What You Say at the Stones

A traveler's litany, muttered while adding a stone to a wayside cairn — the Grey Walker's whole liturgy, which is really just good road manners. Scratched inside a caravan-guard's tally-book.

I came this far. I leave a stone. One for the next who walks alone. I took no stone that wasn't mine. I said the fork, I left the sign. I told the road the way it ran and not the way that suited man. Walker, I don't know your face — keep the ford, and keep the pace. And if I don't come back this way, let my stone still mark the day.