Chapter 1. The Living Road
The Road was alive. Everyone knew it. When the time of the Great March came, it doubled in size, the cobblestones seeming to grow new layers. At first, they were fresh and polished, like new skin over a healed wound, but then, right before your eyes, they turned into old, weathered stone, rough and darkened by time, or into packed dirt beaten down by countless feet. A grayish-yellow dust would settle over the Road in a thin, swirling haze. Tiny blades of grass and patches of moss would sprout between the paving stones almost instantly, making it look like it had always been that way. This transformation happened just a few days before the March. During that time, the villagers avoided traveling or walking on the Road, because obstacles and pesky passersby irritated it in this sensitive period. Often, kids would forget their mothers’ warnings and jump onto the fresh stones, either out of carelessness or bravado—and they’d get a harsh lesson. If they were lucky, they’d just end up with bruises on their knees or elbows. But sometimes, the reckless little ones broke arms or legs.
This morning, the sun seemed to shine with a special kind of brightness, almost ceremonial. It streamed through the window, burning big square patches through the curtains, making the embroidered firebirds on them look like they were ablaze. Oh no, I overslept… The March has already started, and I overslept! I jump out of bed, yank on my pants, and race to the kitchen.
Mom’s bustling around a pot and a pile of bowls, giving me a warm smile before shooing me off to wash up. Dad’s at the table, slicing bread. I walk over to the Time Window, glance at the clock, and see that everything’s fine—we’ve still got about half an hour before the March begins. But… they wouldn’t get it. This is my first March. Finally, I’m going to see Them. The ones who walk the Road. And maybe… I freeze, not wanting to jinx it, knock on the table, spit three times for luck, and splash my face with ice-cold water. And I dream, I imagine, I fantasize…
Leaving the house for the Road has always happened at nine in the morning, according to the Sun Clock. Every household builds this clock in their inner courtyard, and for that purpose, there’s always a special Time Window in every home. No matter the layout of the house, the Time Window is a constant for every villager.
Mom and Dad open the door. Dad goes first, carrying the Tripod. My heart skips a beat, my breath catches—mystery awaits out there… I step over the threshold, my eyes greedily taking in everything happening on the Road. But nothing’s happening yet. Darn it. We’re early. The Marchers have only just appeared near the first houses of the village. We walk out to the Road and sit on the bench specially made for greeting the Guests. Every homestead has one of these benches, often covered with sheepskin, soft cushions, or just an old blanket for comfort.
The Triad stands nearby in its special holder, the wind gently rustling the flower petals that decorate this colorful marvel.
Oh, let me tell you about the Triad separately, because it’s worth it. If you’ve ever seen a three-pronged pitchfork, you can picture this symbolic tree-fork. On a long handle, three prongs hold three unique items. The first is a straw doll wrapped with a red ribbon, called Zoloha, which brings money and prosperity to the household. We studied this fascinating symbol in detail during our symbolism classes. I can still hear Silya Hodott, our symbolism teacher, droning on in her dry, boring, grating voice: “Zoloha is a symbol of wealth and abundance. Often, the Travelers step off the Road to take her with them. This means the owner of the doll will have a prosperous and happy year ahead. As an example, take our own villagers—Martus Volos and Genir Basus—who, after the Travelers took their doll, suddenly struck it rich…”
Yeah, it really happened. Three years ago, the Travelers took the doll from those two guys, and wealth just poured down on them. Martus, while digging in his garden, found a pot full of gold coins. And Genir, just a month after the March, inherited a huge fortune from some great-grandmother in a distant village. Since then, everyone’s been trying to make their doll as beautiful and colorful as possible, though I don’t think that’s the main thing. Rumor has it Martus’s doll back then was tiny and shabby, made from two-year-old straw, because he and his family were barely scraping by.
Our doll was pretty cute. I made it myself, weaving straw piece by piece, attaching two little beads for eyes, and for the crown—a must-have for any Zoloha—I added small clusters of viburnum berries. It turned out beautiful, just awesome!
To the left of Zoloha, we always attach a little bouncy ball. That’s what I call it. Others call it Kolobok or Donut (though why, since it doesn’t have a hole?), but the official name is Kolovyr. “A symbol of longevity, eternity, repetition, transformation, and the cycle of nature,” Silya Hodott, our torturous teacher, drilled into our heads. As far as I remember, no Traveler has ever taken a ball from our village. But in the neighboring village, one was taken from Menpaf Vutr. About three hundred years ago. He and his family are still alive, can you believe it! Menpaf and his wife look amazing, as my buddy Duvko says, like they’re only 25. So, you get it—the ball brings long life.
I don’t even want to talk about the third item, because it’s the awful Tangle, a twisted mess of straw, dry grass, old rags, and other junk, tied up with a ton of knots and loops. The belief is, the more knots the Tangle has, the better. Man, did I tie a bunch of knots on old belts and useless scraps. Look at how big and tangled it turned out—probably one of the biggest Tangles in the whole village. Silya Hodott taught us: “The Tangle is a symbol of chaos, change, and the fleeting nature of life. The knots represent the troubles, misfortunes, and sorrows in our lives.”
The Tangle is made on the last night before the March, because touching such a bad thing more than necessary—or worse, letting it sit in the house for even a day—is a no-go. I was there (hiding in the bushes, despite Mom’s strict rules) for the burning ceremony of last year’s Tangle. Dad picked it up with a pitchfork and tossed it into a fire specially lit for the occasion. Then Mom kept adding viburnum, garlic, and wheat to the flames in small handfuls to purify the fire. The ashes were dumped into a special pit by the fence, where an elderberry bush grew, choking out all other plants. That’s where all the old Tangled messes from past years were thrown. Nothing ever grows there, and once, I tripped in that spot and sprained my toe. Maybe it was just clumsiness, like Mom says, but I’m sure it’s because of that cursed, tangled place.
And one more thing worth mentioning is Sidor, which always sits next to the Tripod. It’s a little bundle with food prepared for whoever the Guests might take with them when they step off the Road.
So, we all settled comfortably on the bench and started waiting for the Travelers. My cat, Murko, curled up on my lap and purred contentedly, loud enough to almost snore from the joy of being petted and loved for so long.
Off to the left, near their homestead, sat Granny Puliza with her kids and grandkids. Their bench is long and wide, because their family is no small fry—fifteen people, all pretty sturdy. Across the road, perched on a stump, was old man Tusko with his dog, Kulko. Both are skinny and, as Mom says, scrawny. Tusko’s got a sharp little beard, and Kulko’s got a sharp little snout. They’re a funny pair. I almost burst out laughing looking at the goofy duo. Birds chirped loudly, almost festively. The air smelled of mint and cherry, the branches of a cherry tree hanging so low they nearly brushed our heads. What an adventure! It’s such a shame you can only greet the Marchers starting at fourteen. I’ve missed out on so much!
Then, all of a sudden, the Road seemed to glow from within with a bluish light. It looked like it tensed up and arched, becoming smooth and flawless. I stared in awe at the cobblestones near our feet, gasping in amazement. “Silly boy, look over there!” Mom said, pointing to the right, where the first Travelers had already appeared. Yeah, easy for her to say—I’m seeing the Road like this, so strange and radiant, for the first time. The thought flickered and vanished, because my eyes, my whole being, were already there, with the first Travelers stepping calmly, proudly, and deliberately along the Road.
I was a straight-A student in Road Studies. I knew the geographic layout of every Road in our country. I knew all the quirks of this Road, its flaws and strengths, the dangers it posed to people, and all the lucky incidents tied to it. I knew every type, species, and race ever seen on the Road. Scholars had classified everything that walked, moved, rolled, or crawled along it. Terrifying monsters and pretty little girls, stinking hairy unknowns and proper ladies and gentlemen, majestic princesses and knights in shining armor, and so many other kinds of Travelers had passed along the Road throughout its existence. No one could remember a world without the Road. It had always been there. I knew everything in theory, but in real life, I’d never seen a single Guest. And now they were walking along the Road past our house, and I could see it all with my own eyes, smell their scents, hear the clank of weapons, the stomp of hooves, the rustle of wings, the squelch of slime from some creepy monsters (in our village, we just call them Sludgers). Right then, a handsome gentleman in very colorful clothes passed by, and behind him, I could still hear the excited gasps and whispers of Granny Puliza’s younger daughters.
And I wasn’t scared at all. Not even when a massive Stomper (definitely taller than our house!) trudged by. His giant foot could’ve covered our entire garden! But I wasn’t afraid, because I remembered that none of the Travelers could ever harm those who greeted them from the roadside. Not even if one of them picked a Tangle. In our last Road Studies class, right before the March, Silya Hodott held a special prep session. We learned clearly that the Road is safe as long as you don’t step onto it.
All of this—the people and creatures, the Road itself, the reactions of my fellow villagers to the Travelers—thrilled and delighted me. I could sit here and watch the Travelers endlessly! But then, I realized something was off about the Road. Something unnatural was happening in this Great March, something subtle but eerie, unsettling, and creepy. And then it hit me! Yes! How did I not notice it right away? There were no voices. The people walking the Road weren’t talking at all. Even the monsters and bizarre creatures made no sounds. And no one looked to the side, toward the roadside, as if they didn’t see us, the ones greeting them. Against the backdrop of the noise of their steps (if they had steps), there wasn’t a single word, shout, growl, or squeak. The Travelers walked quietly and slowly. Almost like they were doomed. And that’s when I started to feel afraid...