ON THE FIFTH DAY OF MAY

A BRIEF INTRODUCTION

If you ever make your way out onto the plains, be sure to ask the locals what exactly it is that they pray for.

People in towns, you'll well know, pray for supplies. People on the outskirts in the farmlands pray for good harvests. Those are the kinds of comfortable people who never really go hungry. Those are the people who pray for letters back from sweethearts. The kind who widely pray for money above all else.

I used to be one of those people, and in departing from that life I have come to face an uncomfortable truth. I never did pray, but if I did when I lived well in the city I would have prayed never to find myself alone on the plains. Of course, there are fates too dire to possibly consider before they befall you.

That being said, the wildpeople of the plains wander with no concept of money beyond trade. There is no love but for those immediately before them. Otherwise, there is hope. Hope that they will return unharmed from the hunt. Hope that they are doing well when you haven't seen them for months or years. Hope that you'll see them again sometime soon, and in good circumstances.

I met a wildwoman on my travels who happened to be missing her bad arm. At least, she called it her bad arm. I suppose that any arm you end up missing is a bad arm. Regardless, I asked her if she prayed, and if so then to whom. She told me the name of some old creator god and confessed to me that she prayed for the same thing that most other wildpeople do: wind, rain, mischief. Really, she said, they pray for anything that will ward off the silence which constantly threatens to settle in the air around them. Silence is like death in a way, it's an absence. Most people who find themselves out and away from civilization grow antsy in it. Most people who never leave the city will never know the feeling. Of course, that's far from the only way in which the wildpeople venture closer to death than the city folk.

Very rarely will you meet a wildperson who is completely whole and unmarked by tragedy. While I wandered those desolate and lonesome plains, I met my fair share of ramblers. My compatriots, at the time. Any of them over the age of thirty or so would be missing something. Smiles with missing teeth would be framed well by lips scarred in the pattern of a bear's claw. Empty pink sockets would hide beneath dark leather patches. I would feel sorry for them initially, but time and time again I learned that this incomplete aspect was nothing to be ashamed of. The people who live out there wear their scars and missing parts like badges on the breast of a proud soldier. These are their proofs, the evidence that they have faced their fair share of hardship and have overcome.

This is my account of the plains and my time on them. It is by no means complete, but I have come to know a loss like those who live out in the wilderness. I knew what that hunger feels like now, and living back in the city has left me with a loneliness I can barely stand. These are my travels, the story of what I lost and how I was able to get it back in part.