The Road to Pickford
The road from Brickelwhythe to Pickford stretched thirty miles, winding through woods and valleys. Trees lined either side, their branches arching overhead like cathedral vaults. At night, the forest did not fall into darkness. Certain trees glowed with a soft fluorescent light, bathing the road in hues of green and blue. Shadows danced across the path, and the boys felt as though they were walking through a dream.
Nathan whispered, “It doesn’t feel real.”
Fox’s voice was steady. “That’s Dane County. It makes the unreal ordinary.”
They were not alone. The road was crowded with people—families, merchants, wanderers—all walking. There were no cars, no wagons, only feet against the gravel. Travelers moved in both directions, some carrying packs, others leading children by the hand.
Andrew muttered, “It’s like a parade. Where are they all going?”
Michael’s grip tightened on the journal. “Some to Pickford. Some away from it. Everyone has their reason.”
Fox’s eyes scanned the crowd. “But none of them leave the county. Not really.”
As the boys walked, they fell into step with a farmer carrying a sack of grain. His face was weathered, his voice kind.
“Heading to Pickford?” he asked.
Andrew nodded. “Yeah. You?”
The farmer chuckled. “No, I’m from Millhaven, just a small place upriver. I sell grain to the bakers in the little towns along the road. Been walking this path my whole life.”
Nathan asked softly, “Is it safe?”
The farmer’s smile faded. “Safe enough if you keep to the road. The woods… not so much. But the road itself? It’s watched. Lit. That’s why the trees glow.”
Later, they walked beside a mother and her two children. The little girl carried a doll, its face worn smooth.
Michael smiled faintly. “Where are you from?”
The mother answered, “From a town called Red Hollow. We’re visiting family in Pickford. It’s a long walk, but the road is busy. Safer with company.”
Fox’s eyes narrowed. “Safer doesn’t mean safe.”
The mother gave him a tired look. “Nothing in Dane County is safe. But we endure.”
Every few miles, the road bent into a cluster of buildings—tiny towns, no more than a handful of shops and inns. Smoke curled from chimneys, lanterns glowed in windows, and weary travelers stopped to eat or rest.
In one town, the boys paused at a bakery. The smell of bread filled the air, and Andrew’s stomach growled.
The baker, a cheerful man with flour on his apron, handed them small rolls. “On the house. Travelers need strength.”
Fox hesitated, then accepted. He tore the bread, sniffed it, then ate cautiously. It was bread—real bread, not flesh disguised. Relief flickered across his face.
Andrew grinned. “Finally. Real food.”
Nathan whispered, “Maybe not every town is cursed.”
Fox’s reply was cold. “Not cursed. But not free either.”
The road crossed rivers and streams, each spanned by bridges—some simple planks, others grand covered arches painted in fading colors. Vendors lined the bridges, selling trinkets, food, and charms.
One old woman waved a bundle of herbs at the boys. “Protection,” she croaked. “Protection from the Queen.”
Fox’s jaw tightened. “Keep walking.”
Michael glanced back, unsettled. “Even here, they speak of her.”
Another vendor, a young man with bright eyes, offered carved wooden animals. Nathan picked one up—a fox, small and delicate.
“Made from the glowing trees,” the vendor said proudly. “They hold the light even after they’re carved.”
Nathan handed it back, his hands trembling. “We can’t carry more weight.”
The vendor smiled. “Then carry the memory.”
As dusk fell, the fluorescent trees brightened, casting the road in a surreal glow. Travelers moved like shadows, their faces lit in strange colors. The boys walked among them, the hum of voices blending with the rustle of leaves.
They spoke with a group of young men from a fishing town. One laughed, “Pickford’s markets pay well. We sell river fish, smoked and salted. Thirty miles is nothing if it means coin.”
Andrew muttered, “Coin doesn’t mean much if you’re dead.”
The fisherman shrugged. “Then you live while you can.”
The road stretched ahead, glowing, crowded, alive. Small towns flickered at the edges, bridges arched over rivers, vendors called out their wares.
But beyond it all, Pickford loomed—the capital, the Sanitarium, Doctor Vinkmeir.
Fox’s voice was low, almost to himself. “Thirty miles. Thirty miles to the cage.”
The boys walked on, the surreal light guiding them deeper into Dane County’s heart.
Nathan whispered, “It doesn’t feel real.”
Fox’s voice was steady. “That’s Dane County. It makes the unreal ordinary.”
They were not alone. The road was crowded with people—families, merchants, wanderers—all walking. There were no cars, no wagons, only feet against the gravel. Travelers moved in both directions, some carrying packs, others leading children by the hand.
Andrew muttered, “It’s like a parade. Where are they all going?”
Michael’s grip tightened on the journal. “Some to Pickford. Some away from it. Everyone has their reason.”
Fox’s eyes scanned the crowd. “But none of them leave the county. Not really.”
As the boys walked, they fell into step with a farmer carrying a sack of grain. His face was weathered, his voice kind.
“Heading to Pickford?” he asked.
Andrew nodded. “Yeah. You?”
The farmer chuckled. “No, I’m from Millhaven, just a small place upriver. I sell grain to the bakers in the little towns along the road. Been walking this path my whole life.”
Nathan asked softly, “Is it safe?”
The farmer’s smile faded. “Safe enough if you keep to the road. The woods… not so much. But the road itself? It’s watched. Lit. That’s why the trees glow.”
Later, they walked beside a mother and her two children. The little girl carried a doll, its face worn smooth.
Michael smiled faintly. “Where are you from?”
The mother answered, “From a town called Red Hollow. We’re visiting family in Pickford. It’s a long walk, but the road is busy. Safer with company.”
Fox’s eyes narrowed. “Safer doesn’t mean safe.”
The mother gave him a tired look. “Nothing in Dane County is safe. But we endure.”
Every few miles, the road bent into a cluster of buildings—tiny towns, no more than a handful of shops and inns. Smoke curled from chimneys, lanterns glowed in windows, and weary travelers stopped to eat or rest.
In one town, the boys paused at a bakery. The smell of bread filled the air, and Andrew’s stomach growled.
The baker, a cheerful man with flour on his apron, handed them small rolls. “On the house. Travelers need strength.”
Fox hesitated, then accepted. He tore the bread, sniffed it, then ate cautiously. It was bread—real bread, not flesh disguised. Relief flickered across his face.
Andrew grinned. “Finally. Real food.”
Nathan whispered, “Maybe not every town is cursed.”
Fox’s reply was cold. “Not cursed. But not free either.”
The road crossed rivers and streams, each spanned by bridges—some simple planks, others grand covered arches painted in fading colors. Vendors lined the bridges, selling trinkets, food, and charms.
One old woman waved a bundle of herbs at the boys. “Protection,” she croaked. “Protection from the Queen.”
Fox’s jaw tightened. “Keep walking.”
Michael glanced back, unsettled. “Even here, they speak of her.”
Another vendor, a young man with bright eyes, offered carved wooden animals. Nathan picked one up—a fox, small and delicate.
“Made from the glowing trees,” the vendor said proudly. “They hold the light even after they’re carved.”
Nathan handed it back, his hands trembling. “We can’t carry more weight.”
The vendor smiled. “Then carry the memory.”
As dusk fell, the fluorescent trees brightened, casting the road in a surreal glow. Travelers moved like shadows, their faces lit in strange colors. The boys walked among them, the hum of voices blending with the rustle of leaves.
They spoke with a group of young men from a fishing town. One laughed, “Pickford’s markets pay well. We sell river fish, smoked and salted. Thirty miles is nothing if it means coin.”
Andrew muttered, “Coin doesn’t mean much if you’re dead.”
The fisherman shrugged. “Then you live while you can.”
The road stretched ahead, glowing, crowded, alive. Small towns flickered at the edges, bridges arched over rivers, vendors called out their wares.
But beyond it all, Pickford loomed—the capital, the Sanitarium, Doctor Vinkmeir.
Fox’s voice was low, almost to himself. “Thirty miles. Thirty miles to the cage.”
The boys walked on, the surreal light guiding them deeper into Dane County’s heart.