A Quiet Journey

Quiet Journey
The wagon sways from left to right as it trudges through dirt and pot holes on the ground below. Every time the cart sways a different direction, clanging metal echoes from the back of the cart. A man sits at the reigns hunched over directing the wagon’s horse forward. A shadow begins to to fall over the man at the reigns as another, younger man sits down next to him. “Dad, how much longer till were at Grandmama’s and Papa’s house?”

The man takes a moment to answer, “Can only be a few more hours now. We should be able to get there before sundown.” The son lets out a breath of air and leans back into his seat.

“Whats gonna to happen when we get there?” The father with bags under his eyes, a  small scar on his nose, prickly hair coming from the sides of his face, adjusts his hat.

“I don’t know. We’ll figure something out maybe your Papa knows someone in town who needs help.” The son just stared at the road as another traveling group looked to be trying to put another wheel on their cart. A blue tarp was cast down over top the wagon with metal trinkets hanging off its sides. The son could see spoons, ladles, pot, pans, mugs and a pitchfork bolted to the sides of the wagon.

The son still looking at the travelers trying to place a new wheel on the wagon says “Where do you think they’re going?” The father still not taking his eyes off the road.

“The same place as us, somewhere away.” The father still fixed like a board, keeps looking forward. The son put a hand on his head and was quiet. The father and the son pressed onward for a few more hours. The trees, looked like the trees they had passed a fortnight ago. The rocks looked like the same rocks they had passed days ago. Everything looked the same to the son. The only difference was the suns position in the sky, it edges closer and closer the the horizon. The trees began to cast their shadow over the road growing longer with every minute past.

The horses hooves were the only thing that made a sound, clunking down the dirt road. Off in the distance, on top of the hill,  stood a red wooden sign a few meters off the ground. The son leaned forward looking in the direction of the sign.

In a quiet, broken voice the father said “We’re here.” He pressed the horses reigns for the first since they left for their journey. This jolts the son slightly back into his seat as the horse kicked on. As they approach the top of the hill they stop; taking a moment to read the sign for themselves. “New Crestwell - Make it Yours” was carved into the wood.

“We’re finally here” says the son. He looks down into the sprawling valley. Trees lines the surrounding mountains. Even this late into the summer the son could still see snow capped cliffs. Down below he could see smoke coming out a few builds, little objects stilling moving in between the streets, and  candles beginning to pop up in the windows below as the sun drops behind the horizon.

The father grasps the reigns a little tighter, picking them into the air and slapping them on horses back. The wagon begins to roll forward and another moment of quiet ensues. Not a sound between the father or son is heard from the wagon trudging through the road. All is quiet as they both look into the valley below.