Journey to the Sourlands

The air in the Sourlands tasted like forgotten arguments and curdled milk. It clung to my tongue, a constant, unpleasant reminder of why this place was so feared. Elder Rhubard had given me the map, etched onto a brittle piece of dried, flavorless gum. "The heart of bitterness," he'd rasped, his own gum form looking a little more cracked around the edges than usual, "that's where the rot began. You must go, Anya. Your gaze… it’s the only thing that might soften what's hardened there."

I clutched the map, its edges sharp against my palm. My gaze. The thing that made me different, the thing that made me feel like a speck of dust in a kingdom of vibrant, pliable gum. For years, I'd tried to control it, to make it normal, but it always found a way. A wilting gum flower would perk up under my attention, a drooping gum banner would straighten just a fraction. It was subtle, usually unnoticed, but here, in the Sourlands, I had a feeling it wouldn't be so subtle.

The journey was a lonely one. The usual chatter of the Gum Dynasty—the joyful bounces of children’s gum balls, the steady thrum of the elders’ contemplation forms—was absent. Here, the ground crunched underfoot, a mosaic of brittle, grey gum shards. Twisted, thorny gum bushes, the color of old bruises, clawed at the sky. Even the wind seemed to sigh with a weary, acrid breath.