VII. Charlatans and Sages

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Rohan leads me through the winding roads outside of Eastborough, the path shifting from cobbled streets to dirt-packed trails that stretch into the mist-laden hills. Sundarville emerges through the fog, a town that seems both ancient and untouched, its buildings carved into the hillside, roofs sloping unevenly as if molded by time rather than design. 

 

“This is where I leave you,” Rohan says, stopping at the outskirts, his face unreadable. “Be careful, my friend.”

 

Before I can press him for more, he turns and disappears down the trail, his footsteps fading into the quiet. I take a breath and proceed. The town hums low with life, but I feel strangely isolated, even more so than when I first entered Eastborough. 

 

I make my way to a motel where I plan to stay for a few days while I explore Sundarville. The building is unassuming, its wooden facade weathered by time, a neon sign flickering intermittently. As I step toward the entrance, a man—or maybe an older-looking young man—leans casually against the post outside, watching me with a knowing smile.

 

His clothes are more eccentric than the others I’ve seen in town—a faded, deep-green velvet coat, mismatched rings on his fingers, and an old leather satchel hanging at his side. 

 

Without waiting for an introduction, he speaks as if he already knows something about me.

 

“You’ve got that look,” the man says. His voice is smooth, measured. “Like you’ve stepped through the wrong door and ended up somewhere between a dream and a memory.”

 

I stop.

 

The man gestures to the empty space beside him. “You don’t have to linger. But you should.”

 

Whether this person is a genuine seer, a manipulative charlatan, or just another curious local, I don’t know yet.

 

I hesitate, but the weight of his words holds me in place. There’s a strange familiarity about him—something in his posture, in the way his fingers drum absently against the worn leather of his satchel.

 

Finally, I step forward, keeping a cautious distance. He doesn’t turn to face me immediately. Instead, he lets out a soft chuckle, as if amused by my hesitation.

 

“Sundarville has a way of recognizing those who aren’t from here,” he says. “It folds around them like a well-worn coat, until they start to believe they belong.”

 

I glance at him, searching his face for clues. Up close, his features are sharp but softened by a kind of agelessness. His deep-green coat looks older than the town itself, its fabric worn at the cuffs. The rings on his fingers glint under the pale neon light, each one different—one plain silver, another etched with symbols I don’t recognize.

 

“And what does Sundarville make of me?” I ask, careful to keep my tone light.

 

He finally turns to me, his gaze sharp but not unkind. “That depends,” he says. “Are you just passing through? Or have you already started to forget where you were headed?”

 

Something in my chest tightens. I think of the path that led me here—the game, the echoes of childhood that turned too real, the unraveling of everything I thought I understood. And now, this place that feels like a puzzle I was meant to piece together.

 

“I know where I’m going,” I say, though the words don’t land as solidly as I’d like.

 

His smile deepens. “Do you?”

 

A gust of wind stirs the air, rustling the motel’s wooden awning. I notice, now, that the people moving around us never seem to get too close, as if the space we occupy is subtly set apart from the rest of the town.

 

He leans forward, “Tell me, Vic—”

 

The sound of my name stops me cold.

 

I never gave him my name.

 

My pulse kicks up, but he doesn’t press the moment. Instead, he reaches into his satchel and pulls out a small, folded slip of paper. He holds it out to me between two fingers, his expression unreadable.

 

“Take it,” he says. “It’s your mantra.”

 

I stare at the paper, my mind already racing with possibilities. Mantra?

 

The hum of the town presses in around us.

 

I reach out and take the note.

 

“Don’t share it with anyone. It’s only for your eyes.”

 

The paper is smooth but aged, the edges slightly frayed as if it has passed through many hands before mine. I hesitate, feeling the weight of it before unfolding the delicate crease. The words are scrawled in ink, the handwriting uneven yet deliberate.

 

The dreamer does not dream itself.

 

The message stirs something deep in me, an unease wrapped in recognition. The letters seem to pulse faintly, or maybe it’s just my pulse, heavy in my ears. I glance up at the man, but he only watches, waiting.

 

“What does it mean?” I ask, my voice quieter than I intended.

 

He exhales through his nose, something between a sigh and a laugh. “That depends,” he says. “Are you ready to see what you’ve been missing?”

 

I shake my head. “That’s not an answer.”

 

“And yet,” he gestures to the paper, “it is.”

 

I look back at the message, tracing the ink with my thumb. The words feel like an invitation—or a warning.

 

The man leans back, the rings on his fingers clicking softly against one another. “You’re at the edge of something, Vic. A threshold. You can walk away, pretend this was nothing more than an odd encounter.”

 

His voice is smooth, too smooth, like someone well-versed in the art of persuasion. There’s something rehearsed in his words, the way they coil around me like a carefully placed snare.

 

His smile lingers, and I see it now—not wisdom, but calculation. A glint in his eyes, not of understanding, but of expectation. He’s waiting for me to step forward, waiting for me to commit.

 

A trick. A performance.

 

I glance around, my skin prickling. The town still hums with life, but no one meets my gaze. No one acknowledges us. It’s as if we’ve been set apart, deliberately ignored. Or worse—cordoned off.

 

“You already know,” he says again, this time with a knowing smirk, as if amused by my hesitation.

 

But something in me resists.

 

The paper in my pocket feels heavier now. The words etched in ink pulse in my mind. The dreamer does not dream itself.

 

And suddenly, I realize what’s wrong. This isn’t an invitation. The man isn’t offering me knowledge. He’s waiting for me to surrender to whatever role he’s crafted for me.

 

I meet his gaze, and for the first time, I see the cracks in his act—the faint tension at the corners of his mouth, the way his fingers tighten around the leather strap of his satchel.

 

He’s not a guide. He’s a trap.

 

And I’m about to fall in.

 

My breath slows. If I react the way he expects, I’ll be caught in whatever web he’s spun. I force my body to stay still, my expression unreadable. The game, whatever it is, hinges on me taking the next step. So I don’t.

 

Instead, I let the silence stretch, let the weight of my refusal settle between us. His smirk wavers, just for an instant. A beat too long.

 

“You’re hesitating,” he says smoothly, but there’s an edge to it now, a note of something almost like impatience.

 

I shake my head. “No,” I say, voice steady. “I’m deciding.”

 

That makes him pause. The rings on his fingers click softly as he adjusts his grip on the satchel. A subtle tell. He’s waiting for me to ask a question, to let him guide the conversation, control the flow. 

 

I take a step back instead.

 

“You want something from me,” I say, keeping my tone neutral. “But you haven’t told me what.”

 

His smile sharpens, but there’s no humor in it. “Haven’t I?”

 

The street around us feels tighter, the space narrowing in a way that isn’t quite physical. The town hums low in my ears, the edges of reality blurring just slightly. Whatever this is, it’s more than words, more than a con. I need to break free of it.

 

“You already know,” I say, throwing his own words back at him.

 

And then I turn.

 

The shift is immediate. The moment I move, the tension between us snaps like a thread pulled too tight. I don’t wait to see his reaction—I step toward the motel, my pace even but unhurried, refusing to run.

 

I count each breath, each footstep, until I reach the door. Only then do I glance back.

 

He hasn’t followed. He’s still standing there, watching me, but something in his expression has changed. The smirk is gone.

 

For the first time, he looks unsure.

 

I push through the motel door and let it close behind me. The air inside is stale, heavy with the scent of dust and old wood. For the moment, I am safe, but will soon look for other lodging that doesn’t attract these kinds of predators just outside its doors.

 

Weeks pass by and I have taken up residence at a hospice that offers little more than a bed to return to each night. Since I have been here, I’ve encountered self-proclaimed gurus, teachers who speak in riddles, and spiritual guides more fascinated by their own reflections than by any real wisdom. I’ve listened to long discourses on enlightenment—on paths and methods, on practices that promise transcendence but deliver only empty rituals. There have been moments of inspiration, brief flashes of insight, but nothing that has led me to what I am truly seeking—a real understanding of what I witnessed that summer day in New Hinton, far away from these exotic whereabouts.

 

Some teachers have demanded rigid discipline, adherence to techniques that felt mechanical, lifeless. Others have preached indulgence, insisting that detachment means floating through life without responsibility. My restlessness only grows. With each encounter, I feel as though something vital is missing, something that words and techniques can never provide. My patience is running thin.

 

Then, in a quiet conversation with a wandering monk, I learn of a place at the base of a nearby mountain the locals call Shroud Peak. A place where seekers sometimes find more than they expect to. And of a man who does not teach in the usual way. A man who does not claim to know—but simply is. Curiosity leads me there, but skepticism accompanies me—I have been disappointed before.

 

I set out at dawn, alone, following a narrow dirt path that winds through the outskirts of Sundarville and into the hills beyond. The morning mist clings to the trees, softening the jagged outline of the mountain ahead. The path grows steeper, the town fading behind me, replaced by the rustling of leaves and the distant murmur of a stream.

 

After hours of walking, I reach a clearing where a handful of people sit in quiet meditation beneath the sprawling limbs of an old oak tree. Their faces are calm, their postures relaxed yet attentive. At the center of the gathering sits a solitary figure.

 

His presence quiet yet commanding. A simple, white cloth drapes loosely over his thin frame, his feet bare, his eyes half-closed as if straddling the boundary between the seen and the unseen.

 

I approach cautiously, drawn by an inexplicable pull. This man carries no pretense, no performance—only a stillness that renders the noise of the world irrelevant.

 

A disciple, a young woman wearing simple clothes, notices me and gestures for me to sit. I hesitate before lowering myself onto the woven mat beside her. The energy in the gathering is unlike anything I have encountered before—calm, unwavering, expectant.

 

The man, whom they called Arun, lifts his gaze. His eyes meet mine, and for a moment, time seems to collapse inward.

 

“Who is it that seeks?” Arun’s voice was soft yet firm, like a whisper carried by the wind.

 

Silence settles over the group. No one moves. No one speaks. Yet something profound lingers in the air.

 

Minutes pass, or perhaps longer. I feel something unraveling within me—a quietude, a depth I have experienced once before. 

 

The moment stretches until Arun speaks again.

 

“Find the one who is asking. Then the question will answer itself.”

 

A simple statement, yet it carries a weight beyond reason. 

 

The others sit motionless, absorbed in their own reflections. I let out a slow breath. I do not fully understand, but something in Arun’s presence tells me that understanding is not the goal. For the first time in a very long while, I simply allow myself to be.

 

The air is thick with the scent of earth and damp leaves, the whisper of wind through the branches the only sound beyond the quiet rhythm of our breath. I close my eyes, feeling the weight of the journey settle into my bones. There is nothing to do, nothing to grasp. Time slips away into the stillness.

 

At some point, the young woman beside me rises and walks toward a small fire pit at the edge of the clearing. She kneels and stirs the embers with a thin branch, coaxing them back to life. The flames flicker, casting shifting patterns across the ground. Another disciple, a man with a clean shaven head and tattoos on his arms and neck, brings a pot of water and sets it over the fire. Their movements are deliberate, unhurried, as if the simple act of making tea is no different from meditation itself.

 

A faint metallic clang draws my attention to Arun. He lifts a small cup and takes a sip, his expression unchanged, his gaze unfocused yet entirely present.

 

“You’ve come far,” he says, his voice barely more than a breath.

 

I hesitate, unsure if he is speaking to me or simply speaking.

 

“I suppose,” I answer finally. “But sometimes I wonder why.” A thought lingers, unspoken—that all my wandering might be for nothing, that in the end, there is nothing to find.

 

Arun tilts his head slightly, almost amused. “And yet, here you are.”

 

A log shifts in the fire, sending a swirl of sparks into the night. I watch them rise, disappearing into the dark canopy above.

 

After a long pause, I find myself speaking again. “I saw something once. When I was young. Something I can’t explain.” The words come slowly, as though I am hearing them for the first time myself. “It felt real—more real than anything I had ever known. But I was just a child. And now…” I exhale. “Now, I don’t know if I imagined it. If I’ve spent my life chasing something that was never there.”

 

Arun does not respond immediately. His gaze drifts across the clearing, taking in the quiet movements of the disciples, the steady rise and fall of the flames. Then, without looking at me, he says:

 

“You search for proof.”

 

It is not a question.

 

I say nothing. I don’t need to.

 

Arun nods slightly. “A child does not ask if fire is real before feeling its warmth.” He lifts his cup again, taking another slow sip. “Yet the mind, in its hunger for certainty, turns what is known into what must be proven.”

 

I stare at him, hands resting on my knees. The fire crackles softly, the scent of steeping tea mingling with the cool mountain air.

 

I ask, trying not to sound disrespectful, “What exactly are you saying?”

 

Arun sets his cup down, his fingers grazing the rim. “Perhaps it is not the fire that has changed,” he says, “but the one who stands before it.”

 

I do not answer. I do not need to.

 

For the first time in a long while, I do not feel the need to search for one.

 

The fire crackles again, sending another burst of orange embers into the dark. Arun remains still, neither expectant nor dismissive, as if he has already released whatever words were meant for me, letting them fall where they may. The others around the fire remain quiet, absorbed in their own stillness, their own unspoken questions.

 

I shift slightly on the woven mat beneath me, feeling the rough texture against my palms. The weight of Arun’s words lingers: Not the fire that has changed, but the one who stands before it.

 

A memory stirs—me, years ago, lying on the grass, summer heat pressing against my skin, the game forgotten. That moment. The shift in perception. The impossible certainty that, for an instant, I had seen behind the veil of the world. It had been clear, effortless. But now, years later, that certainty has dissolved into doubt, leaving behind only an ache, a question with no answer.

 

I exhale slowly. “So, what should I do?”

 

Arun smiles—just barely, the faintest crease at the corners of his mouth. Instead of answering, he lifts his cup and holds it in both hands, fingers wrapping around its worn edges.

 

“You see this cup?”

 

I nod.

 

“When did it become a cup?”

 

I frown and shrug.

 

Arun tilts the cup slightly. “Was it a cup when the potter shaped it from clay? When it was still soft, spinning between his hands?”

 

I hesitate. “I guess so.”

 

“And before that? When it was just a lump of earth?”

 

I say nothing.

 

Arun sets the cup down gently on the wooden platform beside him. “Nothing changes except how we name it.” His eyes meet mine, steady and dark. “You seek something you once knew but have lost. But perhaps it has not changed at all. Only the way you have named it.”

 

I feel my breath catch slightly, something shifting inside me, just beyond reach.

 

“Then why can’t I see it anymore?”

 

Arun lets the question hang in the air. The wind picks up slightly, rustling the leaves above, sending cool air through the clearing.

 

Finally, he speaks.

 

“Because you are looking for what was.”

 

A pause.

 

“But what is… has never left you.”

 

I stare at him, my mind grasping for meaning. The harder I try, the further it slips away.

 

The young woman beside me pours tea into a small clay cup and places it before me. Steam curls upward, carrying the scent of herbs and earth. I wrap my fingers around it, feeling its warmth, its solid weight.

 

I do not know what I expected to find when I set out. Proof, maybe. Or an answer that would make the years of searching feel justified. Instead, today, I have found a question turned back upon itself.

 

The fire crackles again, and I close my eyes, listening. Not searching. Just listening.

 

The warmth of the tea seeps into my hands, grounding me in the present moment. I lift the cup to my lips and take a slow sip. The taste is slightly bitter, yet soothing. I swallow, feeling the liquid settle within me.

 

For a while, I sit in silence, staring at the rippling surface of the tea. My mind, so accustomed to filling the quiet with thoughts and doubt, begins to settle. The restlessness that had carried me up the mountain remains, but it feels different now—less like an ache and more like a thread unraveling, loosening its grip.

 

I glance at Arun again. His eyes closed again, as if the conversation had never happened, as if my presence here is no more significant than the flickering shadows cast by the flames. 

 

Something about that unnerves me. I exhale sharply, frustrated. “You speak in riddles, just like the others.”

 

At that, his eyes open—just slightly. Not in surprise or defense, but with quiet amusement.

 

“Then why are you still here?”

 

I don’t have an answer. I should be angry. I should stand up, walk away, leave this place like I’ve left the others. Yet something in me won’t move.

 

I let out a slow breath, staring into the fire. The logs shift, a shower of sparks lifting into the air before vanishing into the darkness.

 

I want to argue. To challenge him. But something in me is tired. Not from the journey, not from the climb, but from carrying the weight of a question that has no answer.

 

The fire crackles again. The night deepens. 

 

I don’t know what comes next.

 

But for now, I sit.

 

And I stop searching.

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Continue to Part VIII: Returning

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