For the first time in four years, as he grasped his knowicle under the midday sun, cross legged on the church roof, it hummed and pulled. It wanted Sam to head just west of north.
If Sam left now and followed its prompts, the knowicle would deliver him to a place where he will solve a mystery or crime. No matter how he achieves it, that future is known and certain, he will be a hero of something big or small. The art, the reason, as his forefathers had learned, was in the doing.
He stopped for barely a minute at home, grabbing his knapsack that had been on standby all this time, kissed his elderly mother on the cheek, and pocketed some sourdough buns, jerky and an apple. The knowicle had never been wrong, for anyone, ever – the journey will end with the solution, by the bearer, of a puzzle or question, or a discovery of sorts, or something admirable. It will also, quite likely, guide him to his death one day, so ruling out starvation was important.
Sam could walk all day and night ordinarily, and with the excitement he felt like he had unlimited energy, but nights are dangerous and stopping at an inn was a must.
The knowicle guides its bearer on a journey already known, so it rarely takes them through thickets or bramble. And along roads it is mostly quiet, only leaning in a direction at crossroads or where needed. To not miss a turn, Sam keeps it cradled in his left hand, in his jacket pocket. Today’s roads were quiet and barely worthy of existing. They mostly link farms to towns, but could be of use for people seeking a direct route between unknown places.
The inn was locked. A notice had instructions. Sam walked around the back, through a grove of fruit trees and found the cottage. Smoke rose from the chimney. Sam rapped the brass knocker and after a reasonable amount of shuffling and bustling behind the door, it opened.
“You are looking to stop for the night, I presume?”, said the old woman as she glanced past him at the darkening sky. She wore a bold yellow dress with a variety of flowers painted on it, her face was kind, her hair frizzy and she was short and stout and of an indeterminate middle age.
“That I would” said Sam, “ and whatever is on your stove smells delicious if that is on offer”. Sam was already inside, knapsack off, and admiring the well-stocked kitchen.
“I’m Maria”, she said. “The Inn isn’t worth opening these days. Locals prefer to drink in Perry now that it has a market and, ahem, entertainment for men. That just leaves the occasional interloper like yourself. Sit down and tell me your story while I attend to your dinner. Ale?
Sam cannot divulge anything about his secret little organic device, and he had no idea where he was headed, or even why. But he is unlikely to make any mistake, here and now. He took off his Chesterfield hat and sat on the wooden chair without a cushion.
“I’m headed to Flaysbury or thereabouts, that direction anyhow. Seeking my fortune, as they say”.
“That suggests that a fortune is what you lack. Where are you from? Been on the road long?
“ I have no home to speak of, ma’am, you could call me a drifter, albeit a drifter with some direction. I seek card games, I play poker. For money” he added, after a pause.
“Just call me Maria. I know a bit about games of chance, of likelihoods and outcomes. Poker requires a special set of skills, and well done on making a living of sorts from it. Is that all that you are good at? Seems like a perilous existence.”
“Sorry, where’s my manners, Maria, I am Sam.” He looked around the room, which was full on every wall, boxes half obscuring the window, and books in neat stacks and otherwise. “My skill seems to be luck, although I don’t only win because of it. But sufficiently good luck for me not to be welcome for too long in any one place. So I keep on the move.”
Maria was focusing on scooping out soup and finding cutlery, while Sam fondled the knowicle in his pocket, and thought of something else.
“My secret weapon is this little fella” said Sam as he reached into his pants pocket and pull out a small, green wooden cube with dots embossed onto each edge. “I live by the die”.
The next morning, early, Maria overcharged Sam and gave him a generous bag of supplies, enough to last him through tomorrow if he got lost. The road to Flaysbury was not wide enough for a wagon and would rightly be called a vague path in places. Making sure that Sam at least got the start of his journey correct, she escorted him to a 3 way junction, with a 3 way sign.
Sam took his hands out of his jacket pockets and held up his die between thumb and forefinger. “You might find this odd, but it is my way.” He rolled the die across the stony path, and it changed directions a few times before landing with five dots on top.
“Seems that I am going via Polk today”, and he bid Maria farewell and strode off along the Polk road with assuredness.
That night Maria was blessed with her second guest of the week, and she had a fresh and odd story to share, about a portly chap who wore a Chesterfield hat and let dice make decisions for him.