A New Beginning

Reconciliation Part I: Brutal, Unvarnished Candor and Harsh Truths

You make your way through a claustrophobically narrow yet undistinguishably run-of-the-mill grotto debouching into a dome-shaped underground chamber that is anything but. As luck would have it, it's not as dark as you had feared, seeing as a gap in the ceiling allows for a thin beam of daylight to enter, leaving the rest of the cavern in ominous shadow – much like the Vaudeville stage spotlight, had the Vaudeville theater been achromatic, eerily quiet, and with an ethereal ambiance. Bathing in this light are one-two-three... seven in total full-body sculptures, akin in shape and anatomical detail to Greek athletes. All are raised high on pedestals and stand erect in a perfect circle, facing, with a bird-eye-view, a significantly smaller sculpture with curled-up legs and wings for arms.

Arthur is busy jotting in that enticingly enigmatic journal of his and pays you no heed. In this nature's spotlight, his sharply defined, all-black silhouette against bright white complements the otherworldly atmosphere of this ominous, yet strangely alluring cave, where the walls are a cloudless night of enchanting twinkles on account of uncountable, infinitesimal crystals embedded in the granite. To your left, the lantern burns with a dim, amber glow near a corpse splayed against a pile of stones, the likely result of a rockfall thousands of years in the making.

You kneel down by the remains. There is no telling how old the mummy is. Could be two years, could be twenty. Tufts of chin-length hair stick out from an old flat cap drooped over the shriveled head. A fractured tibia visible through frayed rags that was once clothes tells its own, tragic story of his or her demise. A stick is tied to the appurtenant leg with shredded cloth in a feeble attempt at securing the broken bone. The remainder of man spread out on top of the remainders of crag serve as a somber reminder that, as flesh will inevitably turn to dust, so does stone. No matter how massive, tenacious, and rock-solid, the passing of time crumbles all to dust. Rock erosion truly is the utmost testament to the forces of change in a dynamic and perpetually changing Universe.

An open rucksack has fallen over and its content scattered on the ground. Cue the number of faded newspaper scraps detailing the lives and discoveries of last century's most eminent explorers crammed in between the pages of what must've been a journal or acting as ad hoc bookmarks for notable works of fiction, such as the unabridged collection of Gulliver's Travels, a monocular, a compass, and a map of Ambarino with faded x-es, circles, and personal notes long since illegible you wager this was once an aspiring explorer or self-prospective treasure hunter in search of adventure, wealth, or both, yet found naught but darkness and death inside a cold and desolate cavern; a final resting place highly unfit for the proverbial eternal rest in peace.

"This' what happens when ya don't heed the land," Arthur scoffs behind you. He kneels down by the rucksack and starts rummaging the many compartments and pockets with agility and deft.

For someone always pushing to make up for lost time, time he has aplenty when it comes to looting the corpses he stumbles across with unwearied diligence no matter how foul or decayed, no matter who they were in life be it near penniless peasants, bounty hunters and lawmen – crooked or decent, doers of good and scoundrels alike. You give his arm a push and effectively stop his prowling short.

"This ain't why we're here."

"Well, he ain't here, neither."

The response is conveyed in a dull voice sans lilt and tone, and to boot, sans steering away from the dead adventurer's possessions for want of a single glance, as he'd much rather prod with his eye a small, wooden coffer which he proceeds to toss away, spilling its contents of personal trinkets and memorabilia on the stone floor like worthless, unwanted trash.

You brush with your index the pages of a derelict, old book in red and orange cover cracked and brittle with age, with what little remains of the stitching barely enough to keep the pages assembled. Likewise, the wheels of time has rendered the title near illegible but you can ever so faintly make out L- tou- du mond- quatr-v-s -rs.