#00005

The Balloonist’s Fragment (cont.) After an hour, I could still see the balloon, a great, rumpled spread of red and gold against the green grass. The same after two; but after three hours, it had been swallowed by the expanse around me. The ground was muddy as I walked, and approached dryness only at the top of each fold. Even then, it wasn’t very dry. As one fold met another I would often find myself sloshing through knee deep mud and marsh reeds. I had passed through this country on my way north with the Expedition, of course. But then I had been riding on a sledge. But I realize – I have not yet spoken of the Expedition itself yet! *** Ever since Man first opened his eyes and marveled at the world around him, he has been asking questions and seeking answers. What lies beyond that horizon? Where does that river begin? What can you see from the top of that mountain? But one question he has asked, perhaps, more than any other: Who built the massive structures that are seen everywhere, in all corners of the world, and that dwarf the achievements of any civilization we know of? We still today cannot replicate what the Old Builders did. We have used their fortresses to guard our cities, we have docked our boats in the harbors that they made, we have been aided in our studies of astronomy by the charts and markings they left. And yet we do not know why the greatest number of their artefacts are preserved in the cold northern wastes. We do not know any of their written language. And we do not know how or why they left this world. Unknown reader, when we set out, I hoped that our Expedition’s name would become so famous that, for the rest of my life, I could tell newly-met strangers that I had travelled with Sir Rupert Geldrake, and they would without further explanations have their heads fill with images of where I had been. But now it looks as if my Expedition may perish in obscurity – and what changes will come to the world we departed from, I cannot say. But know, unknown reader, that I was part of the Second Geldrake Expedition, that departed in the year of 1274 after the Founding.

You decide - at some point - that heading out is better than staying in.

You pull the blanket off of yourself and put your boots on. The rain doesn’t sound like it’s decreasing any. But you don’t know when it will, and you don’t have too many hours of light left.

What’s on your mind is greens - wild greens. You’ve had so little fresh food lately. You can feel the lack somewhere deep inside you.

It’s October, but the weather so far has been mild. You’re sure that there must still be some edible plants growing.

Your jacket is hanging, dry, in another room. It was cheaply made, but it’s held up well - you were careful not to drag it through thorns like the last one. You pick up an old bucket that you left sitting by the door.

You step out into the rain. You’ve been dreading this moment, but somehow, it’s a relief. You’re no longer hiding, and the trees offer some protection. You’re not getting quite as wet as you expected; at least, not yet.

You breathe deeply - the woods are full of earthy smells set free by the rain. It’s a dim and twilit world, enlivened sometimes by the patches of yellow and orange made by trees that still have their leaves. You look around for bright green shoots on the ground, but you don’t see many - most of the plants in the understory that are still alive are an unappetizing mottled brown.

You walk a little, not finding anything. Then you see it. The cleared field of another nearby farmhouse has been claimed by elderberry bushes. The drooping purple berries hang temptingly; not green, certainly, but fresh. You step among the bushes and begin to fill your bucket.

You get back to your own farmhouse as the light is fading. Berries aren’t a meal, but you’re happy to have them. You start up a fire with some dry paper and wood (luckily, the supply of matches is in a much better state than the supply of wood) and throw your last can of beans in a pot. The berries go in another pot with water; the syrup will be rather tart without anything else to add, but a few spoonfuls make a good desert.

I drift upon my broken ship beneath a starless sky

And try to chase the glimmers in the corners of my eye

I loathe to think I’ll be in darkness ‘til my journey’s done