Vacation: Part 7, Patience for a Prophet

I have long made it a firm policy never to engage in business dealings with friends or family—an ideal easily upheld by simply avoiding both. Relationships of convenience and mutual self-interest are cleaner, the motives simpler, the transactions far easier to define and terminate. Thus, the presence of witches Willbreak and Lyemirror on this journey was intended strictly as a transactional arrangement. Yet, somewhere along the tangled paths of Salem, I began to suspect they had found an additional benefit to our arrangement—personal amusement, chiefly at my expense.

---

The following morning brought a clearer perception of their subtle game. I once again navigated Salem’s alleys, chasing phantoms shaped by the witches’ carefully placed suggestions. They steered me deliberately from productive leads, proposed meaningless detours, and exchanged cryptic glances as I pursued each red herring. My ignorance was the spectacle they enjoyed, their subtle mockery carried in whispers behind delicate fingers. And still, it took far longer than I care to admit before I fully grasped their game.

Only that evening, as I reviewed my notes, did the disparate clues finally converge—the peculiar symbols scrawled upon the bodega walls, the enigmatic stare of its proprietor, the too-convenient acquisition of Kirby’s twisted wand. The realization came, ludicrous yet undeniable: the Prophet of the Nameless One—the elusive figure we’d been tirelessly seeking—was none other than the owner of the very establishment where Kirby had obtained their dubious souvenir.

“Oh, did you finally uncover the truth?” Treachery purred, her mockery deliciously obvious. “We were beginning to fear you’d decided to enjoy the scenic route indefinitely.”

Lyemirror’s satisfied smile curled slowly. “Finding the Prophet was a challenge, wasn’t it? Perhaps next time, you might trust less conventional wisdom more quickly.”

It became painfully clear in that moment that Lyemirror’s schemes transcended mere cunning. The spectral essence of the steed, captured during her earlier ritual, was now subtly woven into a charm she wore—an artifact precisely attuned to the Prophet’s whereabouts. This allowed her not only effortless navigation through Salem’s bewildering maze, but also the opportunity to lead me on humiliating detours, all while feigning ignorance.

A spike of fury strained my composure. My vision briefly sharpened through an involuntary spell, laying bare the depth of her duplicity. The words burst forth, edged with disdain and scarcely restrained anger:

“You knew all along! The Prophet himself owns that damned bodega—the very same establishment where you purchased that frivolous, disastrous plaything for my impressionable child! Was your intention merely to amuse yourself by watching Kirby court disaster, or were you hoping to manipulate my naïve offspring into further dependence on your so-called guidance?”

Their laughter was infuriatingly genuine, Lyemirror’s cackle echoing warmly off cobblestone. “Indeed,” she conceded at length, smiling broadly. “We’re scheduled to meet him in a willow grove shortly. You’ve managed to stumble onto it—at last.”

With dignity compromised but purpose restored, we ventured forth at twilight, following paths only half-seen to a willow grove marking the boundary between Here and Elsewhere. There we found him, leaning patiently on a gnarled cane, his gaze weighted by unfathomable secrets. His words came forth cryptically, layered in symbolism and vague truths—generational cycles, corrupted bloodlines, and ancestral sins. Scourge, predictably, interpreted his cryptic phrases with precision but questionable authenticity, bending his meaning to suit her own subtle aims.

Though he had not felt The Nameless One’s presence recently, he directed us toward a distant northern peak—a location of reputed sacredness and potent haunting, which I shall keep unnamed. There, he hinted, communion with my silent patron might again be possible, at the thinnest boundary between realities.

So our journey continued, the path clarified yet still shrouded in uncertainty. Yet as we departed Salem, I could not help but ponder the witches’ motivations. Their participation seemed less transactional now, more driven by a quiet delight in observing my frustration and misfortune. This grim amusement of theirs contrasted starkly with the shifting loyalties among employees, partners, and erstwhile allies. Each passing day, while I pursued communion with The Nameless One, forces gathered quietly in opposition—both obvious and subtle, within my estate’s walls and without—each equally delighted to witness my growing troubles. It will be some time, dear reader, before I can bring myself to recount the next leg of this peculiar vacation; for as we traveled deeper into darkness, events transpired whose memories require more careful examination—and perhaps recovery—before they may safely be committed to paper.