Worn, Tired Faces

I enjoyed my playthrough, and that I could choose to end it at any time really. Have a read!

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Worn, Tired Faces Playthrough

I am a father, travelling with a motley caravan of other parents and children. We share childminding and other duties, all aiming to find a better place. Not all of us believe it exists, but I do.

Another day in the wasteland. As I travel with my family, I think of other families I have had. Different families in different places. Then, quite suddenly and unexpectedly, my brother stands before me. He caught up with our caravan moments ago, and found me while my thoughts distracted me. Though I've missed him fiercely since I left, I'd hoped to never see him again - because it would mean everyone else is dead and he's got nowhere else to go. We weep together that night and many nights after.

As the days pass, my mood swings. I am glad of this caravan of co-parents so that my more unhelpful moods can be had away from my child. Today I am angry, a sharp word always at the tip of my tongue, ready to fire at the slightest perceived grievance. Anahla, one of the other parents, comes to me and lets me fire my sharp words at her. At the end of them is more tears, and she holds me through those too. Anger is part of grieving, and I still hold anger at my parents, whom I now know are dead. After the weeping, I feel a little lighter, and can return to my share of childminding that night.

We stop at a small enclave to resupply and trade. I offer childminding to a few tired parents. One of them I recognise as someone I had lessons with. We were not close, but the reminder of that old home strikes my tender heart. I wonder how she found her way here, we are a great distance from that place. I ask her over a communal dinner, and she tells me that here is the sweetest birdsong she has ever heard. She wanted that for her children. If all else is drab, let her children's ears find joy.

I share the story of the birdsong with the caravan, and we decide to stay and extra night, just to hear it again. It is frivolous, we have a destination ahead of us, and much further to go. But seeing my old acquaintance's joy light up my child's face, and the other adults' face, and glow all the brighter on everyone - that is something to be treasured. And even more frivolous, I trade my spare sunhat for a wood carving of the birds we hear, that it might hold on to this joy for us for much more time to come.

After we leave the enclave, I find myself reminiscing during our travelling hours. I think of my childhood, and now that of my child. I think of the birdsong we heard, how much more of the fragments of this world my child has gotten to experience than many others I know. I hope that my child enjoys their life, and that whatever comes, the grow into adulthood with a strong sense of who they are and what they want.

That night, when I go to bed, I find my child still awake. He is staring at the bird wood carving, and tracing its shapes with his fingers. He murmurs the bird's name, and some facts about it he must have learned at the enclave. I am comforted to know that he has found something that excites him, that draws his interest. We talk and wonder about the bird until we both fall asleep.

I dream. I dream of my mother. It's a disjointed puzzle of a dream, memories spilling in and mixing with events that never happened. At one time, my mother is here with the caravan, painting birds on our wagon. At another time she is back home, cooking root vegetable stew. And at another time, she sits on a chair by the fire and ignores me.

When I wake, it seems many of us had vivid dreams the night before. I offhandedly mention my mother's dream-appearance, and Elia latches on to it. They ask more questions, in ways that I do sometimes enjoy, but not for this dream. They ask about my mother, our relationship, my grief journey now that she's dead. They don't mean any ill, but their questions do feel insensitive. I have to cut them off to tell them to drop it.

Ever since the enclave, my child's eyes dart around the sky and the trees, looking for birds. He pauses suddenly to listen for calls. It is endearing. During our lunch break, he comes to me saying, "Dad! Dad! I heard a bird by those bushes, come look!" When we arrive, the birds are either gone or hiding, we cannot see them, though we stand there for 20 minutes. After that, I excuse myself to help with the lunch pack up, but he stays. Just as we're about to leave, he returns and says, "I saw them, they're even bluer than the sky..."

I smile sadly. The sky used to be bluer too. Some days I wish I could forget how things were. They were still tough, but less so. The grass was greener, the waters were clearer, and the sky was bluer. But then again, if I forgot, perhaps I would not be able to imagine something better for my son.

On the third day of travel after the enclave, we rest. On this day, we do not travel, but sing and play games together. The current favourite among the children is Poison Smoke Cloud. In it, everyone is 'it', and if you get tagged, you link arms with your tagger to form a Poison Smoke Cloud. Slowly, the Clouds grow bigger until it is all one. I think there are some other rules too, but the details escape me. I wonder how this game first came to be. I don't recall a poison smoke cloud event, but some such thing must have happened to have become a children's game.

That night I cannot sleep. I'm not sure if it's due to Elia's prying, my thoughts of what the world used to be, or something else. But whatever I do, I cannot get to sleep. I like awake, watching my child breath. I trace the shapes of the wooden bird and try to remember the facts my son told me. I've just managed to recall them all when the sun rises.

Almost as soon as I get up, nausea overtakes me. I crumple to my knees and vomit. My son wakes and runs for help. My tent is cordoned off, and my son goes to his favourite co-parent for the day. He leaves the wooden bird to watch over me. I spend all day lying down, still unable to sleep. I recite the bird facts over and over until all words lose meaning. When the next night comes, I finally sleep.

The next day, I am weak. I have not eaten and only drunk water. From my tent, I watch Callun with the kids. He carries many at once, and they play climbing games on him. I envy his strength, and the fact that I can't recall the last time he got sick either...

On the third day after my nausea, I have almost fully recovered. Sleeping is still difficult, but it is getting better. All day and into the night Anahla sits by my tent, mending clothes. She narrates what is happening in the camp, keeping me up to date with the goings on so I don't feel left out.

Finally I am well again, and the rhythm of walking soothes me. This rhythm has been a companion for so long, I hardly know how I will spend my days after we reach our destination. What will I do with so many of my hours when our walking is done? I can't even fathom it.

But I need not fathom is just yet. There is much more journeying to do. An earthquake has created a crevasse we must cross, and perhaps a large body of water elsewhere that we had not anticipated. It is times like these I wonder if I will make it to our destination, and if, once I'm gone, my son will choose to continue on. But at dark times like these, I remember how excited he was when he heard birds in the bushes, and how he stayed until he saw them. If he can keep that fire in his eyes and joy in his heart, he will be ok no matter where we are.