Orcutt coughed. “Oh, hell, no.” He rubbed his eyes. Then he actually grinned. “See, this one’s gunna be special, and you’re already here, and she ain’t the only Seer in our island.” Now he had a twinkle in his eye. “How old you think I am?”

“Well, it’s hard to say. You say your sister, so—” Asach paused. “Were you the oldest?”

“Yep.”

“And your sister—Laurel’s Mom—the youngest?”

“Yep.”

“Big family?”

“Yep.”

“Surely, not—”

“Yep. Ones and twos, that’s me. So. I thought, when I saw you sittin’ in the dirt playin’ plink with the little ones: I thought, that one’s been around the block a few times. So, I’ll make you a deal. I’ll get you prepped, get you up to speed, see you to the staging area, then hand you off to Laurel when she’s got herself organized. For a price.”

He grinned again. “Because, I figure, if you came all this way, you can afford it. And if you can’t, well, it would do Laurel good to have somebody along more than a hand or two old. Somebody on her side.”

Asach met his gaze evenly, did not waver, reached into the cloak. Did not even look down, just handed over the TCM tithe credit.

Orcutt looked, though. He saw the color. His eyes went wide.

Now, Asach grinned. “You’re right. I can. And I will.”

From Asach’s perspective, it was preparations for a pack trip like any other. Asach picked a riding horse. Asach picked a pack mule. Asach packed light, but prepared for any weather. Asach picked a farrier, and had the animals shod with full plates and studs to cope with rocky ground. Asach overpaid for it all, and made clear that return favors for the custom were due Laurel.

Orcutt was impressed. There was nothing flashy about the animals or the gear. They were of a piece: sensible, serviceable, sound. “Don’t much need me at all,” he said. “We should keep you around.”

“Mis-spent youth,” Asach replied, but volunteered no more.

Even the staging area was predictable: stones marked numbered campsites; picket lines were set up between stakes driven into the packed ground. Most animals were hobbled. Feed and water wagons made a circuit, so that rations could be saved for the trek to come. Asach drilled the catechism until The Hymn intruded into dreams, set to varying strains, including all the tunes the lads had hummed driving out from Bonneville. Asach hoped they’d returned unharmed.

Actually, Asach was surprised. There were not that many people there. A lot of them were children. “Mostly Barrens islands, yet,” explained Orcutt. “We need to clear this lot out before we drown. Once that tramline opens, no tellin’ how many rounds she’ll have to make.”

“You mean this is not the only Gathering?”

Orcutt clearly thought the question mad. “There’s only one Gathering. And this’ll be the biggest yet.”

Asach thought about this a moment, and tried again. “So, how long will it go on?”

“No tellin.’ Year, two three. At least, if it’s the same as always. Only, this one won’t be.”

“The Revelation.”

He winked. “The Revelation.”

“But if I only have supplies for—”

“Oh, you don’t worry about that. You can trust Laurel. His Eye will open by the time you get up there. You will stand in awe before his Gaze.” His voice quavered reverentially, and then, quite matter-of-factly, he continued. “Then Laurel will See you back down, and See the next batch up. Unless, of course, you See and don’t believe. In that case, you’re on your own.”

The next morning, Asach discovered why this could be a problem.

They mounted up. Asach saw at once why the appellation pilgrim had so often been presumed: everyone mounted, except Laurel and other Seers, wore long, split-backed, hooded cloaks not unlike Asach’s own. Laurel proceeded down the line from back to front, handing each rider a lead line for the horse behind. Asach began to protest: “that’s really not nec—” but trailed off at Laurel’s glower.

“Just mind your mule,” she said, moving up the line.

And then she was mounted herself. She made a flapping motion past her ear, as if waving off a bug. “Hoods up!” She shouted. “Hoods Up!...Hoods Up!...Hoods Up!” echoed down the line.

Confused, Asach fumbled to pull the cloak hood from the collar with one hand without dropping the pack mule’s lead line. Another Seer trudged up from behind, checking something. It was difficult to see exactly what was going on. Asach jumped at a slap on the thigh.

“Hoods UP!”

Confused, Asach looked down. The Seer signaled furiously, as at a child. “Over the eyes! Pull your hood down over your eyes!”

Asach groaned. Seers. Clairvoyants? Shamans? Oracles? Prognosticators? No. Himmists has to be the most bloody-minded literal people ever imagined, apart from accountants. Seers were, quite literally, guides to the blind. Or, in this case, blinded. Mindful of the consequences of being abandoned in the middle of nowhere, Asach complied. It was going to be a bloody boring ride.

Asach wasn’t completely blind. A patch of the horse’s mane was visible. A patch of Asach’s own chest was visible. A patch of the mule’s pack was visible, wobbling off to the side. Occasionally, the mule’s nose hove into view, as it slobbered on its new buddy’s withers. The horse did not seem to mind. Asach became intensely aware of the need for clippers and a nail buffer. Asach began daydreaming of coffee and pie. The train trundled on.

Other senses became more acute. The smell of the dust changed. Less—clayey. Then, simply, less. Before the end of the first day, they had moved onto rocky ground. Asach had lost all sense of direction; tried to picture in what direction rocky ground might lie. Then noted the warmth beaming from the—back. Definitely back. And surely, it was late in the day now? Surely the warmth had—passed overhead? So, they were heading east?

Asach listened. There was nothing to hear, except the scrabbling sound of hooves on gravel. Sometimes a clop, more often a crunch, or a slither, or a scrape. And the squeaking of tack. And the clinking of harness. And the crickety bit rollers in nervous horses’ mouths. And their breathing, and snorting, and snotty-nose-blowing sounds. The occasional squeal as one or another objected to the attentions of a pack-mule. Asach’s feet, then knees, then butt grew numb. Asach’s stomach made rumbling sounds. The horses trudged on.

It was the mules who announced camp time. As if on cue, braying began at one end of the train, then whipped along with ear-splitting fervor. As if on a cue of their own, the horses all pulled up. Asach reflected. None of these could have made this trip before. The last Gathering would have been twenty years earlier. But clearly, at least some knew what was going on.

“Dismount!” echoed down the line as the sun winked out. They made camp in the dark, on the rock-hard ground. The Seers encircled the camp with watch fires. They could pull their hoods off now. It was impossible to see where they were.

After three days, the air changed. It smelled of high, cold mountains. The ground was uneven now, rising and falling, the trail twisting across the fall lines. If it could be called a trail. It was as if Laurel was seeking the worst possible ground. Rocky, unlevel, horses lurching and scrambling to find purchase in spots. At one bend, Asach nearly pitched over from vertigo, as the fist-sized view from under the hood revealed a sloping granite face, plunging down, down, down, but no clear trail at all beneath the mule’s feet. The animals seemed unperturbed. At camp that night, Asach sidled up to another fire, populated by what looked like a ten-year old. “How do they do this?” Asach asked.