"Welcome to Perris Farms, Mr. Surveyor."
Perris and The Surveyor stood atop a lush green hill, the sort of spot made just for picnics. To the south, the hill overlooked the most lush, green field you could ever dream of, spanning farther than the eye could see. To the east, not all that far off at all, was the sea, the faint line of an underlining beach just visible over the horizon. West was the forest, a place the locals referred to as Heaven's Basket, on account of all the wild fruits and vegetables and mushrooms that grew within.
All that considered, and with hardly a threat across the whole Layer, it was no surprise that Perris had stayed so long, and a wonder – at least to Perris -- why most others left so fast.
But it was the sight North of the hill that Perris loved the most. Perris Farms: his home for the last 58 years, give or take a few years at the beginning, of course.
Perris Farms was made up of a cozy little shack of a house, a mid-sized barn with a few cows mulling about inside, and a boxy coop full of chickens. Out back, a pen held a random assortment of goats and sheep and pigmy giraffe. Not far from that was a modest garden plot, where Perris cultivated all the fresh food anyone could hope for, including more than a few crops that the Basket didn't provide.
"How have we let all this slide through the cracks for 58 years!?" The Surveyor exclaimed, flipping through Perris' document as if the answers might be hidden somewhere in the ink.
"I'm not sure I understand the problem. Is there really anything wrong with me staying on Layer 30?" Perris asked. He spread his arms out wide, "Look at all I've accomplished! This place was but a dingy hut when I found it. And you should taste the pies I've learned to bake! On another Layer with an actual economy, I swear I could be a wealthy baker."
"Don't butter me, Mr. Perris," the Surveyor grumbled, pointing a bony finger.
"It's an honest question, Mr. Surveyor."
"An honest question that you should know the answer to, Mr. Perris. Have you forgotten what it means to be an Adventurer in these 50-whatever years?"
Perris didn't immediately answer. Of course he knew what it meant to embark The Thread as an Adventurer. It was one of the few things he did know about The Thread – one of the few things they let you know. Basically, the whole point of joining as an Adventurer was to adventure – to continue down all 30 layers and come out the other side a better, more confident, more capable person. But what was wrong with the person Perris was outside The Thread? He couldn't remember anymore. They'd probably taken that memory from him, too.
"I would argue I've had quite the adventure these past 58 years, Mr. Surveyor. Running a farm, every day is an adventure!"
The Surveyor rolled his eyes and let out a puff of air, scribbling a note in the document.
"Perhaps it is, but it's not the adventure you are here to complete. I'm sorry to say, Mr. Perris, but – who is that?" The Surveyor lowered his documents and squinted towards a gazebo just outside the coop. He twisted one of his lenses, extending it even further than before, becoming a telescope on his face.
Sitting in the shade on a finely-whittled, high-backed chair was some kind of man with dirt on his trousers, a glass of iced tea in his hand, and a pair of antlers fanning out from the sides of his head. He looked just a little too pleased with himself as far as The Surveyor was concerned, his head leaned back as far as possible, collecting all the sun he could on his antlers, which stuck out the opening of the gazebo behind him.
"Why, that's my good friend Ainsley Moose," Perris said with a smile. "Would you like to meet him?"
Perris led The Surveyor down the slope of the hill, across the farm, past rows of beautifully grown flowers and bits of hand-carved wood shaped like animals. About halfway to the gazebo, Perris yelled and waved at his good friend Ainsley Moose, who waved back. First, he smiled. Then, when he noticed The Surveyor, he frowned.
Perris climbed the gazebo steps and turned to look down at The Surveyor, the bottom half of his body still firmly planted in the ground, as always.
"Come up into the shade," Perris invited.
"We both know that's not going to happen," The Surveyor grumbled, turning his attention to Ainsley. Worth a shot. "Forgive me, I do not have your papers on-hand. Are you an Adventurer or a Resident, Mr. Moose?"
"Well, an Adventurer, sir," Ainsley stammered nervously. "Just thought I'd take a load off, stop by for a drink before I keep looking for The Thread, is all."
"I trust this farmer isn't holding you up from your Very Important Quest, is he?"
Ainsley swallowed hard. It felt like his throat might collapse. He'd always been an anxious man; at least, as long as he could remember he had been, not that he could remember much of what he was like before The Thread. That anxiety, though – they let him keep that feeling. He scratched the back of his left antler, a nervous tick he'd picked up at some point over the past few years.
"Of course not," said Ainsley. "Like I said, just thirsty. I'm sure I'll be off soon."
"You're sure, or you will?"
"I uh, will, Mr. Surveyor."
"And I trust you'll be taking the young farmer with you, will you not?"
Perris and Ainsley exchanged a look that said the jig is up. They'd been avoiding the inevitable for so long that they'd forgotten it was inevitable at all. Adventurers must adventure – it's the whole point. Now, it was time to get back on the old dusty trail.
But Perris really, really didn't want to.
"Maybe I could re-apply as a resident," Perris said, thinking of all the hard years of work he'd lose if he descended to Layer 29. "Surely there must be some process for re-applying mid-adventure, especially for someone who has been here as long as I."
"Mid-adventure?" The Surveyor scoffed. "Mr. Perris, with all due respect, your adventure hasn't even begun! Somehow, you've managed to waste over 50 years faffing around growing carrots on the highest level of The Thread! Like everyone else, if you want to apply to be a permanent resident, you must complete your Thread Walk. I mean really boy, do you even remember how to read auras at this point? Do you even know your VIQ?"
Now he's just trying to insult me, Perris thought. Of course he knew his VIQ, and of course he knew how to read auras! He could read The Surveyor's right now, if he really put his mind to it:
Wellbeing: Green | Soul: Thin Blue | Emotional: Red
Granted, Perris hadn't used his ability to read a whole lot of people's emotions in the past few decades. Not to any meaningful capacity, at least. He was more keen to use it on his fields of produce to figure out when they were ripe. If, say, a carrot's Wellbeing was some shade of Red, that meant it was still growing, or otherwise dead. But once it struck Green it was ripe for harvest! He could even see his vegetables' auras through the dirt, meaning a delicious, perfect harvest every time without disturbing the crops.
Does that mean The Surveyor is ripe for harvest? Perris thought, almost making the joke out loud. Based on how stable that Red Emotional was – aggravated -- Perris decided against it.
"Yes, Mr. Surveyor, I can still read auras," Perris answered flatly.
"Don't give me that tone, Mr. Perris," The Surveyor warned, although Perris wasn't sure he did give a tone. "And what of your Enchanted Tool? Surely you were met by the Enchantress at some point, correct?"
Yes, the Enchantress. Now that felt like ages ago, although it couldn't have been much further back than 55 years. He'd barely begun the farm at that point – had no more than the half-rotten shack, now beautifully restored, that he now resided in and a small patch of carrots and potatoes, grown from seeds given to him by the Hedgefolk.
"Of course, Mr. Surveyor," Perris said with a smile. "In fact, I've got my Enchanted Tool right here. I call her Wendibell."
Perris reached behind his back and pulled a rather ordinary-looking gardening hoe from a sheath concealed by his poncho, brandishing it in both hands like one might hold a sword. The blade of the hoe had a faint purple glow to it, a signature mark of the Enchantress' work. The Surveyor was dumbfounded – his jaw hung at his chest.
"A hoe? You mean to tell me, Mr. Perris, that you used your one and only obligatory visit from the Enchantress to give power to a hoe rather than a weapon?"
"I did, Mr. Surveyor, and I must say the Enchantress did a fantastic job. I've hoed many-a-field with Wendibell over the decades and she's never shown a lick of wear, plus the crops that grow in her dirt are always exceptional in both size and taste. Here," Perris walked over to a wicker basket filled with thick, juicy carrots picked by Ainsley that morning. He tossed one to The Surveyor, who just barely caught it. "Try this carrot and tell me it wasn't worth it."
The Surveyor grumble-thought then took a bite with his pointy little teeth, chewing fast like a rodent. His head nodded, an involuntary reaction to what was absolutely the best carrot he'd ever tasted. A small mmm emitted from his throat. When he realized how far his guard has dropped, he shook his head and threw the rest of the carrot to the grass.
"It is an exceptional carrot, Mr. Perris, but it doesn't change anything. It seems to me that you have done everything in your power to keep yourself from following The Thread and frankly, it's unacceptable. I ought to Sever you right here right now. But truthfully, I've never even heard of a case like this and I'm not really sure how to handle it.
"58 years – someone at the Ministry is sure to hear about this blunder. In all this time, Mr. Perris, you're telling me that nobody came to check on your progress? You encountered no other Surveyors?"
Perris simply pouted his lip, pretended to think, and shrugged. Of course he'd encountered Surveryors before – several times, in fact -- but every time up until that day it had been one of about two rotating fellows, neither of which was as hard-skinned as the Surveyor before him. Those Surveyors, whose designation he absolutely did not want to give to the current Surveyor, had been easily shooed off each time with life-changing produce, friendly conversation and claims about still seeking The Thread. They'd been easily convinced that a man could spend 50-plus years seeking out The Thread on Layer 30, because who was to say one couldn't? Plus, the produce and the pies really were just that good. How could they throw all that away?
"Fine, remain tight lipped if you must, Mr. Perris, but consider this your one and only warning. By the rise of the next sun, you are to leave behind all this and begin your quest down The Thread. If you don't, you will be severed," The Surveyor turned his bottle-eyed gaze to Ainsley. "That goes for you too, Mr. Moose. I don't know how long you've been here palling around with Mr. Perris, but something tells me it's been far longer than the length of time it takes to have a drink and a piss. Do you both understand me?"
There was something about the tone in The Surveyor's voice that made Perris want to rebel – some primal urge deep in his gut that made him want to strike. Maybe it was just pure anger. It had been a long while since he'd felt significantly angry, or upset, or anything other than content and overjoyed. 58 years of youthful bliss, 58 years of rewarding work, and just like that it was all rendered moot. But what could he do about it? Jack all, that's what.
Perris looked over to Ainsley Moose and read his auras.
Wellbeing: Green | Soul: Thick Sky Blue | Emotional: Bright Yellow
I'm not sure I've ever seen his Emotions so yellow, Perris thought, wrestling with jealousy over how much Soul Ainsley had. He looked down at his own hand and saw that his Emotions were nearly the same shade, forcing him to realize just how nervous he actually was.
"I understand, Mr. Surveyor," Perris said. "There are just a few loose ends I need to tie up in Greenhedge. We'll be gone by tomorrow afternoon."
"I should hope so," said The Surveyor, scribbling once more in Perris' notes. "I know everything is wonderful up on Layer 30, Mr. Perris, and I know you don't exactly know why you chose to embark on The Thread in the first place, but let me remind you that you did choose to embark on it and you do have good reason. You did not come here to live the peaceful life of a farmer – you have not earned that right yet, Mr. Perris, no matter how talented at the work you clearly are. You came here to face perils and to grow and to become a better man Offthread.
"It won't be an easy journey down, and it won't be a short one either, but it's what you came here to do, and I commend you for that, as I commend everyone who makes the bold choice to come to The Thread. So please, Mr. Perris, finish what you came here to do. I wish you luck, and I'm certain our paths will cross again. Hopefully not tomorrow at this very same farm, because I will be coming back for a visit. Good day, Mr. Perris."
The Surveyor tucked Perris' notes into a big shirt pocket, adjusted his glasses, and prepared to emerge back into the dirt, back to wherever it was that Surveyors went when they weren't, well, surveying.
"Wait," Perris said, reaching back into the wicker basket, pulling out a bundle of carrots. He walked down the gazebo steps, ducked down to The Surveyor's height – at least, as close to it as he could get – and held them out in front of him. "Here, no use in these going to waste. Take them as a token of goodwill. No hard feelings. Alright?"
The Surveyor looked at the carrots as if he were being offered a pile of dung. His face softened as he remembered how good that first one went down. He nodded and gently grabbed the carrots, tucking them away in the impossibly spacious pocket with Perris' notes.
"Thank you, lad," The Surveyor said. "Truly, I wish you well on your journey down The Thread. I have faith that you'll make it, just so long as you can focus on the task at hand," he turned his head and looked again to Ainsley Moose, who gave a coy little wave in return. "You too, Moose. Just don't let him get swept up in the life of a fisherman come Layer 27, alright? Good day, men."
Perris stepped back and The Surveyor burrowed underground, the hole that he'd once peered out of closing behind him as if it had never been there at all.
"Fishing on 27, eh?" Ainsley remarked. "Well that doesn't sound so bad, does it?"