, it would be more understandable. But no. They just made odd, shockingly loud, calls on rare occasion. Or waggled their terribly pink balloon throats at people. Or glared at you. But they didn’t seem to want anything. If you tried to run them off, they would slowly flap away in a tired fashion, then plop back on the ground as soon as you stopped moving. It was maddening. They were maddening. Nobody wanted to start the wagons rolling again, but… they had to. And the damn birds did it again!