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This is the first story in a set of intertwining short stories. Hopefully more will be added soon.
Title: Wanderlust
Setting: France mid-1800s
Note: This story is base off of the song ‘Wanderlust’ by Nightwish.
It's not the end
Not the kingdom come
It is the journey that matters, the distant wanderer
Call of the wild
In me forever and ever and ever forever
Wanderlust
-Wanderlust (Nightwish)
His feet were sore, his heart heavy. But he continued to travel until he reached his next destination. His curse was clear: “Stop as often as you want, but you may only stay in one place for exactly three days, no more and no less.”
“The damned witch,” Mathieu sighed. It had been ten years since that fateful night. He enjoyed wandering now. Many have seen him, but no one knew the point of his journey. In all actuality, he did not know the point of his journey either. He just traveled, stopped and observed. Then he left three days later. It was his life, his rule.
He learned as he went along. Not just from the singing beauty of nature, but also from town to town. Even after walking amongst wolves, watching deer dart throughout the trees, and seeing paint the skies with their magnificent colors, the most amazing creature have always proved to be humans. He loved to learn from their ideas and cultures, trying to gather exactly what made this world beautiful.
But if there was one thing Mathieu learned on his journeys, it was this: always remain distant. The closer one gets, the harder it is to walk away after three days.
He sighed as he neared the town. He stood atop a hill to get a full view of the town. He was a little less than hundred miles from the place he grew up. He had not wandered around Europe on foot, of course. He occasionally would meet a few carriages willing to pick him up and help him along for a bit. But the majority of his journey was made alone and on foot. He had only traveled to about four countries, but through the traders and other travelers, he had met a variety of people from a variety of cultures.
He walked into town, virtually unnoticed. He just needed a place to rest his feet and bathe and he could be on his way again. But due to his curse, he had to stay for three whole days. The clock in the center of the town chimed to signal that it was 17:00 on the dot. Mathieu was grateful that he had arrived on the hour. It would be easier to remember when he had to leave this way.
The young man stopped in a general store. He fished for some money to restock his food. He looked at the cashier and cleared his throat, “Where is the cheapest inn?” he asked with tired eyes.
The cashier looked at him with a dark expression, “Down the road, to the left, there’s a sign with a flower blossom on it. That is the only inn in the town,” he said quickly, handing the traveler his food and practically pushing him out of his shop.
Mathieu was used to this type of treatment. Many people didn’t like travelers. They interfered with their simple ways of living. Mathieu just ignored people like this; life wasn’t meant to be simple.
The inn was nice enough, and it was dirt-cheap for three nights. Mathieu checked in for the first night. The owner of the inn was a hard-working man, is face wrinkled and his smile kind. And the inn owner’s daughter was a young girl who looked at Mathieu eagerly. The inn-keeper shoved her away quickly though.
That night, he heard a knock on his door. Wearily, he opened to find the innkeeper’s daughter standing outside, “I don’t believe I ever got your name sir,” she said softly, “My name is Celeste Winskept.”
Mathieu nodded and held out his hand for a handshake, “Mathieu. I do not remember my surname,” he said firmly.
But Celeste did not take his hand. She simply nodded and ran down the hall. Mathieu blinked at the strange encounter and went back to his hazy sleep.
The next day, Celeste was out in town, trying to sell flowers she picked in the field behind the inn. Mathieu decided to help her out as he dug for some change. She did not look him in the eye as she handed him the flower he had bought. He began to walk away from the girl as three young men came up to her.
“Hey girly!” one laughed and grabbed Celeste by the collar, “Haven’t seen you outside of the inn lately. Old Man Winskept chained you up again?” he said, throwing her to the ground. The three stood around her and laughed loudly.
Mathieu looked at them and walked right up to the three, “Move,” he said, his voice quiet but strong. He eyes piercing through the boys, causing them visible discomfort. They moved away slowly, one at a time, not daring to stay around longer than necessary.
He held out his hand to help the young teenager up. The townspeople looked upon the man with curiosity. One old woman smiled kindly upon him as she walked to him, “Thank you for taking care of those obnoxious kids,” she said, “May I ask your name, good sir?”
Mathieu was appalled by her kindness, he was used to uneasiness. But it was rare he’d come across hospitality, “My name is Mathieu ma’am,” he said with a bow.
The woman dug in her pockets for a golden coin on a red silk ribbon, “It’s a good luck charm from India,” she said, crows feet appearing when she grinned, “Take it,” Mathieu bowed kindly and took the charm. She seemed as sincere as they come. The other members of the audience seemed to take kindly upon him as well.
But as he walked around, he noticed that he had a shadow following close behind him. He turned around to face Celeste, standing there nervously, “Thank you,” she whispered.
Mathieu smiled friendlily, “It’s no trouble really,” he shrugged. The girl was pale, as though she never got outside, even on a pleasant spring day such as this, “Are you okay?” he asked bluntly.
She looked surprised at first. She nodded and walked up next to him as he continued to walk around, “Yeah. They didn’t hurt me too much.”
Mathieu rolled his eyes. He walked his way around the inn into a large blooming field in the back, “I meant, are you well? You seem sick,” he noted as he walked to a large tree in the field. He sat down, looking up into the branches. The sun shone through the bright green leaves.
Celeste shook her head, “No. I’m well,” she seemed to be trailing off, “Well, my father might be sick. He doesn’t let me out of the inn often. It’s all because of people like you.”
“Me?” Mathieu raised one eyebrow as he enjoyed the spring breeze rush by.
Celeste giggled, “You’re a traveler, right? Can you tell me a story?” she asked, with big hopeful eyes.
Mathieu sighed, something was strange here, but he did not question it, “Sure,” he said, thinking of one of his travels, “One time, I came across a man who did not need to work but worked anyway. He worked polishing a railroad track. He said he had been doing it for fifty years. The thing is, the train never came anymore. But for some reason, he appointed himself to this completely pointless job of polishing this track. I walked down the tracks for about a mile or two and meet a man tightening the bolts of the track. Now, this strikes me as odd; because if the track isn’t used, why would the bolts need tightening? Later, down the same track, I find an old man oiling gears. He then took out a bucking and scrub and began to rust the tracks! I found this incredibly strange, so I decided to walk back to the polisher. On my way there, I find the man tightening the bolts. But now, he is clogging and bending the gears. I looked at the man strangely, but I didn’t say a word. Then when I get to the polisher, he’s loosening bolts! Bewildered, I ask the man about this, he tells me that all three men know each other. They were giving each other work to do.”
Celeste looked at Mathieu with hungry, listening eyes, “Why? Why were they doing such silly work?”
Mathieu simply shrugged, “After the train shut down, the three men were put out of work. But they had enough money and couldn’t find work elsewhere. So they occupied their time working on their useless tasks. Some people just can’t live without something to do.”
Celeste found his story amusing, “You must learn a lot on journeys. Please tell me another,” she said, nearly begging for another tale of his travels. Mathieu nodded and began to tell some of his stories. He had hundreds, but Celeste never grew tired of them. He told them late into the night. Even some other children and their parents had gathered around to listen, enthralled by their journey. Going to bed that night, Mathieu couldn’t remember a town he enjoyed this much.
He was looking to the crystal blue sky, watching a few clouds lazily pass by. He felt a few children tugging on his pants and the bottom of his shirt, “Uncle Mathieu,” a young boy with green eyes said softly, “Tell us another story. A magic one.”
Mathieu laughed. He only knew one story with magic. It was his own story. He sat down and sighed, “Well,” he started, “This was back before I was a traveler. I was but ten years old,” he started. A few people, including Celeste, gathered around, the little ones sat in his lap and at his feet.
“I was living in the small town of Colmar at the time. There were rumors of there being a witch in the depths of the forest. Being a cynical young boy, I was convinced that the idea was just a sham to keep people from going into the woods.
“Well one day I was playing with a few of my friends in a field near the forest,” he continued, “I dared my friend to venture into the woods. He turned it into a double dare. I took it immediately. The woods were a dark, cold place. I remember them to this day. It was unnaturally cold in there. I was wondering if I would turn into a human icicle. It was the middle of summer, but the bark was frosted with ice.
“I made my way through the woods, my heart straining from a mix of fear and the cold. My feet kept going, but my head was screaming for me to turn around. That’s when I saw an old woman sitting under a tree, smoking a long pipe. Billows of smoke surrounded her and wrapped around her.
“ ‘Nobody comes in here anymore,’ she spoke softly. She wasn’t looking at me. But I assumed she was speaking to me,” he took a deep breath before he continued. He had never spoken this story before.
“What happened next?” one child begged. Mathieu laughed at her eagerness.
“Well I responded by telling her that no one came here because it was so cold. She looked at me with large, pitch black eyes that seemed to glow with even more coldness than the woods themselves, ‘Sit down next to me, my dear child,’ she said in a scratchy voice, ‘I would enjoy some company.’
“Reluctantly, I sat next to her. She grinned this large, toothy grin, ‘My name is Edina, what yours, my dear child?’ I told her, though a hard lump was in my throat, making it hard to speak. She looked to the treetop canopy, ‘Well, Mister Mathieu, what brings you to my woods?’
“Not answering her question I stuttered out loudly, ‘Are you a witch ma’am?’ I was nervous, of course, but I had to know if the rumors were true,” he paused just long enough for the audience to clamor for more.
“The woman was infuriated by me calling her a witch. Apparently, witches prefer to keep silent about that, to avoid being burned alive. But fortunately, she didn’t get too angry, ‘Mathieu, what is your life’s dream?’ she asked me kindly.
“I found this strange. But I tried to answer anyway, ‘I want to travel. I want to see the whole world!’ I said, with my silly dreams of discovering a place no one has ever known to exist.
“The woman laughed at me, ‘Well, you’ll never do that cooped up in that village of yours,’ she said placing her hand on my forehead. I couldn’t concentrate after that point. Everything was a fuzzy black abyss. All I can remember was the old woman’s voice echoing in my head: ‘Then you shall travel for all your life. You may never return once you have visited. And you can only stay for exactly three days,’ that was all. So I’ve been traveling all over for ten long years. And I’ve been stricken with Wanderlust. I cannot find myself able to stay for more than three days. And I know I can’t leave in less,” he said softly, finishing his story.
Some of the children were asleep, or went off to do other things. But those who were there looked at him sympathetically, “I’m sorry to hear that,” Celeste said softly, looking a bit ashamed for some reason.
Mathieu shook his head, “Don’t be. I’ve learned to accept this as my life’s dream. And I’ve learned to love the travel. I guess you can say wanderlust has enveloped me and caused me to love the rogue life of mine,” he said, the center clock chimed 17:00. Mathieu sighed, one more day before he had to set off.
Appalled, Mathieu looked at her, “Excuse me?” he asked, shoving his luggage shut. He wasn’t sure he heard correctly.
Celeste walked further into the room, “I want to travel with you. I’ve always wanted to be a traveler, to go into the unknown, to learn from nature. But my father has kept me chained to the inn and the back field ever since I expressed these desires. Please,” she took a deep breath and begged, “Please take me with you.”
Mathieu shook his head and pushed his way through her to leave the room, “You have your father and the people of the village. They care about you. You’re much too young to be leaving that behind,” he said, trying to remember his own home. But he couldn’t place a face on anyone’s name. And he could only remember but a few names.
Celeste couldn’t think of anything to say to argue with him. She could read the sadness off his face, “Fine. But give me a few more years. And I will see you on the road. Got it?” she asked, looking quite determined.
Mathieu laughed and ruffled her hair as he left the inn, “Alright. I’ll be looking for you,” he said to the girl as he took a final walk around town. In the field, children had made him crowns and necklaces of flowers for him to wear. The adults smiled kindly at him and wished him well on the rest of his journey.
The owner of the local café gave him a free lunch. As he ate it, he felt a pang of sadness in his heart. He had five more hours until his inevitable departure. But he did not want to leave. He was happy here. He thought about this for a long time. He never had stayed more than his three days. He wondered what would happen if he tried to. He didn’t feel the itching he normally felt at the end of the three days.
So at a quarter until 17:00, Mathieu made his way to the field, in hopes of seeing some of the villagers one last time. Almost half of the village was waiting to see him off. Even the man from the general store who seemed xenophobic before was there. Many children ran up and hugged him good-bye. Celeste was there, with a large book in her hands. She walked up to him and handed it to him, not saying a word.
The words on the cover read ‘Mathieu’s travels’. Inside were the stories that Mathieu had told, writing in elegant, female handwriting. Many of the pages were still blank, open for him to write the rest of them. He read through them, a few tears in his eyes. He croaked out a meager thank you. As the clock struck 17:00, he swallowed his tears and spoke loudly, “No. I will not go. This can be my home,” he said firmly.
The villagers looked at him, bewildered. Many murmured amongst themselves. Celeste looked confused, happy and concerned all at the same time. But Mathieu couldn’t have felt stronger. He had finally taken a stand and it felt good.
That was, until the chiming of the clock stopped. But it seemed to echo throughout his ears. He gripped his ears, trying to make the ghostly bells stop ringing. But they continued still. Through the noise, he heard an old, familiar voice, ‘Three days, remember? Nothing more. Nothing less.”
He fell to his knees; he looked up at the villagers weakly. They gathered around him, making sure he was okay.
But when the ringing finally stopped, it was the village that was not okay, rather than he. Everyone had stopped. He stood up; it was though time had stopped in his tracks. Celeste, the children, the kind old lady, everyone was still and lifeless. That was when the mist began to rise from the ground and engulf the entire town. All the buildings and villagers began to blend into the mist slowly.
Mathieu began to shake tremendously. He grabbed onto Celeste, muttering how she was suppose to see him again when she was a traveler. But soon she dissolved as well. ‘You see what happens when you don’t follow instructions?’ the witch’s voice chimed, ‘I thought traveling was your life’s dream. Think before you say silly things next time.’
Mathieu fell to his knees once again, “I was just a child. A child! You cannot penalize these people for my curse!” he shouted, in hopes she may hear his cries. But there was nothing but silence left.
The last line of his book was this: “Traveler’s rule #128: Always remain distant. Becoming to close is the wanderer’s demise.”