The Traveller
TW // allusions to child abuse
The Traveller was an outsider, but the problem was not that the village did not like outsiders, they just did not like him. The quiet village of Eldham was west of the capital Southwold - about a two-day ride away (as the crow flies) - and on its outskirts there lay a beast in wait, or so the villagers said. It was the monster under the bed, the shadow in the corner of your eye for the children of Eldham, the nightmare that suffocated their sleep and kept them away from the forest lurking on the edge of the boundary. Its looming presence emanated with long forgotten secrets and desires, hidden things that should never see the light of day but threatened to whenever the trees rustled. Going too close to the tree line, even just to play, would garner a harsh scolding evoked from fear rather than anger, but the branches always seemed to reach out their weary hands in greeting, or warning. Sorcery, the villagers muttered. Necromancy, houses groaned. Devilry, crows cawed. Though, of course, they did not know what it was they feared about the Traveller and his forest (as they called it) and his home, just that they felt there was something there worth fearing and that was enough.
It was within these woods, that pulsed with a faint air of magic, the Traveller resided. He was a strange man - if he could be called one. He was of a large build, hulking and yet he held himself carefully, with robes that at least appeared black when viewed from afar or from a side glance. They fluttered softly in the quiet chill that accompanied the Traveller and one felt it seep in through the tips of your ears if you ever crossed his path. The wind too could be on his side, a ghostly presence that seemed to carry the whispers of those long past and often carried echoes of something deep and dark to the very mortal ears of the villagers at night. There were always murmurs of half-blood and demon, faerie and warlock, cast with wary glances and cruel names. Some say they saw him with horns, some with a tail or cloven feet, but others disagreed and argued that he had none of those things. He never paid it any mind. For months on end, he would disappear just to return one day and continue whatever business he had there on the edge of Eldham, and though the villagers thought him to be one of dark magic, the sense that something evil was out there somehow got worse when he went away instead of better. And so, the Traveller and the villagers of Eldham had a difficult relationship as they feared him too much to chase him away and he only entered the village to buy the occasional supplies.
Colm ambled through his village, searching for a way to pass the time. He was bored, as nine-year-old children often get, and did not yet want to go home to his mother as he feared the heights her shouts could reach. The sky cried quietly, trying to hide her tears from the heavens above and so instead they dripped unto creatures below, but Colm did not mind, in fact, he wanted to cry as well, so he kept a steady pace in the drizzle. People milled around, some strolling and chatting about how the rain would be good for the crops, others hustling and bustling to bring in the clothes and protect their goods. Grey clouds filled in overhead and though it was not a dark day, the boy noticed the dreary tone in the air and hearts of those around him. Thus, he decided that it was the perfect day for an adventure. Gears turning in his head, Colm looked around and caught sight of the old path leading into the forest. Only adults could use it and even then, only to go to the river, the men could sometimes stray for hunting, but that was about it. No one would notice if he went missing, so Colm decided, as all nine-year-olds must at some point, that his adventure would be somewhere he was not allowed.
He crossed the green stretch before the tree line, approaching hesitantly, with curiosity blooming in his heart. The cries of the raindrops seemed to quieten in his ears as he arrived at the opening, before giving way to the guttural groaning of the trees as they towered over the boy and watched him questioningly.
They were interested in this little one that had come up to them. The one who wandered their woods was the only one who could quell the restlessness of their ancient souls, and yet, there was a smell of wind on the high seas with this child.
Colm turned and looked back at the village to see if anyone had caught him. There were two women watching him and speaking to one another. He could not recognise them from afar, but they did not come running and screaming to stop him and he did not expect them to. After they had watched for a moment, they silently left. Facing away from the path that led back to the village the little boy took one step, then another and entered the trees.
The thick canopy above prevented any of the sky’s sadness from leaking in as the trunks and branches seemed to close ranks behind him to seal off his path back. It was a different world. There was no wind. Everything was still as it held its breath in the boy’s sudden presence. The air thrummed with something long since overlooked in the minds of men - a quiet, gentle magic. Whether it was good or evil, that was not to be ascribed to the mesmeric nature of the boy’s surroundings nor that which inhibited it. It was a world more of shadows than light and he could not see far into the distance as everything took on a murky hue. He crept forward, bewitched, soft footfalls crunching the dying leaves beneath his feet, but only got so far before he froze; the silence turned eerie as a faint mumbling found its way to Colm’s ears.
A wind picked up in the distance as the branches began to speak to one another in harsh, angry voices. His blood ran cold, and he felt his bladder start to weaken – no longer was this any fun as all the warnings he had heard came rushing back to memory. Suddenly, all was quiet again, except for the distant sound of footsteps. Colm looked down to check that they were not his before looking up again, terrified. The murkiness seemed to have faded slightly and as he strained to get a glimpse of something, anything, he saw movement. There, a lumbering figure in the distance. Fear paralysed him, creeping into his bloodstream, as all he could do was watch as the figure kept on its path, praying to whatever gods that it would not notice him. But of course, he forgot that the gods hated him, and the figure halted and looked directly at him. The Traveller. The tales had never scared him as much as the other village children because he knew monsters that were actually real, but in that moment when all that Colm could make out was what appeared to be a mask, he turned tail and fled.
Eyes wide and arms pumping he pushed through the barrier of branches and toppled out of the forest where he scrambled to his hands and knees and stumbled away from whatever it was he had unearthed in there. The light rain was back, and he let it calm his roaring heart as he sat there, staring into the gloom. Somehow the boy picked himself up, limbs shaking, and trudged home, deciding that he had had enough for that day. But as he lay in bed bruised that night, he recalled the moment he had seen the mask and the seconds in which the Traveller had simply looked at him and, despite knowing of all the tales told around the village, a queer feeling grew in his heart. Colm wondered if perhaps the Traveller was sick, if perhaps the stories exaggerated a little, or if perhaps they were just as lonely as each other.
The next day the sky was clear as Colm determined to enter into the forest again. He had not been able to stop thinking about the Traveller, he felt as if within that momentary glance, he had felt their spirits murmur in kindred appreciation. So, he gathered his courage and left a few hours past dawn. It was a crisp morning with a slight chill that sent tingles through your body and whispered tales of legendary quests. Fresh air embraced the dawning land with open arms as wisps of mist unfurled their fingers and lingered around the village. Colm snuck away from the village with the rising sun warming his back and once again came to the edge of the forest.
He felt encouraged in the presumed safety of the waking world and took his step beyond the trees with more confidence. If the forest the day before was a place holding its breath, then this time it was the resting place of a giant as the morning dew coated the bark, the leaves, the soil, the grass, as if a master painter had carefully crafted this moment. Dragonflies were the only creatures that he could see making noise, but from somewhere ahead and all around there were a myriad of other sounds from deeper within the woods.
Colm, spellbound, wandered further in, the trees parting to make way for their inquisitive visitor as the green hue of this new universe was intercepted by tangles of sunlight that filtered through the swaying leaves. Instead of intense, it was soft and had a melancholic ghostliness. He roamed through the forest, deeper and deeper, the idea of the Traveller all but forgotten at this new feeling of wonder. Delicate moisture pressed itself onto Colm’s skin, purifying it, sending signals that he was alive and breathing, and as he took those deep breaths his lungs filled, the rich scent of earth comforting him.
Caught up in his cosmos, he missed a step and stumbled, so preoccupied that he had forgotten the natural rhythm of walking. Upon looking down to collect himself, he realised not only that he had travelled some distance and that he could not tell what time it was, but also that he had found a path. Glancing around, he saw a small building nestled discreetly under some aged oak trees and remembered his desire to seek out the Traveller. A chill ran through his body, but he walked cautiously towards the new sight; as he did so, the trees seemed to lean in, breathing prayers or words of warning he could not tell, whilst branches contorted into gnarled hands that twisted to reach him. The air got heavier, and silence leaked out. Shadows darkened and the sun’s light dimmed as he neared the building and was able to make out that it was a shack, old and lopsided.
The shack had a single window on its western wall and was made out of timber but interwoven with vines and ivy. It was rather inconspicuous, and to Colm’s eyes it did not look that big and in fact seemed to fit only one person. Was this where the feared Traveller really stayed? He walked up to the window and stood on his toes to get a better look through the grimy pane that struggled to reveal much but straining his eyes Colm was able to make out piles of worn books, creepy jars, a staff by the rickety door and a fireplace. A bit rough, but cosy nonetheless; he could imagine that the inside would have a musty smell.
It was then that Colm saw something shift inside the shack and, peeking closer, saw a large shadow moving around. Eyes wide he ducked, wincing at the sudden movement, holding a hand to his mouth as his heart hammered so heavily in his chest that the sound, he felt, threatened to reveal his position. Ice and dread filled his stomach and spread throughout his body as he waited unmoving, crouched just below the window, clenching his bladder.
There was a creak. Colm snapped his head to the side in horror as the door opened and he saw the beginnings of a large figure stepping out. He closed his eyes in fear, he could not bear to look even though he had wanted to earlier, and his little body went rigid. Pulsing filled his brain to the point of pain as he held his breath and tried not to move, breathe, or exist. After a few moments of rustling, however, and what felt like an eternity for little Colm, he heard footsteps shuffle off in the direction opposite of where he had come.
The boy slowly relaxed his eyes, but did not open them, and took his hand from his mouth. After the sound of firm, departing footsteps quietened, he risked opening an eye, and upon seeing that there was nothing there, Colm felt his body give way as he fell to the floor in a heap. His limbs felt as light as clouds as he gulped down air to calm himself. His mind buzzed as he failed to comprehend what had just happened, how had he managed to just walk up to the Traveller’s shack without knowing he was in there? But while he was in the process of gathering himself a thought struck him, the Traveller was leaving! His bumbling fascination with the forest meant that he could not remember the way out and now the reason he had entered to start with was disappearing! So, little Colm resolved himself and wobbled to the front of the shack where the door was once again closed and saw the Traveller in the distance walking away. Sneaking from tree to tree, he trailed the Traveller on his route, trying to build back up the courage to approach him.
What Colm was not aware of, however, was that the Traveller knew that he was there and had known since the moment he felt something outside his shack. When he had come out, he saw the little boy but paid him no heed and went off on his round. You see, he was not interested in the affairs of mortals – not anymore at least – and the little one posed no harm to him, though, he did spark something in the Traveller that he had not felt in a long, long while. He wondered what it was.
As the two navigated between bark, under shadows, over mounds, the Traveller eventually turned around and called out to the boy, both hands leaning on his staff that was as tall as him. “I know you’re there.” A deep voice, one that sang its age whenever it was heard, ripe with weariness, imbued with mystery, tinged with bitterness. It was a hardened voice, but not cruel – too tired for that. It would perhaps be a deep brown or green if it were a colour, withered and worn.
Colm froze from his spot crouched behind a bush, his eyebrows rose in shock, and he again covered his mouth with his hand.
“Here I stand, awaiting the presence of the skulking one.”
The tips of Colm’s ears turned red as he burst out of his cover, “I wasn’t skulking!” Then the gravity of the situation dawned on him. He was in front of the Traveller. Gawking up at him, Colm was able to take in his appearance fully for the first time in his life. Just as the rumours said, he was clothed in somewhat tattered dark robes and a black cowl, but he also had on old grey armour that told a tale of a time long past. The metal had rusted in some parts, but the rest looked clean enough, though the wear could not be hidden. Over both the robes and armour he wore a brown threadbare cloak and a curved sword hung by his side. But what drew the most attention was the mask that his hood was pulled low over. Decayed. Eyeholes there were and yet no eyes to be seen. Fractured gold edges glinted in the low light as cracks skittered across the rough plane, revealing nothing of a face behind despite it seeming moulded to almost-human features. Once white, now faded to a dull grey stained with flushes of dirt, there was an unspeakable quality about the mask as if a thick emptiness dwelled behind it instead of life.
“Do you know what it means?”
“No, but-but it doesn’t sound nice,” his ears remained flushed, but this time with embarrassment as he forgot the enormity of the being before him.
The Traveller regarded the boy as one would a passing corpse, with a morbid sense of intrigue. He peered down at the peculiar child with his unruly hair, gap between his teeth and his eyes, such fascinating eyes. The Traveller closed the distance between them with imperceptible strides as the boy stumbled back, the sheer size of the man causing his stomach to leap to his throat and as he reached forward with his armoured hands Colm flinched terribly, eyes shut. But he felt a cool sensation as the Traveller grabbed his jaw with one hand and his temple with the other, leaning in close. “Open your eyes.” He squeezed them tighter, no one ever wanted to see his eyes, people did not like them. A shake of his head by foreign hands. “Open.” Confused, yet feeling fear no longer, Colm opened his eyes warily – something he had never been asked to do.
The Traveller held his face this way and that, trying to get a better look at his eyes, “Yes…yes, how very interesting,” he muttered absent-mindedly. Two different irises stared back at him wildly, one so pale a blue it looked silver in certain lights, the other a vivid brown that could look pure black.
Colm wrenched himself from the grip of the Traveller, who straightened, blinking quickly, and looking down. “Don’t look at my eyes,” a weak, hoarse voice.
He got a grunt in response and when he raised his head, saw that he was being left behind. “Wait! Where are you going?”
The Traveller halted and turned his head sharply. The boy stopped, suddenly feeling very alone. But as he moved on, Colm found himself enthralled because the Traveller had not shied away from his eyes like so many others, and so he decided to quietly follow.
Leaves crunched as the little one hurried to catch up to his side and gazed up at him, but, the Traveller did not respond, continuing on his steady gait through the trees.
“Strange children. Strange people. Strange creatures,” he murmured to himself.
Colm noticed strands of darkness curled around his weighted feet and presence. The darkness settled like a vague fog around the formidable silhouette, its tendrils snaking out to play with the sunlight. Just like the world around them, it seemed to the boy that the Traveller had a phantom air of otherness that shadowed his steps. His voice sounded both pained and calm, his footfalls were both heavy yet careful, his posture laden and proud. There had to be more to him than all he had heard.
The two walked for what felt like hours. Occasionally, the Traveller would stop to pull out his sword and mark the ground of trees with symbols while whispering in a language strange to the ear.
“Along the path,” a glance at the boy who was trailing his hand across bark, “I walk.”
“Why?”
“There are sleeping and hidden things, and it would not be good if they were no longer sleeping and hidden.”
“Not good for who?”
“What sort of question is that? Not good for-” he stopped walking, hesitating. He tried to resume, “Why, not good for…” There was something he was forgetting, but he could not put his finger on it. Why was he doing this? The shadows curled around him flared and hissed as the Traveller turned abruptly to the boy, walked, and scrutinised him closely. “Who indeed,” he whispered, mask inches from Colm’s face who could only gape, perplexed that he could not even make out any eyes.
“Why do you wear a mask?” he asked breathlessly.
They both stood, staring at one another. One stooped, the other transfixed. “I guard.”
Back to his trail, “Why are you here? Humans do not stray this far from their path, and would do well to avoid me,” the Traveller grumbled, not understanding why the child was here when so many others would not dare.
“Well, I think I wondered...” The rest of the boy’s sentence faded for the Traveller. Wonder. The word tickled a memory in the dregs of his mind, but he failed to grasp it.
A tug at the edge of his cloak, “Mr Traveller?” The boy watched him strangely but whatever he might have said next was cut off by a sudden gust of wind that blew through the land, whipping up cloak, robes, and hair. Leaves fled, branches scattered as a bite bled into the air, ridding it of any daylight enticement as an unearthly sense came to rest in its place.
Colm’s grip on the fabric grew tighter as his face paled, “I didn’t...didn’t realise it was this dark already,” he breathed. The sun had been setting for a while, casting the sky in hues of red, yellow, and purple as it quickly faded from day to night, and now began to be swallowed by the horizon; beams of dying light giving way to slithering shadows along the forest floor as the pair had trudged on.
The Traveller yanked his cloak free, frowning at the boy whose hand now fell awkwardly, “It is with swiftness that the darkness falls here, you would do well to remember that.”
“What was that?”
There was no response as the Traveller simply gazed off at something.
“I mean, what, what was that wind? You felt it too, didn’t you?” He nervously wrung his wrist, eyes darting around, he shuffled closer to the hulking being. But the Traveller ignored him and turned around, heading back the way they had come as the boy scurried to stay near and keep up with his quickened pace. “Wait for me!”
Colm peeked behind them every so often, fearing what he may see while being unable to resist the pull of something out there. Distant giggling faded in and out, reverberating around the empty world, but nothing could be seen; there was only the light prickle on the back of his neck that set the disquiet of death into his ivory bones.
“Is there something out there?”
A beat. “Mayhaps.”
The forest was filled with a tangible silence now as twilight descended, only broken by the odd hoot of an owl, warding off unwanted visitors. A thick fog oozed in from nowhere, crawling over path and under hill.
“That word. Tell me about that word. Wonder,” the Traveller instructed Colm, not slowing.
The child was bewildered, “What?” then aghast, “You can’t be serious. It’s just something that-that you feel. Like, wow.”
“Explain.”
And so, Colm spent their journey back explaining to the Traveller what wonder was, and when he was done he was asked about curiosity, and then fear.
“But you must get scared, everyone does,” he probed, “I don’t like explaining this one, pick-”
It happened in the blink of an eye. A tendril of fog slunk across the belly of the woods, snatching Colm’s ankle in its numbing, phantom grasp as wraith-like figures appeared in the haze. The boy hit the ground and began to get dragged away. He did not know where to, only that behind him the air was beginning to fill with an ancient malice. Fingertips burning raw, he dug his hands into the soil desperate to find a grip.
“Traveller!”
The Traveller ignored him, mumbling to himself while trekking.
“TRAVELLER!" Tears streamed, a sense of panic overwhelming him as he called for the only one who could help. His cries tore through his chest, “PLEASE!”
The Traveller ignored him again but paused. He stood there, listening to the pleas that made him feel strange, he grunted, turning slightly to see the boy being hauled away. Then, for a reason unbeknownst to himself, he raised his staff high, growing to the size of a bear, before crashing it down to the ground on one knee. Upon impact, a feeling of challenge rippled through the air and his shadows writhed and screamed, flaring dangerously as they lunged outward. All grew quiet once more.
Colm had been dropped. He staggered to his feet, limbs shaking, blinking rapidly. His lungs, shattered with the desperation of his howls now cooled with the fresh intake of night air while his dirtied hands marked his face as he wiped the trickling evidence of his fear. Silver and brown eyes glistening, nose running, the boy was a sad sight. The Traveller walked over to him and knelt.
“You are an intriguing creature; thus, I will answer you one question.”
Hesitancy. Then, “Why do you wear a mask?”
A weary sigh – the most human sound from him all day. “Cursed I am, that is the matter. Dealt a blow of misfortune from the gods. Whosoever looks upon my face is welcomed with greeting in the arms of those passed.” He tapped his mask, “This is my own, I made it, am shackled by it – burdened and forsaken by my love of something that lingers on the edge of memory.” He stood heavily. “It is long since I donned this burden for the sake of that which I cannot recall, but I think once I had those things you spoke of earlier, yes, they were vague, but there.”
Colm watched the Traveller, who watched him back and then set off back on his path. He waited a moment before following after him and clutching a small piece of his large cloak. The Traveller said nothing. Tugging on his sleeve, a dark scar disappearing from view, the boy spoke softly, “I’m cursed too.” The Traveller peered down at the little one whose different-coloured eyes flickered in the pale moonlight, then turned away, grunting, as the two made their way back to the shack.
Arriving, the Traveller went to head in immediately when he was stopped by a voice.
“Can I-?” The boy hesitated, looking down to his feet and then to the door. “Will you be here tomorrow?” he asked quietly, shining eyes turned to look at the Traveller imploringly.
A grunt.
Colm fidgeted, rubbing his wrist, “Can I come tomorrow?”
A moment of silence. Another grunt.
A smile broke out of his face as he moved to hug the Traveller before catching himself, he shifted awkwardly on his feet for a moment as the looming figure watched him curiously, and then darted away from the shack.
“See you tomorrow,” he called from down the winding path as he gradually faded out of sight. “Don’t worry! I remembered the way back.”
The Traveller was confused. He had his books, his fireplace, his staff, his cloak, even his mask, but things felt different, felt odd. His cloak sweeping on the floor, he looked around checking that everything was in its place and pondered for a bit once he confirmed that they were. Why did things now feel empty? Nonetheless, just as it had long ago, the feeling of emptiness soon faded, and the Traveller was left alone with his shadows in the forest that had a way of hushing his hauntings. And yet, sleep was difficult to catch that night.
He waited a bit outside his shack the next day and as he was about to set off his wisps of darkness started to writhe and wail, growing in size. Something was not right. The Traveller stood like ice, listening, but all was silent in the woods, the trees told of no troubles. It was elsewhere.
Staff in hand, he took off towards the village, ducking under branches, dodging past trunks, arriving at the tree line. A fine rain had covered the land and it was a grey day. He stalked into the village, searching for the little boy; those that saw him approaching paused, struck with the fear of his presence made real. His staff thudded rhythmically along the ground as he took in the horror-stricken, hate-filled faces of those he passed, caring nothing of the ill will that plagued his appearance.
Then his eyes caught something, and he came to a stop, fixated with a shape on the ground.
Dead.
The boy was dead.
He lay face down in the dirt, on the path. His body a canvas painted with hues of purple, green and yellow that bled together to form the bruised masterpiece. Underneath the paintwork, his body was tinted blue as raindrops caressed his cold, corpse. He had been dead for a while.
People merely passed around the boy, taking no notice of the small life that had been snuffed out, and that that did appear to see him hissed in their tricksy language about how their harvest would be better now and their village head would recover. The Traveller walked up to Colm, paying to mind to those shuffling to avoid him as he neared, gaping at him. He nudged the body with his staff impassively before kneeling and turning it around so that he could see the boy’s face.
Villagers watched with uncertainty from a little way off – he had been given a wide berth.
His eyes were closed and there were faint bloodstains inked onto his skin leaking from his nose that twisted unpleasantly and dark marks traced the lines of his face.
Horrified by this odd display, the people edged closer.
The Traveller cradled the little corpse, reaching his gloved hand forward clumsily to push a lock of hair behind the boy’s ear and then tenderly open one of his eyes.
They spoke in low voices amongst themselves, some pointing, others praying.
A silvery eye gazed up at him, alone, and the Traveller was reminded of the fleeting look the two had shared in which their souls had muttered in mutual loneliness.
Jeers and taunts arose now as this feared being appeared to show weakness in his gentle handlings of the village boy.
Everything had faded, sounded as if it was underwater. All that he could feel was something deep within him creaking, teetering on the edge, snapping. He lay Colm’s body on the floor, “Shame.”
Standing slowly, he registered those around him, heckling, shouting, cursing, and no longer did he feel something tug at the edge of him. Stepping over the boy, the Traveller reached up to his mask and stripped it from his face, embracing the curse.
Nobody knows what became of Eldham village.
But the trees hold their secrets. They saw. They heard. And they kept it quiet, for the one that had walked with them for so long had buried the boy and disappeared, the mask that had kept the world protected from him for generations lay forgotten alongside the small, nameless grave.
