OH HELL
O SWEET TORTURE
GOD
- Final words of a Traveler

Part I � It�s Much Too Late

Why isn�t he afraid? Luther sat and wondered. Why aren�t they ever afraid? He had watched this happen dozens of times, and each and every time he had to wonder about that. Luther supposed that before long the man was too far across the field to see clearly whether or not he had broken out in sweat or was trembling with fear or defecating in his trousers, but it didn�t seem probable that he was. It was his choice to go. If he was afraid, he could always turn around, and come back home to Dragontown.

He didn�t, though, they never did. They simply walked on and on with a steady gait through a field of sludge and wet grass toward the waiting mountains. The giant spikes cut a jagged line, running invariably along the eastern horizon. With the storm clouds hanging above in unusually sharp shapes and angles, it looked as if the Traveler were walking straight for the gaping maw of a creature that was large beyond reckoning, and anxious for a tiny morsel to eat. The sight was more than enough to make one happy not to be close to it.

Luther, of course, was sitting safely and comfortably in the dirt on the edge of town, watching in the expected silence as the Traveler departed. In truth, he was watching his fellow silent townsmen as much as I was watching the Traveler. He wondered, Why are they so interested in him? Why am I so interested in him, or in them for that matter?

Most of the people watching were regulars. Luther never bothered to learn their names, but he recognized them. He recognized the man with eyes red like blood. He recognized the woman with crusty brown skin, and her friend with the claws on her hands and jutting out of her boots. He recognized the fellow with fur over most of his body, and a long snout like a dog�s. Luther had to credit the people of Dragontown for one thing, at least, it was difficult to forget a face, or any other part of a body.

Some of them were painting, as many in Dragontown loved to do. Portraits, they would call their work, though it was something of a misnomer. The �portraits� tended to bear very little similarity to the subject. Luther gazed over at one of the portraits to see a strange animal with broken wings leaping from a precipice. He shrugged and turned back to the people.

After spending so many hours at these events, Luther could conjure up the image of any watcher he desired, as, after all, it was usually the same people time and time again. It wasn�t normal for someone to come, watch once, and never return. Whatever morbid curiosity brought people to watch a Traveler tended to be a lifelong state of mind.

Luther had never seen the Traveler before, which was strange, as, more often than not, a Traveler was one who had watched others depart before him. It wasn�t entirely unheard of for a new face to simply show up one day on the edge of town and announce to everyone,

�I�m leaving, now, my friends. I�m traveling to the mountains, and to the land of Paradise that lays beyond. Goodbye.�

But it was rather unusual.

From what he had surmised in his casual eavesdropping, Luther learned, though, that this man hadn�t even said that. He merely walked past the Sentinel, and, after being warned that he should turn back if he wanted to live, he merely said, �It�s much too late.�

Luther squinted his eyes, trying to see through the fog, trying to memorize what the Traveler looked like. Tall, even taller than I. Dark skin, maybe scales or maybe just a good tan. Hairless, so probably scales. The folk with scales never have hair. A tail hanging down around his feet, and wagging, isn�t it? Animals and the folk of Dragontown shared certain behaviors along with appearances. And the tell-tale behaviors tended to mean the same thing. This man was happy. He probably listened to the Ministry too much.

If one were to listen to the Ministry, all that was required to escape the web of blood and excrement that was Dragontown was to set out Eastward from the city, cross the field between the outskirts of town and the mountains, and survive the pass through the mountains themselves.

This last part, however, was no small task. The mountains were every bit as menacing as they appeared. The hunters of Dragontown never approached the mountains, though they had grown rather skilled at luring and trapping and killing the beasts that roamed the highlands. To say they were skilled was to say that they could make the kill, but the task was never completed without losing one of their own. This didn�t bother anyone much. Life was cheap.

The Guardians, these beasts were named by the Ministry, though no one could say for certain what they were guarding. The term likely factored into the superstition that Paradise lay on the other side of the mountains. If the beasts truly were guarding something, then they were certainly effective.

No Traveler had ever returned from the mountains. Certain hopefuls suggested that perhaps the superstitions were true and the Travelers reached Paradise. Others, however, like Luther, were quick to point out that, when the Guardians were cut open, it was not at all uncommon to find the teeth (or fangs) and nails (or claws) and other less digestible parts of a Traveler washing out in a tide of stomach acid.

Nevertheless, the Traveler walked on, that tail wagging from side to side, every step taking him closer to the mountains. And they watched, wondering about him. It was a safe assumption that this man wanted to die. The question was why he would want such an elaborate, painful death as the mountains and the Guardians. There were certainly enough opportunities to die within Dragontown, and if he would be considerate enough to end his life here, then we could eat him afterward and some good would come of it. The meat of Guardians was rare and expensive, and there wasn�t much else to hunt in the marshes surrounding the city on the North, West, and South sides.

The Traveler stopped and stood at the edge of the range. Luther rose to his feet and redoubled his efforts to see through the dirty haze, staring across the distance of the festering grassland to where the Traveler stood. Will this time be any different? Will common sense return to him and bring him back home? Will he come back to Dragontown?

The answer to every question was �no�. The Traveler took a deep breath, and strode forward and was swallowed by the mountains and the storm.

Some of the watchers stayed and talked a while, finally breaking the graveyard silence, examining the portraits, but Luther simply turned and strode along the grimy street back into the city. He never liked to talk about Travelers with others; he was beyond verbal speculation as soon as he knew that no one understood it any better than he did. Luther did think about the Traveler as he walked, though.

Perhaps he believed he would reach Paradise. Perhaps he wished to die. The latter would explain why he was not afraid, and thus was far more probable. In either case, Luther silently wished him luck, knowing he wouldn�t need it. Either end would be better than life in Dragontown.