On this night we made our way across the endless terrain. At least, it seemed endless. I’ve often pondered the ease with which humans exaggerate. It’s a silly tactic; an attempt to urge others to understand. Of course this path would end. All paths do. I just worried for Hero, who had borne me on her back for many miles without complaint. She was trusty. But, yesterday she moved so slowly, I could not allow her to walk in the sun. So we made our way at night. Alongside us walked Pram, a pony I had won some days ago in a pub, long forgotten once we entered the wilderness. It was just us three on this night. Hero and Pram trundled forward with little water or food. I didn’t eat much either. Whether it was solidarity with my horses that kept me from reaching for the rations or worry for the possibility of starvation I’m not sure. The fullness of the saddlebags helped me to worry less. So I didn’t touch the food. We often sensed sunrise before we saw it. The nocturnal animals would still and the scarce birds would begin to sing. We would watch each sunrise before settling in for rest and respite from the blazing desert sun, then carry on with the coolness of evening. But, on this night, with hallucinations creeping into the corners of vision in response to our sleep deprivation and empty bellies, we saw something new. Symbols appeared on the rock formations before us. The lines swirled into half-formed pictures, then disappeared, only to form the next symbol, the next part of the story. I blinked and shook my head. When the symbols did not clear, I pulled on Hero’s reins, forcing her and Pram to stop and stare with me. Before assuring myself I’d lost my mind, I remembered the conwoman in the old pub. She had told me my path would end when I reached the rock writing. I slid down from Hero’s back, moving slowly until I came level with her face.

“We’re here,” I whispered.