A Wanderers Inn
I have been traveling for thirty days. My horses are weak and I thirst dearly for water. My belly aches as hunger constricts my gut. I am fearful of death in such an unsuitable way. I have always seen myself dying in daring act of life.
Be it in war or the saving of a child. Or maybe, even in the defeat of a dragon as I get one last blow with my blade before it strikes me down and it falls to its death beside me. Feeling its last breath of heat roll over my body as our eyes see only our fading souls.
I have always thought my death would be glorious. Yet here I am, traveling alone with no more rations, nor water. My horses no longer walk with fervor but lackadaisical steps. And so I pray to find shelter before the cold takes us. Before the empty plains of barren trees and darkness finds us.
I wish not to be detritus before my days. Decaying slowly to the maggots as my body lays helpless upon the earth. Becoming a gruesome vision of what lies inside. But here I am, hanging by a thread like a silk worm before becoming prey to the cruel fangs of a snake.
Shrieking out in horrible pain as the body viciously contorts in panic to escape. Only to fail as the poison seeps into the body with ease. Laying dormant the mind and mumbles of hope crumble from the mouth.
Oh dear, how I wish not to be such a victim to an end. How so eagerly I wish to be victorious in my death. To live a life so wild that no day goes without gratitude. Without the triumph of a smile and caring touch of love.
But here I am, walking blind through a land desolate to anything I have seen. And my mind is so quick to play tricks. To twist the narrative to the naive wills of surrender. To hoist the white flag and let it be known I cease motion.
But such a death is not mine. And such weak and frail acceptance has no place in me. Not even if my tongue falls from me and my voice is no more. So here I be, a traveler seeking more than the doorstep of his own home.
But lost I be now, falling short of my confidence to guide my wandering heart. But there is no need to fret, for I see something, I see a house. A home, standing erect in the pasture of dead trees. Ah yes, a roof, maybe even a bed to rest upon!
I steer my horses to pick up speed. I can see the detail of the home as we near it. unfortunately the details are poor, dull. Abandoned like an unfinished painting. But I do not shy away for even a home with no bed is better than a cold night beneath a winter storm.
And lucky be the horses, for there stands a trough just in front of the home. And already it is filled to the brim from rain. There is some silt that lingers in it. But nothing the horses cannot bear, I see no infestation of insects either.
I let them drink as I approach the home. Its door, rotted, hanging by a single hinge. The knob is rusted, an earth red crusts upon it. I grip it and as I do, gritty flakes fall from it like dead flesh. At first the door does not move and so I thrust my body into it.
It falls open and the hinge gives way and I lose my balance. Plummeting to the ground I give out a grunt and hit the ground. And the clumsy fool I am, I cut my hand on a nail that sprouts from the door frame. The cut is deep enough to cause concern and so I seek immediate attention to it.
I stand up and begin to search the home for aid. But the house is empty, all that remains is furniture and a few ragged pairs of male clothing. So, I take one of the old pieces of clothes and tear a chunk from a shirt.
I wrap it tightly around the wound. It eases the pain enough to focus back on the home. I look to decide where I shall rest. And there is a room with a small bed and mattress. Not the most eloquent of mattresses. But none the less, it shall be better than the hard surface of my carriage.
I quickly remove myself from the home and place my limited supplies inside and the few blankets I have I place them on the bed. After covering the bed, I check on my horses, they are well covered in their wool's and are well hydrated.
A few minutes later after adjusting my surroundings, I lay myself upon the bed. I fall asleep with ease. A few hours go by and I am awakened by a thunderous storm. I shoot up from my bed and dash outside to see my horses.
But tragedy has struck and three of my four horses have been killed. They were struck by lightening, a very unfortunate scenario. I take my heart to sorrow and weep as I care for the remaining horse. I begin to feel stranded, a hopeless wanderer left to the destruction of nature.
But I do not give in, I remain here at the house for another week. I hunt and gather what food I can and in my survival I find a small watering hole or, rather a pond down the way. A few moments to boil and the water is clear for drinking.
Thirst and hunger are no longer my fear and I can gracefully say I have another day to create the profound life that shall lead me to my glorious death or to my dream. Remaining her becomes quite the unexpected change.
Turns out, I am not the only lost traveler that seeks out shelter down this way. For after one week of stay, two other travelers came by seeking shelter. And with the graces of my kindness I gave them shelter. Hospitality towards others was taught to me.
I do not have much to offer, but many times we travelers only seek the warmth of a roof and a moment of company. And as the days expanded so did my fortune. A month went by and many travelers have come and gone. Many whom have graced me with gifts, from money to supplies for the home.
And as time passes this place is not only my home, but a place for those seeking shelter. Those seeking for a place to rest before setting out to conquer. To contribute not only to their souls but others.
There is much I have learned from those that have passed through these doors. Some things good and some things bad. All something to learn. And so here resides I, a traveler once lost, out to find his purpose.
And like the clumsy fool I am, I stumbled upon it finding it before I ever found it. And in my last years of my life I find no regrets. For I have brought many smiles to those that found the White Rose inn.
Do you expect things from your life that you feel need to happen?
Is it the searching for it or, the mere act of doing that finds you your passion
Your love of life?
A Man's Traveled Heart
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