The swamp and jungle left far behind, the young shaman looked out onto vistas he could never have imagined. Towering peaks lay stretching out beyond, row upon row of majestic ridge soaring to incomprehensible heights.
The shaman shouldered his packs and pouches, picked up his walking staff from its perch against a nearby boulder, and ambled down into the valley. He had no direction forward, only a place he was leaving behind.
The forest was cool and refreshing after the smothering wetness of the jungles and swamps. Though it had always been his home, he found this new air invigorating. He came upon a well-used trail, and soon he was taking long, loping strides, taking in the miles with gusto.
The trees grew to stately heights, dark conifer guardians of the highlands. Their was little under-story, and the forest floor was a network of ground pine, running pine, and needles. It was still and hushed and peaceful, but not in a sleepy way. He felt it cleansing his soul.
This thought gave him pause. He did feel as though his soul needed cleansing. His people had been so awful. The things they had done, and made him do. But he was only a youth, following his elders. Surely that shouldn’t count against him?
As he made a simple meal, halted for a moment in a grove beside a softly flowing stream that served as his fountain, he followed this train of thought.
The thing was, that the things he’d seen had changed him fundamentally. Whether he felt a certain way or not, the damage, as it were, was done. It would be many years, possibly never, before the horrors were truly washed away by memory’s fickle fog. For the moment, though, there was forward. The time had come to make new memories, have new experiences to drive back the old.
Renewed, the shaman set forth again. The path meandered through endless forest. The trail itself seemed old, well worn and still used. It wasn’t suitable for a wagon, possibly a small cart born by mule; here and there he might have spotted a rut. Little piles of debris here and there spoke of occasional travelers recently passed through.
Fear never entered the shaman’s mind. In the jungle, his people were the rulers. Sure, there were other tribes out there, but in their corner, they were supreme. Absolute.
The shaman himself was no weakling. Standing tall even for his people, broad shouldered and heavy of girth, a swing from his club could easily fell a small tree in a stroke. Aside from this, his magical knowledge gave him power over the very thoughts of his enemies, and he could heal himself indefinitely. The only fear he had ever known was that he might be turned into one of his people, become like the others, and never escape. That fear was now conquered, and he now felt himself invincible.
So when the enormous bear ran into him from behind, knocking him flat to the earth and sending his packs and pouches in all directions, the shock was deep and immense, the kind that made your vision suddenly sharper and made you feel like you were more alive somehow than you had been in a long time.
Except, of course, for the very suddenly real possibility that he may continue to be alive only a very short time.
