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that no matter how he strained they would not focus. “By my accounts you have been here for six months. For every day, I will extract an hour. As you have taken no life, I will not take yours, but I assure you, Mache, this will not be pleasant.”

 
    Chapter Three
     
    The man awoke with water on his face. Rain? Yes. Rain. His hands were twisted and his shirt in tatters.
    He could not see.
    Dimly, he recalled pain. Screaming. Curved crimson lips. He remembered a woman with one golden eye and one blue eye. A dirigible?
    It didn’t matter, he thought. Whatever he had been before, whoever he had known, it was gone now. He climbed to his feet, groping for a wall, found one, and began to walk.
    * * * *
    He walked in a straight line. Streets came and went. People talked.
    “Who is that?” they whispered.
    “A clockwork beast,” some whispered, “the parts were installed but the mind was lost.”
    He smiled. A lost mind indeed. At least a lost mind was a clear mind, though.
    “A crazy man,” others answered. “Stay away or he may kill you.”
    No, he was content as long as he could keep walking.
    “A shaman of the lost arts,” another said. “He is walking the world in poverty to teach us of humility.”
    He liked the sound of that. Perhaps he would really do it.
    He walked. Voices changed. Sometimes he didn’t hear them for days on end. Sometimes he was harassed but as the climate turned warmer people became more friendly, more curious. Some spoke to him, laid hands on him and pressed food into his broken fingers. He always tried to thank them as he could, but never lingered.
    He only knew his path was east because in the morning the sun was in his face. In the evening it was at his back. He wandered south as people kindly directed him away from walking into the ocean. Languages passed. The man was certain that sights beyond awe passed before his blind eyes. It didn’t matter.
    A year had passed, he guessed, when the man came to a port city where he could find no further directions.
    “Where you headed?” someone asked.
    “East.”
    “You lookin’ te throw yerself into the sea?”
    “I only want to walk.”
    The man could smell the salt on the old sailor as he threw back his head and laughed. “A pilgrim, eh?” he asked. “Tell you what. You can’t go much further east without having to double back west again. But you can go south, with some help.”
    “I was told there was ocean there too,” the man said.
    “That there is.” There was the firm pat of a hollow wooden hull. “And that’s what this ol’ girl’s for. Happens I’m bound to do some trade in Morocco. Strangers and cripples are good luck on a voyage. I’ll take you over and you can keep walking south.”
    The man thought and, finding this proposal acceptable, boarded the vessel. They sailed to Morocco under clear skies, smooth oceans and steady winds.
    “Aye, boy,” the sailor said as they disembarked and clapped the man on the shoulder. New clothes were put into his hands along with a packet of food. “That’s the smoothest sailing I’ve ever done. Can I ask, why are you walking?”
    “I don’t know,” the man replied.
    “You got a wife?” the captain asked. He tapped the man’s twisted fingers.
    The man blinked and used his cheek to feel at his fingers. A ring. His brow furrowed. “I don’t remember,” he said.
    The captain patted his shoulder again. “Good luck, friend,” he said. “I hope you find her.”
    “If she’s alive,” he said. He didn’t quite know why he phrased it in such a way.
    He continued to walk. The land turned, dirt to sand, and the air from pleasant to hot. The people were still kind, though, and he never wanted for food or water.
    One day as he bathed his face in a public fountain there was a shriek. “Mache!” The voice cried, and hands fell upon him, stroking over his face, down the shirt which the captain gifted him on their voyage, softly moving over his gnarled hands. “Oh my