The Pilgrimage Chapter 8
They approached the outpost slowly, each man scanning the surroundings, taking in the weary faces of those moving about. This place had the look of something permanent, or as close as anything got to permanent these days. Barrels lined the edges of the settlement, filled with burning wood to cast light, and a few tattered banners flapped in the breeze. Nearby, a makeshift garden struggled to survive in the desert soil, a testament to the residents’ tenacity.
A lanky man with a rifle slung over his shoulder walked toward them, his expression unreadable. He stopped a few yards away, eyeing each of them before speaking. “New faces,” he said, his voice rough but without malice. “Can’t remember the last time we had new faces around here.”
“We’re looking for someone,” Brad replied. “A man—a sage, they call him. Some say he’s around Fallon.”
The man gave a slight nod, his gaze flicking over their gear, the dust and weariness etched into their faces. “I’ve heard talk of him,” he said. “Folks come through now and then, asking the same. Can’t say if he’s real or just a myth we tell ourselves to get through the night.” He paused, then gestured toward the largest building in the outpost. “But I’d bet Lucille might know more. She knows everyone, hears everything.”
They nodded their thanks and headed toward the building, moving past the other residents with wary glances. Inside, they found Lucille—a wiry woman with gray hair pulled back in a loose braid. Her eyes were sharp, taking in every detail as she watched them approach.
“You’re looking for the sage,” she said, before they could even speak. Her voice held a calm authority that demanded respect. “Most who come this far are.”
Shen nodded, stepping forward. “Do you know where we might find him?”
Lucille leaned back, studying them for a moment before responding. “I’ve heard stories. People say he wanders, but they all point to the same place—the desert near Fallon, somewhere in the hills. I never met him myself, but I know enough to say this: he’s not a man who offers comfort. He doesn’t give blessings or absolution.”
Julio leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. “What does he give, then?”
Lucille’s gaze hardened. “Truth. The kind that hurts, the kind most people can’t handle. He looks at you, sees right through you, and tells you exactly what you’ve done—what you are. And once you know that, there’s no going back.”
Brad exchanged a look with Shen and Julio. They had come this far, driven by the faint hope of something—some kind of reckoning, maybe a strange sort of peace. But Lucille’s words struck a deeper, darker chord. They weren’t here to be forgiven, but to be judged, in the harshest way possible.
“If he’s out there,” Lucille continued, “you’ll have to walk the last stretch. Vehicles don’t make it far in that terrain, and the old roads are barely there anymore. I can give you directions, but after that, you’re on your own.”
They agreed, and Lucille sketched a rough map on a scrap of paper, marking trails and landmarks. Her hand was steady, her lines precise. When she was done, she handed the map to Shen, her gaze lingering on him.
“Whatever you’re hoping to find out there,” she said softly, “be ready for the answer. It won’t be easy.”
Shen nodded, folding the map and tucking it into his pocket. “We’ve made it this far. We’ll take what comes.”
With a final nod, they left the outpost, heading back to the SUV. The vehicle groaned to life, and they drove toward the faint outline of the hills, the darkness stretching before them like an invitation.
They traveled in silence, each man lost in his own thoughts, haunted by memories of the war, the things they’d done, and the lives they’d taken. For Brad, images of ruined cities flashed through his mind, fires burning against the night as he and others fought their way through the rubble. Julio remembered the faces of those he’d killed, the stark clarity of each moment, etched into his memory like scars.
And Shen—he remembered the meticulous process of building bombs, the satisfaction of each successful detonation, the knowledge that he’d done his job well, even as he wondered what he’d destroyed.
As the hills loomed closer, Brad slowed the SUV, pulling off the road at a small, sheltered clearing. The terrain ahead was rough, the kind that would tear the vehicle apart. They gathered their gear, each man silently checking his rifle, his ammunition, his supplies.
Brad grinned, clapping him on the shoulder. “Just like old times, huh, Devil Dog?”Guess it’s time for some good old-fashioned boots on the ground.”
Julio chuckled, though his eyes were distant. “Yeah. Old times.” His voice held a note of sadness, a quiet acknowledgment of how much had changed since those days.
They started walking, following the path Lucille had marked. The landscape grew more barren with each step, the silence thickening as the hills rose around them, casting long shadows in the fading light.
The hours stretched on, the terrain growing rougher, the path narrowing to a rocky trail that wound through jagged outcroppings and steep slopes. As they climbed, the weight of the journey settled deeper, each man bearing the invisible burden of his past.
Finally, as dawn approached, they reached a plateau overlooking a valley. A small, solitary figure stood at the edge, silhouetted against the rising sun. The figure turned slowly, and as they drew closer, they saw an older man, his face lined and weathered, his eyes sharp and unyielding.
This was the sage.