Slightly West of Nowhere

Once upon a time, there was a couple who had more children than money. The couple worked so hard to feed their children that, one day, they simply worked themselves to death. As they lay on their death bed they kissed each child in turn and said, “We have given you all we can. You must use it wisely.” Their children, all nearly grown, looked about at the barren cottage and began to cry even harder. Never had their home seemed smaller and colder. “We must make our own way in the world,” the eldest remarked. “Our parents have left us nothing but their love.” Indeed, the sheriff waited outside to take possession of the farm for unpaid taxes.

They walked a long way together. They came at last to a great crossroad where a dozen thorough-fares marked the way to endless possibilities and formed a small island in the middle of the road. Gileal, the most middling of all the children was, on this day, both the most excited and the most terrified. “Which way? Which way?” she muttered continually as her brothers and sisters each kissed her goodbye before being washed away in the tide of travelers, each to a different destiny.

Her eldest brother was the last to say farewell. “Where will you go, Gileal?”

“I cannot decide.”

“But you must,” her brother said. “Choices must be made as they appear or quicker than a sneeze they are gone.” Even as he spoke those words a large wagon trundled down the center of the road. Gileal and her brother were separated. The tide of traffic drew Gileal with it toward the South (or was it North?). She looked back once to see her brother borne away by the opposite tide.

Gileal let the highway carry her where it would. All roads lead to the future, she decided. I will wait and see to which future they carry me. And so days passed as she flowed along one byway after another. The company was often fine and when it wasn’t, she soon found another assemblage. She earned her meager living by helping one traveler or another with this or that. And often they helped her with her own small needs. Each person she met gave a bit of warmth that Gileal carried away with her. She trod the roads in so many directions that she soon lost track.

The seasons passed from Spring through Summer and into the harvest. The roads were crowded with merchants traveling to the final markets of the year and then, suddenly, winter was upon them like a fox among the chickens. The roads emptied, house shutters clapped shut, the air grew frigid, and Gileal was nearly alone. Only a woman whose age was hidden beneath sun-weathered skin still walked by her side.

“Come stay in my village for the winter. If it does not suit you you can take to the road again in the spring,” her last traveling companion said. The village was a sad collection of cottages, sheds and barns left naked when the chill winds of autumn stripped the surrounding trees bare.

“No, thank you. I don’t think I will find my future in that tiny village,” said Gileal.

“How can you find what you have not lost?” When Gileal did not answer, the older woman tried again. “Won’t you let me show you my village before you decide?”

“I can see it well enough from here.”

“Then you must have extraordinary sight,” the woman scoffed.

“What do you mean,” Gileal asked. “Can you not see it from here?”

“I can see the buildings and the fields, yes, but not the village. To see that you must open more than your eyes.” The woman sighed as Gileal frowned. “From this distance you cannot see that our blacksmith spends almost as much time fashioning toys for the village children as horseshoes for our horses. You cannot see that our rather shabby barn has a summer’s worth of flowers drying in its rafters so that there will be small patches of Spring to cheer us even on the darkest days. A village is not a gathering of buildings and fields, it is a gathering of people.”

Gileal was tempted, but the village did look very small and poor. “What would I do in your village if I stayed with you?” she asked.

“What you do in any village. There is always work to be done if you are willing to do it.”

Still Gileal wavered. The sun still shone brightly, holding the approaching cold at bay. There would be time enough later to find a safe haven for the winter ahead. But the woman was warm and kind, perhaps she should stay. She could not decide. The old woman shook her head. “No one can decide for you, Gileal. Where will you go if not to my village?”

“Perhaps I will spend the winter in the city where all the world gathers.” The thought chased away the slight cloud of misgiving that was beginning to darken her thoughts.

“The road to the city lies two leagues behind us.”

“There must be another road farther on,” Gileal said. “There is always another road.”

The woman shook her head doubtfully. “There is another way, it is true, but it is a difficult road and if you miss your turn you will end up in the middle of Nowhere.”

Gileal laughed at the warning. “Isn’t nowhere better than somewhere you don’t want to be?”

Her companion did not laugh. “Is it? Somewhere is a beginning: Nowhere is an ending.

And how can you know you do not want to be somewhere you have never been?” Gileal only shrugged. “Very well then, if you insist, I will tell you the way. Be mindful of the dangers. Few ever return from Nowhere.” When she had given Gileal the directions she opened her bag and removed a small packet. “I have little enough to share, but these I share willingly.” She tucked the packet into Gileal’s skirt pocket. “Fare thee well. I send my best wishes with you. May you find your future before it finds you.”

The words haunted Gileal as she turned once more to the road.

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