On some level, he had always known it was better to never speak of it. Gifts like his were suspect, at best- and persecuted to the furthest extent, at the very worst. So, he simply kept quiet. For his entire life, he had been deemed "lucky" and that was just fine.
"That kid could step in a pile o' shite and come out smellin' like a bloomin' rose!" Artie used to say of him.
Of course, that's not exactly how it worked. The threads would simply steer him around any impending doom. He would catch himself before "stepping in" anything untoward, but from any onlooker's perspective, luck was luck.
In school, he remembered reading Robert Frost's poem about the differing roads and the hour-long discussion that had ensued. The teacher plucked the minds of every student, trying to massage their grey matter into imagining what lay beyond each choice, which road held more promise, and what decisions would give birth to life-long regrets?
He stared at the clock and counted the seconds ticking by, moment after moment. At second three thousand four hundred and thirty-four, he stretched his mouth and flared his nostrils into a dramatic, lion-sized yawn. He hoped his boredom would be recognized by all, especially the teacher who seemed hell-bent on dragging this out for all eternity. The concept of "this vs. that" had never intrigued him. For him, there was never any doubt of which choice he should make. Glowing threads (visible to him alone) lured him to the preferred choice, the right choice -the only choice for him.
But the threads these days seemed haphazard. They tugged, and hinted, but faded until they were almost unrecognizable anymore. At first, he thought his gift was glitching or possibly becoming obsolete, until he recognized something similar about them: they all pointed north.
Nothing good came from the north - it was a cold and bitter wasteland. Every child was taught the mantras from the age of understanding: Life is best in the Dirge. Work for country first, others- next and self, last. And never...not ever, no - never...wander north.
But his threads had never failed him before, and he doubted that they would now. Something was calling him further. It definitely wasn't within the Dirge or it would have been a continuous glowing golden beam. This would be a journey requiring faith, discipline, bravery, and some luck.
He was short on faith, and rather lacking in discipline. He was no coward, but much preferred a nice, calm, predictable safety. When it came to luck, he had a full measure - to the brim and overflowing. Would that be enough?
He walked with purpose across Fowler's Bridge.
"Where ya headin', Dante?" his mate called out over his shoulder, riding past quickly on his cart.
"Oh, towards the northeastern hills."
"Nice, grab some pecks when you pass through Winnie's farm. They're nice and sweet!"
"Will do. Catch you soon, Val."
He turned sharply past the bridge, ninety degrees, still heading north but angled more towards the setting sun. Deep into the meadow, he saw Quint riding out to him.
"Far from home, young D?"
"Sir," he nodded, hoping to pass by unquestioned further.
"Minding the mantras, are we?"
"Sir," he tapped his hat, and his heart. "Best in the Dirge. All for country and others."
"...and never, not ever," Quint prodded.
"No, never wander north," finished Dante. He felt a pang of guilt but then dismissed it. He hadn't lied. He hadn't actually been asked if he was traveling north. He simply finished the mantra and agreed that one would never.
Approaching the shoreline, he looked out to the vast sea before him. Fog blanketed the horizon, almost shrouding completely the distant mountains reaching their granite spires to the sky. He had no idea what to do. Luck was luck, but he was running lean on the faith that caused men to walk on water. Dante stared into the fog, questioning quietly, pleading persistently, begging for some answer to be received. A golden flash, like a beacon was his reply. It shot out in a spiral, reaching towards his location on the shoreline, but vanishing before it touched down.
"Calls to ye, hm?" a gravely whisper pierced the silence.
Dante screamed, and clutched at his heart, nearly falling over backwards at the gruff, unexpected voice.
"Calm yerself, boy," the old man laughed hard, coughing up phlegm.
Disgusted, but trying to disguise his revulsion, Dante stepped back and righted himself. Shaking off his fear, he stood tall and retorted sharply. "I'm calm, and apparently not the only one who failed to mind the mantras." He peered beyond the man and saw a ramshackle cabin, a sleeping dog (that might have been dead), and a slither of smoke wisping up from a broken chimney.
"North shmorth. Life's to be had in all directions."
The boy eyed him warily, curiously, feeling hints of bravery creeping into his spirit. "And what kind of life has it been for you?"
"Hm. That's for me to know, but that golden beam isn't beckoning me. I've followed my own, and I can promise, the Dirge was not at all the best life for me."
The younger of the two leaned forward, suddenly thirsty for knowledge and hungry for meaning. "You saw the thread too?"
The man turned back towards his house and limped towards the mongrel dog, speaking quietly. "You aren't the only one, boy. Question is, what do you do with that sight?"
"I wanna cross the sea."
Stopping short, the man cocked his head. "Just like that, hm?"
"I came all the way here. I didn't come to stop now."
"And how are you planning on continuing?"
Dante's face scrunched momentarily, realizing that he had never really planned well, but also realizing he had never really needed to. In that moment, a flash of a thread wormed its way to the side of the house, revealing a small boat turned on its side. "I could pay you to ferry me across?"
The older man smiled, revealing broken and missing teeth. Had one been focused on only his mouth, it might have seemed cold and menacing, but the warmth that exuded and glowed from his eyes changed the expression completely. Dante felt a new surge of excitement as the man shuffled back towards him, hand extended.
"No need to pay me. I'd be happy to oblige a fellow traveler. What's your name, lad?"
"Dante. And yours, sir?"
"I'm called Charon." With a new skip in his step, he seemed to radiate youth and vitality, hurrying over to the skiff. "Let me grab a few things you might be needing, and then we'll be on our way."
Dante turned back to the sea, staring hard, willing the beacon to come flashing back to him. Nothing appeared, but he didn't need it again. He knew it had been there, and knew that something was waiting for him on the other side of this sea. He just needed to get out of the Dirge and keep going until he was far away. Forget the mantras and their chains. Forget especially the last one with its nevers.
As soon as he was far enough away, he would turn never into ever.
This is the hopeful first part of three parts in a serial fiction based on the prompt THREAD. It is entered into the DreemPort Challenge this month where we collaborate with Scholar and Scribe! It's not too late to join in the fun! You don't NEED to do a serial fiction - feel free to join in for week 2 and 3 for fun, engagement, prizes and connection!
Thanks to @shadowspub, @penderis, @bluefinstudios, @kenechukwu97, @kemmyb, @wesphilbin, @mypathtofire, @melinda010100, @samsmith1971 @silversaver888 @lizelle, @jacoalberts and @dreemsteem for making the @dreemport voting power go farther! ❤️
thread by Dani Aláez edited by me
