I don't remember my expression at the time, but I remember the feeling of loss and profound powerlessness vividly. A day later, people carrying large bags and bags, along with twelve horse-drawn carts laden with supplies, left town. A few rode bicycles. No one objected to my father's decision, not even one.
I hadn't seen my father's map, so I had no idea what route it outlined. But we seemed to be avoiding something, as if we were deliberately venturing into difficult terrain. We twisted and turned through the mosquito-swarmed, sun-scorching ravines. I had no idea how many detours we took. By the time we emerged from the mountains, more than a month had passed.
Next came an even more perplexing journey through the forest. We seemed to have strayed from the so-called "refuge route" (honestly, I doubt it ever existed in the first place), and arrived in a completely unfamiliar and mysterious area. The conditions in the forest were no better than those in the mountains, and mosquitoes continued to harass us day and night. If there was any difference, the only consolation was that the path was slightly smoother. Besides that, the surrounding trees practically blocked out the sun, their trunks much thicker than those in the mountains. On the endless plains, ancient trees grew freely, their roots spreading freely. They were deeply rooted.
By now, mid-August, the entire group had almost reached the edge of the forest. Ahead lay a vast river valley, its swift current surging relentlessly at the bottom. The bridge crossing the valley was in disrepair and likely couldn't withstand the trampling of hundreds of people and the crushing of twelve carriages. This was why the group ahead of us stopped. We turned and headed for a village on the edge of the forest, intending to rest there. After two months of trekking, we finally had a chance to rest. Getting everyone across that bridge safely would be a real headache, even for my father, wouldn't it?
Saved. With this feeling of amnesty, I followed the group toward the village entrance. Will was perpetually drenched in sweat, his T-shirt long since stained dark. Two months of travel had drained him of all his energy, channeling it all into walking, leaving him with no energy for anything else. This was perhaps the first time in his life he'd been so quiet. Even so, the feeling of disgust Will left in me that June night while he showered at my house lingered. In a dark, narrow corner of my heart, like a eroded cave, I knew it was more about the bad news of the war than anything else. Will simply became the object of my disgust, an outlet for my emotions. If it weren't for the accumulated boredom of the journey, I probably would never have considered this.
But even if I thought about it, it wouldn't make any sense to me. Will was already a nasty person, and it was his own fault for accidentally ending up in this position. Besides, my dislike didn't actually hurt him—he wasn't even aware I was feeling it. We were still the same, childhood playmates, inseparable friends. It made no difference to anyone. Now that he was completely exhausted and no longer made those annoying noises or constantly annoyed me with his childish behavior, I felt incredibly grateful.
My father confidently handed me over to the Walkers and allowed me to walk with them. Colin Walker, true to his father, likely had no clothes suitable for a man of his stature in the town's clothing stores. Mrs. Walker had to take on the sewing work, using large pieces of cloth to create a suit of astonishing size for him. He was wearing only a shirt, and his belly was practically peeking out from under his clothes. The thin trouser legs highlighted his barrel-sized legs, and his belt buckle was loosened to the outermost notch. These trousers should have been paired with polished leather shoes, but he wore a ridiculous pair of blue sneakers. While walking from morning to night in the wilderness was understandable, having such a ridiculously large-bellied roly-poly figure as my guardian during this long journey was truly unpleasant.
No wonder his wife is even tougher than he is. Mrs. Walker is the only one in the family who isn't too annoying; she treats me with such warmth. It's thanks to her that Colin doesn't dare drink on the road. The Walkers own a grocery store in town, and whenever I pass by, if Mrs. Walker is inside, she'll always give me some snacks or other small things. I'd be even more grateful if she could replace those old children's toys with a hardcover copy of "The History of the Empire at War." I don't think twelve is the right age to giggle while holding a rattle.
Will is a year older than me, but I think his mental age is maybe nine. Surrounded by this whole family, I subconsciously frowned, breathing more lightly as I inched closer to Mrs. Walker. The smell of cooking oil on her was at least better than the stench of Colin and his son's sweat.
A simple, aged village appeared ahead of the group. A cracked wooden fence served more to enclose the village than to protect it. We walked on a gentle slope slightly higher than the village, and from a distance, we could see a market in the center of the flat land. The number of people walking around was surprisingly large for such a small village. The market was surrounded by a patchwork of low-rise houses, and in the distance, large tracts of farmland and a windmill. The ground was paved with gray flagstones, and a sparkling river ran through the right side of the village, a small section of which was enclosed by a fence. The scenery wasn't as breathtaking as the ancient villages in geographical atlases, but it was still pleasing to the eye.
That afternoon, the team set up camp in a corner of the village. The villagers weren't exactly welcoming, but they were gracious enough to welcome us. Hundreds of people flooding into this secluded hamlet was a considerable burden, perhaps even more than its original population. We quickly set up our tents, and the camp became quite organized. Two months of wilderness life had made us quite adept at such matters. From then until nightfall, I spent the rest of the day alone in my tent, reading a novel about wilderness travel that incorporated a lot of fantasy elements. My usual historical readings tend to be long, but I don't find them dull. Once I imbue them with my own imagination, the long passages of data and arguments become tools for problem-solving. For twelve years, that world was the only place I could control everything. If I didn't give my full attention to the reading, I wouldn't be able to make sound judgments, and naturally, the reading would be dull. I'd barely touched them during this journey. Every night, by the time I retired, my body was exhausted, and my mind couldn't sustain the reading.
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