The Best of Wanderlust (A GeoEx eBook)

The Best of Wanderlust

On Dream Mountain

unsolicited favors or gifts—especially from strangers. In more usual circumstances I would have politely declined. But there was nothing usual about that evening, or the guest who had arrived. This was made clear a moment after the seed had been revealed. Our guardian happened to be brushing past just as the large oval seed was being offered. Never one to be given to emotion of any kind, he clasped a hand to each unshaven cheek, his lower jaw hanging down,

The fingers which had first placed the object into my own, blurred as they waved left, right, left. “This is the seed of a journey,” said the muffled voice. “A journey to where?” The visitor shrugged. “The destination is not important.” “But how would I know when I have reached if I don’t know where I am going?” Again, the grin came and went. “By trusting,” said the man. “Trusting in what?” “Trusting in the seed.” ~~ Since earliest childhood I was raised not to think too much. My father used to say that deliberation stifled possibility, just as it slayed the chance of real adventure. Instead, he would reward me for sipping from the cup of spontaneity, and for following my gut. Even though my desk was piled high with writing work, and my diary packed with obligations, I felt a calling—the kind that can’t be explained, except to those who have felt it themselves. It was deep in my bones. The frenzied gnaw of anticipation. The desperate urge to travel. The need to set off without delay. So, next morning, I packed a small bag, stuffed the red and black seed into my pocket, and found myself in the lane outside my home. Our guardian was sweeping the mud with a dried palm frond. He said that the visitor had stayed up late swapping stories for hospitality. When I asked where he had gone, the

mouth wide open in stupefaction, and eyes wide. “An honor,” said the guardian, choking for breath. “A seed,” I said. “A special seed,” corrected the muffled voice. ~~ We repaired to the garden and sat on damp stools.

Many pots of sweet mint tea followed, poured into glasses little bigger than thimbles. There was much conversation, most of it garbled and indistinct. My ancestors were praised, as was my health, and that of my family and friends. The visitor’s hand threw a few grains of incense onto the embers burning in the brazier. Pungent smoke took me back to travels far away. Now clenched in my own fist, the seed seemed to tingle as the tea was drunk, and the conversation made. Occidental training urged me to ask whether the object had a purpose. The old man grinned at the question, his mouth an uneven chequerboard of black and faded white. “You will know its use when you have found it,” he said. “But shall I plant it?” “If you wish.”

“What will it grow into?” “It is not that kind of seed.” “Not a plant?” “No.” “I don’t understand.”

guardian looked me square in the eye. “He will be waiting for you,” he said. “You mean, here at home … when I get back?” The guardian cocked his head to the side.

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