Chapter 13 — The Child
And thus begins Chapter Thirteen.
The Departure.
Now, children.
There I stood.
Bag packed.
Odin’s Abode behind me.
Rishikesh slowly becoming somewhere I had been.
The council lowers their heads.
It was time to leave.
Now.
Leaving a place is easy.
In theory.
You simply go.
The council nods.
Unfortunately,
“going”
requires transportation.
And transportation,
as history has repeatedly demonstrated,
is one of the Unbegun’s oldest enemies.
So I began asking around.
Train station?
Bus?
How do I get back?
The answer arrived.
Twenty kilometers.
The council pauses.
Twenty?
Twenty.
Children.
That is not a distance.
That is a betrayal.
I needed a ride.
There was only one additional complication.
The council already knows.
Money.
Or rather,
the rapidly disappearing concept of money.
Between bungee jumping,
food,
accommodation,
relics,
agriculture,
and several decisions my accountant would classify as acts of war,
I had very little left.
The council nods.
A familiar financial state.
And then,
as though summoned by narrative necessity,
destiny arrived.
The council leans forward.
A scooter.
The council gasps.
And upon it
The Child.
The council erupts.
THE CHILD RETURNS.
Children.
My fifteen year old transport provider.
The relic guide.
The mountain pilot.
The tiny man who had previously reintroduced me to my will to live through reckless acceleration.
There he was.
On his noble metal steed.
I had never been happier to see a traffic violation.
The council applauds.
I explained where I needed to go.
Or,
more accurately,
I said enough words and gestures for him to understand the general problem.
Twenty kilometers.
Bus station.
Departure.
He considered it.
I reached into my pocket.
Pulled out what remained of my cash.
And offered it.
The council watches.
All of it.
Not much.
But all of it.
The Child looked at the money.
Looked at me.
Then nodded.
The council cheers.
Transportation secured.
Children.
One final death ride.
For old times’ sake.
Now.
There was one small difference.
Actually,
three.
The council prepares itself.
First.
Highway.
The council becomes concerned.
Second.
Rain.
Heavy rain.
The council becomes more concerned.
Third.
My bag.
The council looks at the backpack.
Children.
Not the pleasant little backpack of someone going for an afternoon stroll.
The full travel bag.
Heavy.
Bulky.
Loaded with everything I had accumulated during the wandering.
Clothes.
Water.
Relics.
Mystery cube.
Probably several objects whose acquisition I had already forgotten.
And all that weight was now attached to me.
While I sat behind The Child.
On a scooter.
In the rain.
On a highway.
The council begins drafting legal documents.
Physics had returned.
And this time,
physics had reinforcements.
Now.
The Child accelerated.
The council screams.
Of course he did.
Children.
This boy did not appear to understand that rain traditionally suggests caution.
If anything,
he seemed offended by the reduction in traction.
The scooter flew.
Water struck my face.
Vehicles screamed past.
The road blurred beneath us.
And my bag pulled backward with every acceleration.
The council leans forward.
There it was.
The equation.
Child.
Scooter.
Heavy backpack.
Wet road.
Highway.
Gravity.
Momentum.
An absolutely magnificent collection of variables.
Children.
One incorrect shift of weight,
and the front wheel could rise.
One bad pothole,
and the archive would end rather abruptly.
One sharp turn,
and I might become a permanent roadside installation.
The council nods.
A reasonable fear.
And yet,
something strange happened.
I wasn’t afraid.
Not really.
The council grows quiet.
The first time I rode with The Child,
every pothole had inspired prayer.
Every incline became an engineering calculation.
Every acceleration reminded me I possessed a deeply buried desire to remain alive.
This time?
Rain pouring.
Bag dragging.
Scooter flying.
Death maintaining several viable opportunities.
And inside my chest
quiet.
Children.
Not numbness.
Not recklessness.
Peace.
I still understood the danger.
I still leaned correctly.
Held on.
Adjusted the bag.
Watched the road.
But the panic wasn’t there.
The constant internal screaming had gone silent.
The council listens.
Perhaps it was the mushrooms.
Perhaps the week.
Perhaps exhaustion.
Perhaps the note.
Let it go.
Whatever it was,
for once,
I wasn’t fighting the moment.
The road was wet.
So it was wet.
The scooter was fast.
So it was fast.
The bag was heavy.
So I carried it.
Children.
For someone who spends most of his life attempting to control every possible disaster before it happens,
this felt almost unnatural.
I simply trusted.
The Child.
The scooter.
My grip.
The road.
Perhaps even myself.
The council nods.
And onward we went.
Twenty kilometers.
Through rain.
Through traffic.
Through enough water that by the end,
I had ceased being a passenger and become a damp biological object.
The council applauds.
Cargo status restored.
Eventually,
The Child slowed.
I looked around.
The council waits.
Bus station?
Technically.
Children.
Let us use the word generously.
There was no building.
No ticket counter.
No grand terminal.
No helpful sign announcing:
BUS STATION.
Instead,
there was a bridge.
And beneath it
people.
Many people.
Standing around.
Waiting.
The council pauses.
For what?
Buses.
Apparently.
Every now and then,
a bus would arrive.
People would move.
The bus would leave.
Then everyone would return to waiting.
The council nods.
Infrastructure.
I looked at The Child.
The Child looked at me.
Apparently,
we had arrived.
Now.
Before I could fully process the transportation ecosystem,
something miraculous happened.
A bus appeared.
The council gasps.
Not merely a bus.
My bus.
Going exactly where I needed.
Children.
Perfect timing.
Suspiciously perfect timing.
Almost as though the road itself had arranged the final connection.
The bus stopped.
People began boarding.
I approached.
And immediately encountered a problem.
The council sighs.
Of course.
Booking only.
Advance tickets.
No purchasing one now.
The conductor gestured.
No.
Full.
Reserved.
Whatever variation of:
You cannot get on this vehicle
was being communicated.
The council grows concerned.
Children.
I had no money for another grand transportation plan.
No map.
No useful backup.
And I had just spent my final cash hiring a minor to transport me beneath a bridge.
The situation was not ideal.
Then,
The Child stepped forward.
The council rises.
Negotiations began.
Children.
I have watched professionals work.
Bankers.
Salesmen.
Politicians.
Ticket vendors.
None possessed the raw diplomatic power of this teenager.
Hindi erupted.
Gestures.
Pointing.
Toward me.
Toward the bus.
Toward the road.
More Hindi.
The conductor argued.
The Child argued harder.
The council applauds.
A master.
I stood beside them,
wet,
silent,
bag strapped to me,
once again assuming my traditional role.
Cargo.
The council nods.
Valuable cargo.
Five minutes.
Perhaps less.
Perhaps more.
Then the conductor looked at me.
Looked at The Child.
Sighed.
And gestured.
Get in.
The council erupts.
VICTORY.
Children.
I do not know what The Child told him.
Perhaps I was dying.
Perhaps I was a foreign dignitary.
Perhaps I was mentally deficient and needed supervision.
All equally believable.
But somehow,
I was allowed aboard.
I turned toward The Child.
Thanked him.
Properly.
As properly as our limited shared language allowed.
He nodded.
And just like that,
his part in the wandering ended.
The council grows quiet.
The Child.
The boy who had taken me to my relic.
Nearly killed me twice.
Returned exactly when I needed him.
And negotiated my final passage out of Rishikesh.
No grand goodbye.
No exchange of philosophies.
Just a nod.
A scooter.
And another road.
The council smiles.
Some characters understand their entrances and exits perfectly.
Now.
I stepped onto the bus.
Air conditioning.
The council becomes concerned.
Children.
I was soaked.
Completely.
Hair wet.
Clothes wet.
Shoes wet.
Bag wet.
Soul moderately damp.
And now,
I sat inside a refrigerated metal box.
The air conditioning blasted directly against me.
The council nods solemnly.
Hypothermia entered the quest log.
I shivered.
Violently.
Wrapped myself in whatever dry-ish material I could access.
Attempted to position my body away from the vents.
Failed.
Children.
I had survived 109 meters of falling.
Mystery substances.
Teenage scooter pilots.
Potential narcotics officers.
And now,
the final boss might simply be:
Cold Air.
The council applauds.
Humbling.
Still,
the bus moved.
Rishikesh receded.
The roads stretched behind me.
The rain continued striking the windows.
And despite the cold,
despite the soaked clothes,
despite teeth occasionally attempting Morse code,
I felt good.
The council listens.
Not euphoric.
Not excited.
Good.
Quietly.
The sort of good that doesn’t require proving itself.
The weight wasn’t gone.
I knew that.
But I could breathe around it again.
And children,
sometimes that is the difference between a cage
and simply carrying something heavy.
Eventually,
the bus reached the stop.
The council leans forward.
I stood.
Collected the bag.
Stepped outside.
Wet.
Cold.
Poor.
Tired.
Alive.
The council applauds.
All major objectives achieved.
Behind me,
Rishikesh.
Ahead,
the train.
Home.
The final leg.
I adjusted the bag on my shoulders.
Looked toward the road.
And began walking.
Thus concludes Chapter Thirteen.
The Return Of The Child.
The Rain.
The Highway.
And The Bus That Required Diplomatic Intervention.
Children.
The first time The Child carried me through Rishikesh,
I clung to him terrified of falling.
The last time,
I rode through pouring rain with twice the weight on my back
and something strange inside my chest.
Peace.
The road had not become safer.
I had simply stopped demanding that it be.
The council grows quiet.
Perhaps that was what letting go looked like.
Not surrendering your life.
Not becoming careless.
Just accepting that you cannot hold every wheel to the ground with fear.
Eventually,
you lean forward.
Hold on.
Trust the driver.
And let the road happen.
The bus disappeared behind me.
The station waited somewhere ahead.
And the Unbegun began the final leg home.
