The Old Man and the Old Road

The Tales of Minz series is narrated and edited by fictional characters. This short story is set in their whimsical world. Learn more about the series here.

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Editor’s Note: Unlike other stories found in the Tales of Minz series, you won’t find any of my footnotes here. Instead, Vern has requested that I simply write a brief introduction for each of these short stories. But other than that, he’d like to “self-edit” his writing to grow as a storyteller.

He told me he wanted to write a wide variety of short stories to hone his skills and vary up his “tone of voice.” Some stories would be humorous and lighthearted. Others would be serious and reflective. Focused. Non-digressional. Mostly non-digressional. (Doesn’t seem possible, does it? Get ready to be surprised, Dear Reader…) 

I was intrigued at the concept and encouraged him to run with his idea. Secretly, I was also relieved that Vern wanted to take the initiative with the edits because he decided to write and publish these short stories while we were in the middle of editing A Librarian’s Tale—which has consumed a vast amount of my time and energy to edit. And self-editing is important for one’s personal growth. So, with that in mind, Dear Reader… 

It’s been said that life is like traveling upon a road. We’re born into this world—that’s when our journey starts. And we walk along that road for as long as we’re alive. For some people, theirs is a long and winding path. It’s full of twists and turns. For others, it’s all too brief. It ends abruptly and unexpectedly. Where the road ends, so too the journey that is life here on Minz. For all of us, though, until that day comes, we walk. And what we do while we walk, well, that’s called living. We follow the road set before us as only we can—one step at a time.

This is the story of a man walking along a long and winding road. This is also the story of a long-forgotten brick.

—Barnabas E. Wooldridge
Editor in Chief of the Tales of Minz

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Francis the Roadbuilder kept the first brick he ever laid in the earthen fold.

He didn’t frame it (that would be ridiculous), but in the same way that many entrepreneurs keep the first Copper they ever made and put it in a nice frame on the wall to remember where their business ventures first began, Francis kept that first brick. He placed it in the ground—the first of many bricks he would lay—and then promptly picked it up again. How could he not?

Francis kept that brick as an ever-present reminder of when he began his greatest undertaking. If there was another reason that Francis held on to that first brick instead of making it a part of a road, he didn’t know it. At least, not consciously. And so, over the years, he occasionally used it as a paperweight and sometimes as a doorstop on a nice summer day.

While keeping it and using it for those purposes might seem rather demeaning to the brick, what good would it do sitting on a shelf, gathering dust? Or even more unimaginable, stored away in some forgotten box in a basement? The roadbuilder meant no disrespect to the brick, he was simply using it to fulfill a purpose.  It was better that the brick was still being used. 

In Francis’ mind, since the brick wasn’t being used as a part of the Old Road (which was what people in Minz had taken to calling Francis’ lifelong labor of love), then it might as well be used in some other fashion whilst Francis continued working on his lifelong project.

Eventually, Francis forgot all about that first brick he ever laid. He stopped using it as a paperweight and doorstop. He didn’t get rid of it, but it did get lost in the bottom of his knapsack. But before you give him too much grief for forgetting the brick, Dear Reader, seventy-six seasons had come and gone since Francis first started his magnum opus—his career-defining work on the Old Road. (And, it was a brick. Such things are often forgotten—even by roadbuilders.) 

Seventy-six seasons had come and gone since Francis low-balled a bid on a government contract with High King Restarmarch to create the first interconnected roadway that wound its way from one side of the proverbial map to the other edge of Minz.

Seventy-six seasons of hard, back-breaking, intensive labor. Making the bricks himself with mud and straw, baking them in the warm, afternoon sun, digging out the earthen fold (sometimes with trowels, shovels, pickaxes, and other times with more… incendiary methods), and then laying each brick individually—by hand, no less—one by one.

How many bricks did Francis make and place in those seven and a half decades? Hundreds of thousands—if not more. Of course he forgot all about that first brick. How could he not? 

Francis had started the work alone, and he was determined to finish it. Alone. (If you’re wondering why High King Restarmarch didn’t mind how long his roadbuilding project was taking, that was because the good High King understood that some things take time to do them well and do them right. He was also deposed and his successor didn’t really care how long it took Francis to build the road—his contract stated full payment would be given once the job was complete.) 

As I said, Francis’ work as the Roadbuilder was a labor of love. Oh, he thought from time to time how nice it would have been if he had hired some other bricklaying contractors to aid him in his efforts. He could have at least hired someone to make the bricks for him.

But Francis was a firm believer in the old adage: If you want something done right, do it yourself.

Francis knew he hadn’t always done things right. But he had done them himself, and he learned things over the years. He had a wonderful growth mindset when it came to roadbuilding. He started his work on the Old Road when he was fifteen. He was a different person—a different roadbuilder—after even a single year of roadbuilding.

Imagine how much he learned and changed over seventy-six years. 

More efficient, cutting-edge techniques and methods for manufacturing and laying bricks. A streamlined process for prepping the earthen fold, leveling it, and making smooth the rough places.

How very different the end of the Old Road looked—the final few miles of hand-laid brick—than that first stretch he laid all those long years beforehand on the other side of the continent.

And so it was, on the thirty-eighth day of Andon in the year 893 of the Second Age, Francis finally finished his monumental task. He placed the last brick on the far edge of the Serpent Sea (a rather tricky way to finish, seeing as the last stretch of the Old Road was built on shifting sand), on the western side of the continent. Oh, and Francis was now nearly ninety-one years old. That slightly impeded his efficiency, but not his work ethic. 

But it was done. Finally.

As he stood there, a thought occurred to the old roadbuilder: What was he supposed to do now? Francis didn’t know. He couldn’t really ask anyone else, he had no friends; no family to speak of. There simply hadn’t been time. While everyone else in his hometown had grown up, got married, had children, and raised families, Francis was busy building the Old Road. All alone. 

He had never fully realized what that meant until now. 

But now, the final brick had been laid. The Old Road was done. Wasn’t it? He could move on. That alone should have made him feel some sense of accomplishment, but it didn’t. He felt uneasy. Uncomfortable. He didn’t know why, but deep in his bones, Francis felt that the Old Road was still… unfinished. That didn’t sit right with the old perfectionist roadbuilder who had just spent the last seventy-six years of his life completing one massive project. 

After a few moments of quiet reflection, Francis figured there was only one thing he could do. He would have to double-check his work and make sure the Old Road was really finished. After all, if he wanted to be sure it was done right, he’d have to check each and every brick himself. One by one.

And so, as soon as he placed that final brick in the Old Road on the far edge of the Serpent Sea, the old roadbuilder got up (slowly, with joints popping and creaking in protest), gathered his few meager possessions and roadbuilding tools (he wouldn’t leave those behind), turned around and headed back the way he had come, carefully inspecting the Old Road every step of the way.

Francis headed back to the beginning, to the place where his lifelong journey started all those years ago. The old roadbuilder traveled along the road he had given the better part of his life to build. He visited places that were distant memories, and other fledgling, new towns and villages that had been freshly founded along the Old Road after it was laid down—places he had never before seen. 

Francis found that he loved seeing both kinds of places.

He loved seeing the familiar places because those towns and villages were resilient and hardy, weathering the changing world just like his Old Road was doing. He loved seeing the new places because it meant that society was moving forward. It was growing; people were going to new places, traveling far beyond their comfort zones—and that was in no small part because the Old Road was there to show them that traveling into the unknown could be done. Someone else had come this way before.

But it wasn’t about the places—not really. No, it was about the people he met along the way. When he was first building the Old Road, and when he was rechecking his work years and years later. 

Francis’ journey through Minz took him quite some time—and not just because he was nearly ninety-one years old. As I’ve written elsewhere, the Old Road is long and winding. Traveling from one end to the other takes some effort—especially if the journey is being made on foot. Not to mention the effort it takes if that ninety-one-year-old traveler is inspecting each and every brick. But that was exactly what Francis did.

If you had happened to live all those years ago, Dear Reader, and you passed Francis on the Old Road, you would have seen an old, old man. A humble tradesman. Back bent with age, but still strong. Skin, liver-spotted and weatherworn. Eyes dimmed, but with a light that still burned in them. Ever walking, with a purpose.

No, his work was not yet done. He could feel it deep down like a weight, a burden he carried, that he needed to lay to rest.

As he traveled, Francis saw all the many places where the Old Road—his magnum opus, his lifelong work of art—had deteriorated and fallen into disrepair. Bricks broken, crushed underfoot. Perhaps he hadn’t made those ones properly? Or perhaps the bricks, like all things, were simply feeling the unavoidable effects of time. Francis felt them too.

Whatever the case, Francis’ heart broke seeing his beloved handiwork in shambles—but the Old Road still stood (in a manner of speaking). All of the bricks were still there. Crumbling, but present. The Old Road was not broken beyond repair. And if the Old Road could keep going… well, so could Francis.

Francis traveled on.

Until at last, he made his way to what once was a small town on the eastern coast of Minz. When he had left it seventy-six years beforehand, the small town had no name. Now, it had grown to become a sprawling, thriving town. A sign welcomed the old roadbuilder as he entered with the faint morning light. He noted the sign with some faint puzzlement.

Welcome to Franciston—birthplace of Francis the Roadbuilder. Origin of the Old Road. 

Francis didn’t know what to make of that. No one had ever asked him if he wanted a town named after him—even if he had spent his childhood years there. Francis made his way over to the far edge of town, following the earliest stretch of the Old Road ever laid back to its origin.

No one paid their town’s namesake any mind. They didn’t know him. He hadn’t called this place, these people, home in seventy-six years.

Francis smiled fondly at the Old Road as he walked—the memories came rushing back, and the years melted away in the cool summer sea breeze.

There—that stretch of brick had caused him trouble to no end. Tree roots made it nearly impossible to lay the bricks flat and even. Being a perfectionist, Francis toiled over that stretch for days until he was satisfied. There—he had nearly broken his back trying to move that boulder before deciding to divert the Old Road around it.

There… memories of the past—his past—were everywhere.

As he reflected upon that, Francis realized that his entire journey back to the beginning had been filled with memories long forgotten until he traveled back along those brick-laid paths. Moments just waiting to be remembered again. Moments where he realized—he hadn’t been alone as he thought. He had worked alone, that was true. But he had brought people together with his work, had he not? He had helped them, and they helped him. 

The old roadbuilder started to get more anxious as he stopped where the Old Road began. Every brick was in its proper place.  Each and every one. Had he missed finding whatever it was that made the Old Road seem unfinished? Did he need to go back and triple-check his work?

Would it be so bad if he were wrong, and nothing was amiss with the Old Road? But if that were true, then why was Francis feel so uneasy? What was causing his angst? 

Just then he saw it—a brick, noticeably missing—a place where the Old Road was incomplete. Unfinished.

And just like that, Francis remembered the brick he had forgotten. The first brick he ever laid. The one Francis had removed from among its fellows upon the Old Road to never forget where his journey first began.

From the bottom of his knapsack, Francis took the oldest of the mud-and-straw bricks he had made by hand nearly a lifetime ago. He looked down at it and then carefully, lovingly, knelt and cleared away the dirt, rock, and detritus that had filled the spot where once there was a brick.

He hesitated. If he did this… what would he do next? Perhaps it was finally time to find out. 

With all the skill of a master roadbuilder, Francis placed the Old Road’s first and last brick in its proper place. It was the hardest thing he had ever done. But when he did, it felt good and right. A weight; a burden was lifted from the old man.

And the Old Road was finally, at long last, finished.

Funny, Francis realized that he had never wanted to retire. That was the unease he had felt. He realized deep down that he had never wanted the work to end because he didn’t know what he would do next. And that terrified him. Perhaps that was why he had held on to that first brick all those years, so his monumental task would never be complete. But now it was. And Francis found that he wasn’t scared anymore. 

He knew there would come a time when he would leave Minz behind. He would leave the Old Road—and its maintenance and care—to someone else. He had done his part by laying it down. Now it would be up to others to carry on his life’s work—if that was what was meant to be.

Who knew? Maybe the Old Road would last for millennia. Francis certainly hoped so. It was his legacy—all he had to show for living in this world. Regardless, his part in all of it was done. He was old. He was tired. It was time for him to lay down his roadbuilding tools and rest.

What was Francis supposed to do now? What does a roadbuilder do when they come to the end of the road they’ve built and traveled upon? 

Francis supposed he still didn’t know. But maybe that was all right. He wasn’t afraid, and he wasn’t lonely. He was able to look back and see what he had accomplished in his many years of life. That was no small thing. Francis remembered what once was forgotten—all because of the first and last brick he ever laid.

Looking back on his long and winding road through life, he wouldn’t have traded his experiences for anything in the whole world. He had seen nearly all of Minz—its varied landscapes, storied people, and diverse cultures. That was because he went wherever the Old Road had to go; wherever the Old Road had to be built. 

Francis smiled again and then turned and headed back into Franciston.

He was ready to see what came next.