The Testament

The Testament

The stars shone overhead as they always did in Palerow. Eternal night blanketed the land, and beneath its vast canopy, a small convoy of covered wagons—along with the weary horses that drew them—sat in a circle around a roaring fire.

Such a thing was a luxury in the Wastes. Light drew attention from the strange creatures that roamed the land, and only the strong could wield it.

So the Bonfire burned: either a bluff or a testament.

Either way, life revolved around it.

It revolved around the fire—and a young man with a guitar on his lap, strumming chords he didn’t know the names of, only the feel.

A girl sat nearby, transfixed. She was no more than twelve, and she held her own instrument: a small fiddle, which she clutched with unpracticed hands. She plucked out awkward notes here and there, trying her best to find a melody in the young man’s rhythm.

The young man looked to her, eyes like soft candlelight, and smiled. What she lacked in musicianship, she made up for in spirit. The girl—Sarah, he believed her name was—had heart. No doubt about it.

She sat on an overturned crate, one leg crossed over the other. She didn’t need to sit that way to play, but the young man was doing it, and she wanted to be like him.

They continued for a few more bars, their awkward duet echoing gently through the camp, before being interrupted by a gruff-looking man in a bowler hat and patched vest. He wore a shirt that had seen too many days on the road—and too few in a washbin.

The man in the bowler hat roughly yanked the fiddle from the girl’s hands, startling her.

"Sarah!" he slurred. "What’ve I told you about this bullshit? It attracts them."

"But Pa, I was ju—"

She was cut short by a sharp slap across the face.

The young man stopped playing. He set the guitar aside, rising slowly. The man in the bowler hat was still focused on Sarah.

"Sir, if you would," Tommyn said, voice calm. "She was just following my lead. We got a bit carried away. There’s no need for that. We’ll put the instruments down."

He stepped forward—cautious, unthreatening. The man was drunk. And violent. That much was clear.

"I’m Tommyn," he offered, pressing one hand to his chest, the other raised in a gentle, open-palm gesture. He nodded toward the guitar. "That there’s the Red Queen. She’s my six-string."

"I don’t give a damn if her name’s Penelope Pussywitch," the man snarled. "Play it again, and I’ll break your damn fingers."

He grabbed Sarah’s wrist, staring daggers at Tommyn.

"I told Cleetus you were a fuckin’ weirdo. Come on, Sarah. Get away from this boy."

Tommyn lowered his hands in defeat. Unless he wanted to get physical—and he didn’t—he’d get nowhere with this man.

Besides, what was he going to do? Kill him? Take the girl and ride into the Wastes?

There was no logical solution that didn’t put them both in peril. Sad as it was, she was safer with the man than with him.

And anyway, there was the task at hand. The whole reason he’d taken on with this caravan in the first place.

Word had come from the west—about a man who walked through the candles. And that’s where these folks were headed.

Their wagons carried freight for a chain gang: dynamite, rail spikes, picks, shovels, and all manner of other tools. They were laying track out past Broken Crutch Canyon.

It was called that on account of the giant tree that had fallen into the pass—snapped at the bend like a shattered femur. Its lower half was carved with thousands of messages from settlers making the journey past its carcass, into the canyon beyond.

Tommyn’s plan was simple. He’d accompany the caravan through Broken Crutch Canyon, then break away as soon as the road split.

That’s when he’d begin his search—for the Cattle Cult. For the one they whispered about.

The Candle Man.

He was out there. Tommyn knew it. The man who bore the torch. Who walked through the flames of universes.

Was he searching for Tommyn, too? Did he still remember, after all this time?

The answer was close now. All he had to do was make it to the other side of the canyon.

To do that, he needed to stay out of trouble.

Tommyn walked past his spot by the fire, grabbing the Red Queen as he went. He made his way toward the Navigator’s caravan—a wide, dark-walled wagon draped in oilcloth and hung with faded astrological charms.

Inside was Wegomi. The Cartomancer.

A strange sort—quiet, sharp-eyed. Didn’t talk much. But he made the best tea you’d ever tasted, and he read the stars like scripture.

Tommyn approached the covered wagon. A small glass window was set in the side door, crossed by a wooden frame. Beyond the panes, a corposant light glowed—soft and flickering, like lightning bottled in violet.

He turned the weathered silver doorknob and pushed the door open with a soft creak. Above the frame, small animal bones strung on sinew jingled faintly—like a gentle butler whispering to his lord that a new subject had arrived.

Inside, the air was thick with the cloying scent of incense and spice. A mug bubbled over a small brass plate that emitted tremendous heat—but no flame. The liquid inside shimmered, reduced to a dark, near-glowing concentrate.

In the far corner, a pipe tucked between his lips, sat Wegomi. His eyes were fixed on a strange, weathered contraption—a viewing scope that jutted through the side of the wagon, fitted with interchangeable lenses and thin brass tracks.

"You’re late," Wegomi muttered, not looking away. "The tea’s almost reduced to nothing."

"I’d have been here sooner, but there was, uh... a public disturbance," Tommyn said, setting down the Red Queen.

Before he could reach for a seat, Wegomi snapped:

"Show some etiquette, boy. Haven’t you learned never to sit before it’s offered?"

A pause. Then, with a sharp nod:

"Now sit. We’ve paths to discuss. I’ve seen it in the tea."

Wegomi rose from the looking glass and stepped toward the brass hot-plate.

Tommyn studied him: a weathered face beneath the shadow of a dark brown Stetson. Silver hair, still dark at the temples, pulled back into a low ponytail. A worn leather vest, the same tone as the hat, over a deep red shirt—all tied together with a bolo at the throat.

Its centerpiece held a memory of a stinging scorpion, trapped in a polished shard of pale Ghostglass. The glass shimmered with a lenticular shift—change your perspective, and the insect moved within as if it were alive. Maybe it was.

From a small cupboard, Wegomi produced a single vessel. It was wide-brimmed and looked older than time itself—Tommyn was amazed it didn’t crumble to dust as Wegomi carried it to the table and set it down with reverence.

Then came the forceps. Wegomi gave them a few test clicks—claiming "ritual demanded it"—before plucking the cup of steaming brew from the hot-plate with all the care of a surgeon.

Tommyn watched the old man move through the rites. Then his gaze drifted. He pulled the journal from his coat. While Wegomi prepared the tea, Tommyn sketched Sarah—bowed over her little fiddle, one leg crossed like his. It brought him calm.

Wegomi lit a bundle of dried Hanged-Man’s Rose. The dark petals burst into searing purple light, and he set the smoldering bouquet garni in a shallow brass dish, where it fizzled with quiet intensity—like a newborn dragon, still learning to control its breath.

He closed his eyes. Raised his chin. And breathed in the aroma of the flowers.

Then—he poured the tea.

The viscous green liquid settled in the earthenware bowl and stilled.

No one moved.

The Hanged-Man’s Garni hissed softly in its tin,

trailing thin wisps of violet-grey smoke that curled toward the ceiling.

The silence became holy.

The two watched as small bubbles began to coalesce on the surface of the tea.

They took the shape of a tree—gnarled and vast.

A man stood before it,

and a smaller figure hovered behind him.

The tree was wreathed in terrible flames,

its trunk pulsing as if speaking to the man.

When the tree finished its sermon,

the man stepped aside—

floating apart from the smaller figure,

the bubbles that had connected them snapping back into place through cohesion.

The small figure now stood alone before the tree.

She fell to her knees.

A flaming root whipped forward and swept her off her feet,

lifting her into the air.

Then, the tree split—

a horrible vertical maw yawned down the center of its trunk,

like a lady of the night unlacing her bodice.

And the girl was dropped into it.

Tommyn gasped.

The sight of the creature stirred something in him—

something ancient, familiar, unwelcome.

He turned to Wegomi,

who sat with his eyes closed in deep concentration.

The scene dissolved.

Only the still surface of the tea remained.

Tommyn was about to reach for his journal when something peculiar happened.

The tea bubbled again.

And from the depths of the bowl, something rose.

A red eye, set with a dark pupil, snapped open—

gazing at him knowingly.

And then, just as quickly—

it vanished.

Leaving Tommyn wondering if he’d ever really seen it at all.

Wegomi opened his eyes,

staring down at the boy from beneath his bushy grey brows.

“Presently, you straddle the fence between boy and man.

Soon, you’ll face a reckoning—

and find yourself lying in the sand,

on one side or the other.

Forever changed.

Journey through the pass.

Seek the Broken Tree.

And make the choice

that will mark your myth.”

ommyn rose from the table.

He straightened his coat and picked up the Red Queen,

slinging it over his shoulder with the headstock pointing toward the ground.

He’d learned that trick the hard way—

after smacking the poor thing on one too many doorframes.

“Thanks for the tea, Wegomi,” he said, turning for the door.

The scene in the tea froth still played behind his eyes.

“Protect the dream, young man,” Wegomi replied,

his voice distant, his gaze fixed somewhere beyond the walls.

“Protect the dream…”

Tommyn turned the handle and stepped into the cool night.

The smell of burnt wood and low campfires sailed by on the wind.

The night’s revelries were coming to a close.

Around him, the caravanners moved like ghosts.

Hitching horses. Pulling drawstrings tight.

Shutting out the cold night with layers of canvas and tweed.

Tommyn wandered the camp in silence,

searching for a spot to bed down.

He made his way toward the hitching post.

Chickenfoot would be there—

his loyal steed,

laden with the only belongings Tommyn truly owned.

A small messkit for meals.

A few writing utensils.

A wax-carved figure in a linen robe—

one that never seemed to melt under normal circumstances.

And his dusty old sleeping roll.

Everything he needed for a night under the stars.

He found a dying fire,

laid out his kit,

and settled beside the embers.

Tomorrow, the caravan would march into the canyon.

And he would follow.

Tommyn reached the horse, who snorted impatiently.

She was getting old and cranky, but she still ran the distance.

And like any reluctant woman,

she helped carry his baggage.

“Relax, girl. We move tomorrow,” he said, patting her cheek.

He reached the saddle and pulled down everything he needed to get some rest.

But as he slung his roll over his shoulder,

he froze.

Across the clearing, over the back of his horse—

two figures stood silhouetted in the pale starlight.

One wore a bowler cap.

The other—

a Cattle mask.

The man raised his arms and slapped them down against his thighs.

Frustrated. Desperate.

Then he held his palms out.

“...see her again!” Tommyn heard him say,

the words carrying faintly across the night.

Tommyn ducked low, heart hammering.

He’d been hunting the Cattle Cult for weeks.

And now—here was one.

Little more than a stone’s throw away.

Maybe he’d underestimated them.

Maybe he wasn’t the hunter after all.

The horse grunted again, low and sharp.

Tommyn gently shushed her.

Best to leave the scene, he thought.

He slinked back toward the safety of the camp,

mind spinning.

He’d need to make a journal entry before bed.

It had been

an eventful

evening.

Tommyn closed the journal

like a friend closes the eyes of the departed.

It was time for them both to rest—

they’d seen enough for one day.

He dozed dreamlessly,

and woke to the endless night.

The stars overhead hadn’t moved.

Same as when he’d closed his eyes.

Around him, caravanners bustled to and fro,

pulling up camp, cinching packs.

The day had begun—

though the sky never changed.

They set out soon after.

Kicking up white dust,

journeying into the night—

Into Broken Crutch Canyon,

whose entrance now yawned before them.

Tommyn considered the vision from the night before.

He steadied himself.

He could feel it now—

the inexorable pull of fate.

All paths led here.

There could be

no turning back.

The caravan crawled between canyon walls.

Crags towered above, casting jagged shadows.

Whispers echoed strangely.

No birds. No wind. Just the rumble of wheels and anxiety.

Tommyn walked beside Chickenfoot, hand on her mane.

Then he saw it.

A break in the cliff.

A hollow.

And within it—a tree.

Twisted.

Burnt.

Charred black and blooming with unnatural roots.

A ritual space.

The tree from the tea.

And beneath it: Bowler Hat.

Kneeling. Arms raised.

Sarah, bound at the wrists, stood beside him.

Eyes wide. Silent.

“Take her,” Bowler cried.

“Give me the door. You promised I could see her again!”

Tommyn’s blood turned cold.

The roots of the tree twitched.

One curled upward, flame trailing behind it—

ready to take the girl.

“No,” Tommyn whispered.

“Not again.”

He drew the Red Queen.

Stepped forward.

Hands trembling.

Bowler turned.

Saw him.

“It’s not what it looks like—”

But Tommyn had already made the choice.

"I know."

He raised the guitar.

A single, sharp crack as it connected with Bowler’s head—

sending him sprawling.

The ritual broke.

The roots stilled.

But Bowler did not rise.

He lay there—eyes wide, mouth slack.

A shimmer of red light swirled beneath his skin.

The Qliphoth had entered him.

He began to rise.

Hands contorting. Bones snapping.

“Tom… my girl…” he rasped, his voice no longer his own.

Tommyn stepped close.

“She was never yours to trade.”

He lifted the Red Queen once more—

and brought it down.

Silence.

Sarah sobbed softly beside him.

Alive. Shaking.

Tommyn untied her wrists.

“You’re safe now,” he said,

though he didn’t believe it.

They left the tree behind.

The caravan moved on.

Tommyn sat alone that night beside the fire.

He opened his journal.

Wrote just one line:

“I made my myth today.”

And above,

the stars finally shifted.