The Traveler’s main burden is a restless soul. He has carried it dutifully for a long time.
Traveler’s roots were deep, but not necessarily set into a specific place on this earth. Having traversed many a mile of land and sea, this sojourner had been driven westward, in search of some destination that could not yet be clearly identified. So it might be said his roots stretched deep into life itself, rather than a place.
At least for now.
From a continental origin he had sailed o’er channel, into stillness and storm, outside of the norm, through unknown , and out the other side of somewhere . . . arriving for a season upon an ancient isle. But finding very little solace there, traveler had redirected weary legs to ascend yet another gangplank, so that he might be transported to that great land he had heard tales of, beyond the blue.
The seaport where he disembarked was, as it happened, a frontier for foreigners not unlike himself. They had uncovered motivations to—for whatever reason—not remain where they had begun. And so, having hung their hopes upon such vague restlessness, they undertook yet another phase of the great journey to somewhere yet to be determined.
By 'n by, the traveler eventually found himself ascending a long piedmont hill, and so it seemed when he had reached the top of it, the extended journey was now delivering him to a wide westward-looking vista.
Pausing to catch breath, Travis trained his eyes on a string of faraway ridges. Obviously high, yet . . . it seemed . . . gently-sloping. . . forested they were, and having no cragginess that he could see from here. That string of mountains stretched like great slumbering beached whales across the entirety of his new horizon. From north to south . . . blue, and blue to blue on blue, and more . . . blue.
He had never seen such a thing.
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