The Meaning of Travel

"This is the elixir of life, Kenttanka."

Tom sat atop a gentle hill. Around him, sparse meadow grass swayed in the breeze, and the bare patches of earth were riddled with burrows dug by oversized rats. Agile black shadows darted through the shade of the desert steppe. The hill was not tall, but it was still the highest point of the plateau beneath his feet.

He wore a sheepskin vest, and the pot set up beside him was bubbling away, the rising steam lifting the lid and spreading a primal milky fragrance. Tom took a black, pasty cake from his robes, broke off a small piece, and tossed it over the tilted rim of the pot into the boiling milk. He had already picked up many of the locals' habits. Narrowing his eyes, he gazed past the distant, high-pitched herdsmen's songs. On the frozen earth to the north, sturdy red pines were shaking the snow from their branches.

"When I was young, I desperately wanted eternal life. But when I truly had it, I discovered it was the thing I should have thrown away most of all."

Tom shrugged. The hand holding the Philosopher's Stone flicked back, and the stone that was enough to drive every wizard mad went flying, drawing a perfect arc through the air before landing in the grass halfway down the hill.

Hurried footsteps sounded beside his ear. This exchange had happened countless times. Whenever he threw away this stone of immortality, Kenttanka would always run to the spot in a panic, pick it up, and stuff it back into Tom's arms.

"You... need... it... to live."

The broken words came from her vocal cords. Those sapphire-blue, gemlike eyes did not belong to her, so much so that she always staggered when she walked, and when