travel

Where is the sun when I stand in the rain?
I search for my glove on the Roses Way
a single cloud, I have no say?
Kept warm and dried by the winds of May.

Or another time
walked up to me, a gurl I had never seen.
She kissed my cheek, a snickering tree
Her dare that I have been

Ma’s neighbor friend, some friend to all
hugged me as she cried.
Later on, a cake, someone’s gift of balm
we both carried in the night.

Much of the text of this diary entry is interspersed and scattered with lists, notes, questions and rough diagrams, especially through the opening paragraphs.  Questions of provision, of packing and supply, lists of names which generally seem to belong to Breeish folk, or those of the wandering Eglain.  Geographic points, and estimates of miles between them.  Sketched and crude drawings of specific places on the eastern road that may present difficulty and danger, with arrows and labels showing points of attack.  It is no consistent work, rat

The letter is written in neat handwriting. Some of the full stops are smudged, as if the writer had paused to think and never removed the pen from the spot, messing the drying ink in the process. This seems to be the eighth of a series of letters to Rohan.

My dearest,

This story directly follows that of The High Moor: Part the First.

“Surely,” she begins, mindful of how she may accidentally disturb him as she relaxes, and now endeavoring not to, “someone must know something?”